“He eats twice a day.Water every four hours.Ibuprofen morning and night.Don’t engage with his arguments.Don’t let him convince you of anything.And whatever you do, don’t feel sorry for him.”
“I don’t feel sorry for him.”
“Good.Because he’s very good at making people feel sorry for him.It’s his primary skill set.”
“A match made in heaven, then.”
I stare at him.He stares back.And then I laugh—not the kind I use with clients, not the Mrs.Mather laugh.A real one that comes out sideways and surprises both of us.
Luke does not laugh.
The waitress comes back.We order food.We eat.We talk about the basement, the house, things that need fixing—things that always need fixing.We don’t talk about what this is.We don’t talk about the way his hand rests on the table or the way I keep not moving mine away.
We don’t talk about any of it.
He drives me home.The truck with no back window, glass on the seats, a bullet hole in the tailgate.The night air comes through the empty frame and blows my hair across my face and I don’t fix it.
He walks me to the porch.Stands there with his hands in his pockets.The porch he fixed.The door he hung.
“Tuesday,” he says.
“What about the anchor plate?You said you’d come back and?—”
“My hands are full, Marin.”He looks at me.Steady.Not unkind but not soft either.“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
He turns.Walks to the truck.
I watch him go.The taillights disappear down the driveway.The house is quiet.The basement is quiet.Mrs.Mather’s kitchen light is off for once.
I go inside.Lock the door.Press my back against it.
He said I’d figure it out.Like it was a fact.Like he’s known me long enough to know that I always do.
That shouldn’t feel like the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in weeks.
But it does.
43
Luke
Tuesday.
I told Marin I’d come back Tuesday.But now it’s the faucet.That was the reason she called.A kitchen faucet that drips every six seconds—she counted—and needs replacing, not patching.Parts and an hour of labor.Simple.
Nothing about this is simple.
I’m at the hardware store in town.Henderson’s.The kind of place where everything’s behind the counter and you have to ask Earl for what you need and Earl asks you what it’s for and then tells you a story about the time his brother-in-law installed a garbage disposal and flooded his mother’s basement.
“Kitchen faucet,” I say.“Single handle.Brushed nickel.”
Earl pulls three boxes from the shelf.Lines them up on the counter.Starts explaining the differences between them the way a sommelier explains wine—seriously, passionately, with the unshakable belief that this decision matters.
I pick the middle one.Earl nods like I’ve passed a test.
He rings it up.Pauses.Sets his hands flat on the counter.
“That for the house?”
