It was a valid question, no matter how much she tried to pass it off as a human concern her unicorn just couldn’t understand.
But she didn’t want to think about it. It would pop the bubble.
So would diving back into her explanation of the Story of Iris, but at least she could get this part over fast.
She turned the mixer on and spoke over its whirring. It was nice to have the irritating noise to drown out some of the noise in her head.
“After the accident, I felt ruined. And like I’d deserved it somehow, for wanting too much. If I’d just stayed here, if I’d just followed the rules, then none of it would have happened.”
“You must know somebody here who had a bad accident,” Keith said. “I know most people here don’t drive, but they still fall off ladders or slip in the bathtub.”
“Sure, I know a couple people who’ve gotten hurt like that. Intellectually, I know that bad things can happen to you no matter where you are, no matter what you do. But that’s not how it felt. I’d tried living life my way, and it had cut up my face and landed me in a hospital bed. And I was just sodepressed, and I hurt, and I was tired, and I decided, ‘Okay. I’ll try it their way.’”
“And that’s why the Council loves you now.”
“It’s mostly just Lady Marianne. She’s friends with my mother, and she took an interest in me once I started recovering. She’s the one who gave me my new job.” She looked down at her hands. “It was just hard to think about getting a new truck and making any new deliveries. I haven’t driven anywhere since it happened.”
“And even though there’s nothing scandalous about making furniture,” Keith said softly, “it was what you loved to do, so it reminded you of everything else you were giving up.”
“Exactly. So I made a clean break.”
“Do you miss it? Making things?”
She was still staring at her hands, remembering the days—the years!—when they’d been callused and scratched, when she’d almost always had a Band-Aid on one finger or another. They’d been the hands of someone who knew how to do things.
“Every day,” she said, and her voice cracked. “Every single day. So much.”
He settled against her back, wrapping his arms around her to hug her from behind. She leaned back against him.
“I want to get back to it,” Iris said, when she could bring herself to do anything besides just take in the strength and warmth of his embrace.
“Good,” Keith said at once. “You should.”
“You should commission something.”
“Do you have good rates?”
“I think we could work something out in exchange for, say, a hand with the cake-baking.”
“You’ve got the batter already,” he pointed out. “I don’t know what else there is to do.”
“I’ll give you the honor of putting it in the oven and taking it out.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“As long as you’re sure it’s not too much,” Iris said somberly. “I don’t want to put you out. Don’t worry, I can still dust it with powdered sugar at the end. That’s the really tough part.”
He laughed.
Iris waited for some other deep, agonizing secret of hers to bob up to the surface, but it didn’t. She was out of potential dealbreakers that she needed to reveal to make sure he knew what he was getting into. He’d heard it all, and he was still right here, swiping a bit of chocolate cake batter up with his thumb.
Even if they were made for each other, she didn’t know how she could ever deserve him. She’d just have to start by making him cake and furniture.
“Seriously, though,” she said, turning around. “I’d love to make something for you. A nightstand or a coffee table or a chair ....”
There was something heartbreakingly shy about his smile just then.
“And if you make me a nightstand or a coffee table or a chair—” The feeling behind the smile only seemed to intensify. “Would it be ours? Could it be, do you think? Someday?”
