“Because,” I continue. “That was a child’s dream.”
“Yes. It was.”
I stare down at him. He stares back; a challenge held in his hard eyes. “It was a child’s dream because you were a child when you dreamt it. Doesn’t mean it was an invalid one.”
My eyelids flutter wildly in rapid succession. An expression I’d only ever seen on TV and didn’t think existed in real life. A glop of clear goo threatens to drip from my paintbrush, giving me an excuse to tear my gaze from his and back to the ceiling.
“Sure… but, it was childish,” I rebut. “I mean, just completely outlandish. Thinking I could make enough from the stories I wrote, let alone be able to support my mom while doing so.” I scoff, a self-conscious, evasive sound. “It was much too risky of a bet.”
“Sure. But a lot of good things are a risk,” he replies, voice firm but low, like he’s disappointed by my conclusion.
“Well,” I sigh. “I guess it just wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. A lot of people take risks and fail, you know. We just don’t hear those stories as much. Clearly. Because they’re not big enough to tell the tale. They’re holed up behind a cash register like my mom.” The words tumble out before I have the chance to vet them.
He doesn’t respond, so I look down at him. His sage-green eyes are soft but pained. They glow slightly in the lamplight, and I have to tear my eyes away, unable to bear the feeling growing in my stomach. His eyes. That look. It brings backmemories at a dizzying speed. Me yelling “Do you not understand anything about me?” and storming out. Never to see him up close again. Until now.
“Sorry, that was…” I mumble. “Uncalled for. I’m just anxious to get to the job I have waiting for me.”
He nods, shoulders dropping marginally.
“It’s a consulting position. In New York City. Consulting analyst, technically,” I tack on, hoping my openness will make up for the outburst.
“Oh. That’s awesome. You’re only here for the summer then?”
“Yep! Just for the summer. Gotta save up for the move, and then I’m out of here,” I say with faux enthusiasm, waving the paintbrush in the air.
“Just a few more overtime shifts and you should be good to go then,” he says up at me, and then strides back over to his notebook.
“Can you help me with something, actually?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, holding the paintbrush out to him like a question mark.
“You can put that down for now. Hold on a sec.” He walks to the corner of the room and grabs the raw slabs of wood leaning against the wall. “I’m building out a bar for customers to sit at, where they can watch the baristas make their drinks or just get their work done without taking up a table with multiple spots.” He gestures toward the half-finished bar area, tracing the invisible vision in the air with his hands. “I’ve got the wood measured out here. Could you help me hold it steady while I drill it into the ground?”
“Of course,” I say, grateful for the distraction.
He stands in the center of the shop holding a slab of wood upright as he waits for me to replace his hands, so I climbdown the ladder and meet him there, taking the slab from him and keeping it steady in the exact position he demonstrated.
He takes the pencil from behind his ear and marks something on the wood, then puts it back, making the soft bristles of his hair move slightly. From this close, I can smell the faint woodsy aftershave scent of him. I can see the new crinkle lines by his eyes as he squints in concentration. The color of his mouth is just as vibrant as it was when we were kids. He flicks his eyes to me, and I flinch slightly, having forgotten I wasn’t observing him in isolation.
“Hold steady,” he says softly.
And then he bends down to drill the wood into the floorboards. We haven’t stood this close to each other in years, and I try to distract myself from marveling at his quick, efficient movements, but I have nowhere to look as I keep both hands on the slab, so I keep staring. It’s a bit awe-inducing to watch him work. I missed the part of his life when he learned how to do all this, and seeing it up close feels disorienting.
In between drills, I ask, “Did you end up going to college?”
He stills, one knee bent as he rummages around for another nail.
“For engineering,” I add, hoping I didn’t cross an unspoken boundary.
He steadies a nail in place. “No. I didn’t.” He continues drilling. “Self-taught.”
“What was that?” I ask, the sound of his voice starting and the drill stopping too close together to make out.
He stands to full height, taller than when he was seventeen. The single slab of wood is the only thing between us, and for amoment I tense, not knowing if he’s about to speak or expects me to.
“I taught myself,” he clarifies, and then walks over to a pile of wood in the corner.
“You taught yourself how to build?”
