He stepped closer. “Why didn’t you say anything when we posed with it?”
“It’s not much of an accomplishment.” I shrugged, wishing I could fold into my own skin. My pajamas weren’t long enough to pull over my head without looking ridiculous. Why did he even care about that eight-legged monstrosity? Now, it moved less than an inflatable person outside a car dealership.
He gestured to my schematics. “It’s big. Literally, but also as a gig.”
I crossed my arms and looked away. “My brother and I couldn’t agree on most of the perimeters. He complained that its size and location made it…dangerous.” I'd ignored him. Even when she malfunctioned. My lungs compressed, and I sniffed.
“It was, though, wasn’t it?” Sal asked softly.
“It’s none of your business. We need to go back,” I snapped, hurrying away with my hands pinned under my arms. The world blurred behind tears. I stumbled over the edge of the stairs, unable to catch myself, and bashed my knee. Pain radiated through my whole being.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
“Hey, are you okay?” Sal asked, the flap of fabric and irregular footfall suggesting he ran after me with his pants halfway up.
I trembled, frustration wracking my tightly wound chest. “I still don’t understand what happened. Kat insisted the mech was possessed, but that didn’t make sense. I did all the calculations. I double-checked weight limits. Reinforced joints.”
“No one doubts you made something totally kickass. Hell, most of it survived the crash,” he said, placing his palm on my back.
“Yeah, but my brother almost didn’t.”
Admitting it aloud on my knees, then seeing my reflection in Sal’s shocked gaze broke something in me. Tears leaked down my flaming cheeks. No wonder my brother wanted to get away from me. Sweet Sal would too. I clenched my chattering teeth, trying to keep myself from blubbering. A chill ran down my spine, and I doubted it was from the basement.
Sal handed me his bright shirt. “Here, this is old. You can even blow your nose with it.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and dabbed my face with the sturdy, wild print. My lungs expanded at the aroma of Italian spices baked into the cotton collar. Why was this so calming?
The rustle of denim suggested he properly put on his jeans. He was leaving. Of course he was. I scooted over so he could pass without brushing my tender knee and offered up his damp shirt.
He took it. Then, inexplicably, he wrapped it around my shoulders, took my hand, and sat beside me.
Something about the small gesture pried me open like a screwdriver. I hadn’t had therapy in ages, not since my parents referred me to someone who didn’t help, probably because I never fully trusted our confidentiality. Who was to stop them from using my pain as a dinnertime anecdote under the guise of a ‘study’ they read like my parents? When I tried to talk to Mom or Dad, they offered opinions instead of tissues. ‘Well, you can focus on the problem, or you can focus on a solution,’ they’d say. Bullshit therapy-speak.
At least Sal would listen. And he wouldn’t tell anybody. Not even if I snotted all over his T-shirt.
I hiccupped and wiped my cheeks. “After the crash, I was sure Victor was exaggerating, punishing me for insisting nothing was wrong with my creation. Or his relationship. All I cared about was keeping my secrets and dignity. But then I saw the bent staircase. And the video.”
In the security footage, he’d rushed to save his girlfriend, and she’d fought to protect him.
What had I done? Stayed home. Too scared to face anyone or the fact I fucked up.
I broke into a sob and covered my face with his shirt.
“Aw, sweetheart.” Sal squeezed my hand, his tone completely devoid of irony.
“I should’ve come over right when he called me. I should’ve fixed things.”
“Hindsight’s twenty-twenty,” he said.
Why was he being so nice to me? I glared at him through tears. “What are you talking about? I fucked up. I could’ve killed someone.”
“But you didn’t,” he said, his eyes clear.
“I let my fucking social anxiety interfere with my job and my family again.”
“You’re still working through shit.” He brushed his thumb across my knuckles.
“I failed at literally everything. I was supposed to take my life back, my passion. Now, I’m fixing laptops at True Tech," I lamented.
