I sit down.Not on the stairs.Not in the doorway.On the concrete floor, next to him, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his arm through the sleeve of his shirt.The floor is cold and hard and this is insane and I do it anyway.
He doesn’t say anything.Doesn’t look at me.Just watches the screen.
Rachel McAdams is yelling at Ryan Gosling in the rain and I’m sitting on a basement floor next to the man I kidnapped watching it happen and for one brief, deranged moment, this feels normal.This feels like a Friday night in our apartment when things were good—before Vanessa, before the dinner, before I learned what a Faraday bag was.
“This is nice,” Charles says.Quiet.Not looking at me.
“Don’t.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Don’tjust say.Every time youjust saysomething, I end up buying restraints or crying in a grocery store.”
He almost laughs.And this time he doesn’t kill it.He lets it live—a real, actual laugh that fills the basement and bounces off the soundproofed walls and does something to my chest that I refuse to examine.
“I missed this,” he says.
I don’t respond.Because if I respond I’ll believe him.And if I believe him I’ll loosen the cuffs.And if I loosen the cuffs I’ll lose every piece of leverage I’ve built.And I don’t lose leverage.I hold it until my fingers bleed and then I hold it with my teeth.
But God, he sounds like he means it.
We watch the rest of the movie in silence.When it ends, he turns to me.
“Same time tomorrow?”
I stand up.Brush off my jeans.Check the cuffs.Check the slack.Make sure the potty chair is within reach.
“We’ll see,” I say.
He smiles.Not the angry smile.Not the Tuesday dinner smile.A real one.Or the best imitation I’ve ever seen.
And that’s the part that terrifies me.Because angry Charles I can handle.Angry Charles is predictable.He insults me and I armor up and we circle each other like professionals.
Kind Charles is a weapon I’ve never seen before.
And I don’t know if the safety’s on.
45
Luke
The faucet takes forty minutes.Would have taken thirty but the supply lines are corroded and I have to cut them back and re-fit the connectors.Old house.Old pipes.Everything under this sink is original and stubborn and doesn’t want to be replaced.
I know the feeling.
Marin’s in the kitchen.Not hovering—just present.Moving around me the way you move around someone who belongs in your space.Coffee maker.Dish towel.Cabinet doors opening and closing.She’s not performing today.The smile is still there, but it’s sitting differently on her face.Looser.Less constructed.
Something happened.
“Hand me the wrench,” I say from under the sink.
She doesn’t move.
“The thing that looks like a bent stick with a jaw on the end.”
She finds it.Hands it down.Our fingers touch on the handle and she doesn’t pull away as fast as she usually does.
I tighten the mounting nut.Focus on the work.
