“You’re compartmentalizing,” I say. “I’ve been told that’s not healthy.”
It’s what I do best. I’ve spent years sorting things into tidy boxes so I can keep moving—work here, feelings there, exhaustion somewhere far enough away that I can pretend it doesn’t touch anything else. It’s not noble. It’s survival. And I know it’s flawed.
“Despite my desire to argue with everything you say, I’m kindly keeping us from killing each other.” He dips his chin toward my plate. “And you can spare me the sweetness if it’s just cover for poking the hornet’s nest.”
I swallow. “I’m making breakfast because I live here and because I have two hands.”
“And I have one and a half, at the moment,” he says, lifting the bandage.
“Which is why I’m asking you to let me help,” I say. “I can’t twiddle my thumbs waiting for meetings. Keep teaching me things. Show me what needs to be done. Anything, and I swear I’ll be useful.”
He gives me a long, unreadable look. The bandage pulls when he flexes, and he winces before he can stop himself.
“No more ladders,” he says. “Not this week.”
“I can keep two feet on the ground.”
“We’ll start with the boiler,” he says. “And the sash windows. And the porch rail that keeps threatening to splinter in the middle.”
“See?” I say, too quickly. “A list.”
“A small list,” he says. “And you follow my directions. No improvising.”
“I am excellent at following directions I agree with.”
“That doesn’t reassure me.”
“Fine. I will be obedient and humble.”
“That isn’t believable, either,” he says and finally smiles.
I pour him more coffee. He cuts another piece of toast and examines the burn pattern.
“You know you can put butter in the pan after you toast it,” he says. “It won’t taste like charcoal.”
“You just like to show off,” I say, but I reach for the butter anyway. He takes the knife from my hand and does the thing forme. The toast hisses when it meets the skillet, takes on a gloss and a smell that makes my mouth water in a way I resent.
He flips it, slides it onto my plate, and sits back. “You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” I say, because I’m trying, and because he did make it better.
We gather plates. I move to the sink. The water takes a second to run hot; the house must consider every request before it agrees. I respect that about it. Wells comes behind me with the last of the silverware. The edge of his jacket brushes my arm. Every nerve I have notices.
“I meant it,” I say to the drain. “I know you probably think I’m in over my head and that you didn’t want me to sit on the committee.” He gives me a look, and I add, “Which I won’t bring up again outside official meetings. But I do truly appreciate you taking the time to include me in the work.”
He rests the wet forks on the towel and studies my profile. “You want to be useful,” he says, not a question.
“I want to not feel like a ghost.”
The faucet sputters, then smooths. He picks up a plate to dry.
“Boiler at eleven,” he says. “We’ll see how you feel about usefulness after that.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, and I almost mean it.
He takes his mug back to the table, drinks the last swallow, and sets it down. “An addendum to the rule,” he adds.
I brace. “Yes?”
