He disconnects the cables, then cups his hand around his ear. “What was that you said? I have poor reception. The signal must be bad.”
Was that him trying to be funny? Given his factory-default stern demeanor, I can’t tell.
I say, “The self-satisfied smug version of you sets my teeth on edge.”
Tone clipped, he replies, “Always check your battery before winter. The mountain cold kills them fast.”
And there it is, the grouch. “I know. I just?—”
“Forgot?”
“Didn’t have time.” Or the resources.
His eyes blaze and land on the beauty mark above my lip.
I take a shallow breath.
For a second, I see something other than irritation in his features. Concern, maybe? Or pity? He’s hard to read. However, I don’t want either and pry my gaze away.
“About trivia night,” I start, wanting to clear the air after he just went out of his way to help me. Then again, evil robots probably have a daily good deed quota, so the humans don’t suspect them and shut down the mainframe. I’ve seen enough sci-fi movies to know how this works. Granted, my brother made me watch them, but still. “I really didn’t mean to?—”
“Forget it.”
“But—”
“It’s done.” He closes my hood, letting it slam like the door on that conversation is sealed. “See you tomorrow.”
He’s in his truck before I can process the information or retort with something sassy, likeI’d rather sleep in a snowbank.
I sit in my idling car while he watches, likely waiting to see if I make it okay. I’m completely confused. Is he rude or quietly helpful? Insufferable or secretly decent?
I don’t know.
And I’m not sure I want to find out.
By the time I get to Grandma’s cottage, it’s nearly six. The sun has long since disappeared behind the lake. I missed my favorite part of the day when the water shines like pink and gold stained glass.
I find Grandma in the kitchen, standing in a puddle.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” she says cheerfully, like she’s not practically ankle-deep in water. “The pipe situation got a bit worse.”
“A bit?”
Water drips steadily from under the sink, pooling on the worn linoleum floor. I grab towels, turn off the water main, and crawl under the sink to assess thedamage.
It’s bad. Not emergency-plumber-at-midnight bad, but definitely beyond my DIY video repair skills.
My phone buzzes.
Fab: URGENT. Dad talked to the loan officer at the bank. They want to see payment plans. Call me.
I sit on Grandma’s kitchen floor, surrounded by soggy towels, staring at my phone.
The restaurant. The house. The job. The Ball. Patton.
Everything piles up like a snowdrift, and I’m running out of places to shovel it all. But I can’t let anyone see me struggling. Not Grandma, not my family, not Patton with his judgmental stares and his stupid jumper cables and helping me right after we fight.
I take a breath.
