Page 27 of Little Bird
Except me. His ex-stepsister.
He looks up and notices me looking at him, and suddenly the mask snaps back into place and he’s a fucking liar again. All smiles and charm. Nothing genuine.
Nothing real.
“Let’s go,” he snaps.
“Terrific,” I answer, getting out of the truck. I strap my own mask—the one I’ve worked so hard to learn in the face of my mother’s lack of empathy and my new stepfather’s creepiness—into place as well and make sure it’s on tight.
Because if Gabe isn’t going to play fair, then neither am I.
If he’s going to keep himself hidden, then I can’t show him any vulnerability, either. Doing that would just get me hurt.
And I get enough of that in New York.
Taryn
I feel like I’m getting a tour from a fucking game show host.
Or maybe a Disneyland cast member. You know the people who captain the boats on Jungle Cruise? The jokes and fake laughter?
That’s exactly what this tour feels like.
Gabe rushes me through the main showroom where he and Gunner have laid out furniture, sculptures, and artwork in some haphazard way that I don’t understand. I have enough time to notice that the pieces are flat out gorgeous. Some are very rough in nature and look like they’ve just emerged from the tree fully formed, while others are smooth and finished. Everything has the same bones, though, and it’s easy to see that all the pieces were done by the same set of hands. They’re all guided by the same vision.
I wonder whose vision it is.
Given the way Gabe runs his fingers along a few pieces on his way by, I’m guessing he’s the one who handles the wood. Gunner must do something else here.
Behind the showroom comes a wide, cluttered room with several desks, a few computers, and far too much paper. Gabe rushes me through this room as well, muttering something about this being the office where his dad usually is.
He doesn’t seem to be here right now, thank God. I’ve already come to the conclusion that both Gabe and Gunner are going to do their best to shut me out, and I’m not sure I can handle both of them doing it at the same time. Last night’s dinner gave me enough tension to last a lifetime.
When we get into the back room, though, Gabe finally slows down, and I watch the tension melt out of him. His shoulders drop and his hands relax, and a smile ghosts across his lips. This is his room, then. This is where he feels at home. And probably where his father doesn’t bother him.
I look around, wondering what’s made him so happy, and see that this is where the building must happen. Several worktables sit side-by-side, each of them cluttered with a number of hammers, chisels, saws, and power tools, along with piles of dirty rags. Another table holds paint brushes and cans of what has to be finishing spray. This room is lined in windows and must be bright and beautiful during the day, though the curtains are all drawn right now so the only light comes from the hanging lights above us. I look from one table to the next, taking in several pieces of unfinished wood and projects. In the corner, I can see a stack of wood that looks random but must already be marked for something. One full wall is covered in plans detailed enough to be for buildings or bridges, and I walk toward them, fascinated.
When I get there, I find that these are plans for projects. They’re not buildings, but tables, chairs, lamps, bed frames, and sculptures, and they’re so delicate, so intricate, that I marvel at the detail. Measurements and notes fill every blank space, and each plan features the project in question from several different angles.
These aren’t just blueprints. They’re works of art. And I haven’t even seen the pieces they built yet.
I put a gentle finger up to one plan and run it down the paper. “These are yours,” I say. I don’t know how I know, but I’m sure of it. These aren’t the work of a man who’s given up on life the way Gunner seems to have done. These come from a mind so alive, so active, that it can hardly sit still.
A large, blunt finger appears next to mine and follows my path down the paper, the touch light as a feather. A caress.
“They are,” he whispers. “This is where the art really happens. I see what the wood wants to be and have a general idea, but I don’t know how I’m going to do it until I start the design. Then it’s all measurements and calibrations, to make the wood into what I think it can be.”
“These are... You should have been an architect,” I breathe.
He snorts. “And miss the fun of living with my father? Please.”
I look up at him, instinctively responding to the genuine humor in his voice, and find that although he’s staring at the drawings, his eyes are hazy and faraway. Full of dreams. Did he want to be an architect? I can’t remember him ever saying anything about it, but looking at these plans, I feel like he must have at least thought about it. Why didn’t he come down off the mountain to go to school? With this sort of talent...
“I couldn’t leave him,” he says, like he can hear the thoughts in my head. “You have no idea how bad it is. When you and Helen left?—”
Before he can finish, the lights go out and the place is left in pure, sticky darkness.
And I panic.
