Page 44 of Fluke
“Where are you? You haven’t been home all day.”
I unscrew the cap off my soda. “Work. Did you get the rooster out of my yard?”
“Working on it. What project are you working on?”
“The new one out on Whistler Street. It’s just outside of city limits across from that big blue house with the million windchimes hanging off the tree in the front yard.”
I pause, waiting for him to respond. But after almost a minute, I get impatient.
“Are you there?” I ask.
“Hey. Yeah. I’m here. Hang on.”
“What are you doing?”
He sighs. “I was returning a text.”
“You call me and then text someone else?”
“Settle down. You can have all my attention now.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re missing the point.”
My tools are scattered throughout the room, so I work on gathering them and returning them to my toolbox.
The long day of work begins to wear on me, and I’m reminded, once again today, that I’m not a twenty-something anymore. My back aches. My left arm feels like I might’ve torn my bicep. And my foot still hurts from that fucking block a couple of days ago.
“How long are you going to be there?” Banks asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m getting my stuff together to leave now.”
“How much stuff do you have to gather?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Why are you so hateful?”
I sigh. “I’m not hateful. I’m just not sure why you’re asking me a million questions.”
“One more. Want to hang out tonight?”
“No.”
He groans. “I need a friend, Jess. Give me a chance.”
“You work with people all day. Pick one of them.”
“But I like you best.”
“Sparkles—”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Or what?” I ask, tossing my toolbelt into my toolbox. “What are you gonna do about it?”
“I can’t tell you, or that would take the fun out of it.”
I really want to be mad because whatever he’s alluding to will probably inconvenience me for days—weeks, even. But as much as he frustrates the piss out of me, what would I do if he wasn’t around?
