Page 17 of Coach
“I literally lift furniture for a living.”
“And yet,” she said, opening the bag, “I watched you eat three granola bars and a stale donut yesterday and call it ‘meals plural.’ So, you’re going to listen to me and sit your very muscly, very dramatic ass down and eat this damn sandwich before you turn into an emaciated art goblin.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Dramatic?”
She pointed at the cabinet. “You were muttering to the wood, Shane.”
“It cracked. I was mad,” I said, slumping down onto a stool and ignoring how it groaned beneath my weight. “And you have to talk to the wood or it won’t do what you want. Ask anyone who—”
“You’re fucking insane. You know that, right?”
She dug into the bag, then handed me a sandwich and drink, waiting until I took a bite before sitting on the bench across from me.
Chicken, bacon, spicy mustard. Gourmet food if I’d ever tasted it.
She knew what I liked. She always did.
“Thanks,” I muttered through a mouthful.
“You’re welcome,” she said, kicking her feet against the cabinet leg like she was testing it. “So, what’s the deal with this thing?”
“Client wants it to look old, like centuries old, like something from a palace or a museum. I’m not allowed to use screws. It’s all joinery and hand-cut everything.”
“Sounds like hell.”
“It is.”
“But you like it.”
“Yeah. I do.” I paused mid-bite. “I’ve never worked so hard on anything. I mean, half the time I’m cursing at the wood, which is why it’s resisting—”
“Jesus, that shit again?”
I grinned.
Stevie leaned back, resting her elbows on the bench behind her. “You always like the hard stuff.”
I didn’t respond, mostly because she was right. I’d long since learned never to admit that. It only encouraged her.
She dug out another sandwich, and we ate in silence for a while, the sawdust-heavy air broken only by the hum of the fan and the distant whine of wind sneaking through cracks I’d promised to fix a decadeago.
Eventually she nudged my shin with her boot.
“You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one that means you’re spiraling and won’t admit it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m eating, aren’t I?”
“That’s step one.” She reached into the bag and tossed a cookie at me. It landed in my lap. “Step two is not sleeping here overnight to whisper apologies to the grain pattern.”
I gave her a dry look. “You know, I could fire you as my unsolicited life coach.”
