Corbyn caught her reflection in the dusty mirror across the way. Her diminutive but sturdy frame eased down the steps. Auburn hair, streaked with silver, hung in its usual loose bun, stray wisps brushing her face. She clutched a water bottle in her hands, her expression disapproving.
“You left your water upstairs,” Edie said, holding the bottle out to him as she raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Again.” That last word carried years of nagging in two tired syllables.
Corbyn’s jaw locked, and he blew out a rough breath as he raked his good hand through damp hair.
“Thanks,” he grunted, sharper than he meant.
Edie had always been unshakable, no matter how much he snarled or groused, and the scars that now marred his body had never once spooked her. She’d patched his scraped elbows and knees long before she’d bandaged the mess left behind by the car crash.
“You’re overdoing it,” she said, nodding at his shaky left hand. “Cold’s chewing you up, isn’t it?”
He clenched his left hand, trying to hide the shaking as he muttered, “I’m fine.”
“Hmph.” Edie’s grunt called out his lie without a word. “Damp’s in your joints. I can tell by that hunch alone.”
He didn’t argue. Winter always found his weak spots, and there was no sense in denying it. The pins in his hand, the fried nerves under grafted skin that never fit right, it was a constant this time of year. But admitting it outright would never happen, not even with Edie.
“Have you been doing those hand exercises Ellie’s friend recommended?”
Corbyn’s shoulders tensed, and the way she raised her eyebrow made him feel like he was ten years old again and caught stealing sweets before dinner. He knew his sister had meant well, asking her physical therapist friend at the hospitalfor more exercises that might help improve the range of motion in his useless left hand. After four years of exploring every possible option, he was simply done being disappointed when there was inevitably no improvement.
“That’s what I suspected,” she said, brushing off his silence. “I ran you a bath upstairs with that oil Ellie brought over. After, you’ll have a proper breakfast. None of your coffee-only rubbish you like to spout.”
Riley nosed his hip, backing her up like a furry nag. The dog’s knack for sniffing out pain before Corbyn admitted it to himself was eerie.
“You’re grumpier than usual,” Edie continued, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”
Corbyn grabbed the bottle, pinning it against his chest with his left hand to twist the cap off with his right. The hand’s uselessness pissed him off every time. He gulped half before answering.
“My publisher is sending someone to work here in person. A developmental editor.”
Edie’s brows lifted over her glasses, and she asked, “Is that so?”
“To ‘fix’ it,” he spat, the word burning his tongue. “Some Yank who turns trash into gold, supposedly.”
“Ah. Well, that explains it.” Edie nodded, calm as if he’d mentioned the weather. “When’s she showing up?”
“Tomorrow,” he told her, looking over her face and noting her lack of surprise, and his eyes narrowed. “I never said anything about it being a woman.”
A flicker of guilt crossed Edie’s face, but it was gone just as quickly as she replied, “I might have spoken to Ms. Harper about this before she called you.”
“Of course you did,” Corbyn replied, his irritation seeping into his tone. Edie had been Jess’s point of contact when he had beenrecovering and unable to answer for himself. “So, everyone’s plotting my rescue behind my back?”
“No one thinks you need rescuing,” Edie said, voice even, as she began fussing with the towels on a nearby rack. It was a nervous tic, the need to straighten up, and it usually meant she was about to say something he wouldn’t like. “But that book needs help. You’ve said it yourself.”
“I can do it solo.”
“Can you?” she asked, her question soft but blunt. “Months and your publisher hasn’t seen a page. Paul says you’re staring holes in your study walls more than writing.”
That stung, but it was closer to the truth than he cared to admit. Words that used to pour out had clogged up, leaving him with scraps and dead ends.
“I don’t need a stranger rooting through my stuff, gawking at…”
He waved at his scarred face, the mess that made eyes dart away and strangers whisper.
“Ms. Harper made her sound very professional,” Edie cut in, sidestepping the real issue.
He snorted, collapsing onto the bench and taking another sip of his water.
