“It’s not much,” he says in response to my stop and stare. I clear my throat, shaking my head. In the very corner, tucked away in its own alcove, I can make out the edge of a neatly made bed, covered in a green, buffalo-check blanket. It makes my heart rocket into my chest.
Back in San Francisco, I date. I can go to a man’s apartment without feeling like a teenager or falling over myself at the sight of a bed. So, what the hell is wrong with me right now?
“It’s nice,” I say, swallowing and turning away from the bed as something warm and soft rubs up against my legs. I look down to see the most adorable cat — black, brown and orange, maybe a tabby? Or calico? — purring and looking up at me as she leans against my shins. “Oh myGod,she’s adorable! Such a beautiful coat!”
As I pet Dona, I think about adding a cat like her into the game. A companion to follow you around and rub against your leg, adding a health point or buff to charisma. Maybe we could even add acozinessscore, which could increase with the companion’s presence.
“Tortoiseshell,” Max says in response to that, and I nod because it makes sense. Then he says, “Come here and sit at the counter. Tell me about your game.”
So I do, walking into the room and coming to sit at his counter, letting him pour me a glass of wine. The moment I take a sip, my voice comes back to me properly, and I end up detailing the entire premise of the game to him. All the characters and thequests I imagine; bringing the town back to life in time for the festival; building your relationships with the various people by doing little activities. I have to explain what a quest is to him, and that I wouldn’t really want any fighting in this game.
“Sounds like Low Pines,” Max says, his eyes narrowing when I finish describing the idea of the hardware succubus.
I shrug. “This place has inspired me, I guess.”
His face is unreadable, but now he’s pushing a plate of food in front of me — fish and potatoes, everything perfectly seasoned. I do my best not to let out a moan at the taste of the food, but after eating from a can for a week, this tastes gourmet.
After dinner, Max ducks into the bathroom, and Dona meows at me from the other side of the room, looking up at me with her round, soulful golden eyes.
“What?” I laugh as she meows again, rubbing against a curtain on the far wall. I cross the room and open it, wondering what she sees out there, and that’s when I find a path leading away from the cabin to a slightly smaller building behind it. What I assumed was a window, covered by the curtain, is actually a sliding door.
I glance at Dona briefly, then push her back slightly as she meows in protest, clearly wanting to come out with me. I open the door and slip outside. It’s cooler now that the sun has set, and I wish I’d grabbed my jacket, but my sense of curiosity is practically dragging me out here.
When I push open the door to the little shed, I gasp, bringing my hand to my mouth.
The shop smells like wood shavings and oil. Each side is lined with counters and cabinets, tools hanging on the walls in meticulous order. In one corner is what looks like a half-finished construction, and the other corner, sitting on a tarp, is an array of different finished pieces — some stools, an end table, and what looks like the start of a rocking chair. They’re all in various wood tones and styles, like Max is trying his hand at every artistic expression when it comes to furniture making.
Max is making this furniture.
“Dona is such a rat,” a voice says from behind me, and I shriek needlessly, spinning to find Max staring at me, his arms crossed.
Somehow, in the time we’ve spent together, things can easily go unsaid. Like the fact that Dona led me to the door, and the door led me to the path, which led me here. And the fact that I’m far too curious for my own good not to go snooping in someone’s secret shed.
“Max!” I say, and this might be a good time to make a joke about him murdering me out here, with how stealthy that approach was, but I don’t. Partly because he doesn’t give off those vibes at all, and partly because I’m far too occupied with what’s going on in the woodshop. “These areincredible!”
Turning, I punch him in the arm, gratified at the shocked look on his face. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but he raises his hand to his arm anyway, blinking at me.
“Those pieceswereartisanal! Youliedto me!”
“Technically, I didn’t—” He cuts off, laughing when I bug my eyes out at him, and I suddenly feel very light. From the food, from seeing him laugh, from the realization of his… what? Skill?Artistry? Maybe it’s just seeing another piece of him, but it’s also something more than that.
I see a little bit of myself in this woodshop. They couldn’t be more different, but in these pieces, I feel the energy I put into my characters. A sense of pouring yourself into creative output to make something beautiful.
It makes me feel closer to him than ever.
“Fine,” he says, clearing his throat and looking away from me, and I realize I must be giving him a pretty intense gaze right now. I look away, too, moving through the shop and running my fingers over some of the pieces, marveling at how smooth the wood is, almost like velvet. “You got me. I did make that stuff. But I didn’t want you to make a big deal out of it.”
“How could I not make a big deal out of it?” I ask, gesturing broadly at his creations. “You’re so talented! How did you even learn how to do this?”
He studies me for a moment, then says, “My foster dad, Ed. He was really into working with his hands, creating furniture and things. And— and glass blowing. Taught me what he knew, and it stuck, I guess.”
Max has mentioned his foster family before — at least it seems he avoided some of the potential horrors. “How long did it take you? All of that stuff you brought over to my place?”
He winces. “It doesn’t matter…”
“Max, how long?”
Sighing, he looks up at the ceiling, shrugging, “A week, give or take. Not a big deal, like I said.”
