I end up cross-legged on the floor with a paper plate on my lap, expensive jeans collecting sawdust, while Zoe holds court about Titania.
"The thing is," she says, gesturing with her slice, "everyone always plays her so ethereal and floaty. But she's literally the queen of the fairies. She should be powerful."
"Makes sense to me," I say. "Like in rock climbing. Looking delicate doesn't mean you're not strong."
Across the room, Joshua materializes at Darcy's elbow with a question I can't hear, except then I do hear it, because my name's in it. Something about whether Mr. Bardot could come back to help paint the arch tomorrow.
My head turns before I've authorized it.
"I'm afraid Mr. Bardot has other obligations tomorrow," Darcy says.
"But maybe next week?" the kid presses, and I am pulling for him so hard I almost say yes out loud.
"Mr. Bardot doesn't live here anymore, Joshua. He's just visiting."
It's a fact. I've said it myself twice today. Just visiting. So there's no reason it should land the way it lands, like a door I didn't know was open clicking shut. I push the feeling aside, then I make Ryan explain his worst pun again and laugh in all the right places.
The afternoon slides by in sawdust and paint fumes and the pleasure of doing work you can point at. I keep finding excuses to pull Darcy in—paint colors, archway placement, a running commentary that earns me three reluctant laughs from her thatI count like summits. By the time the students start cleaning brushes, the arch stands on its own, and weirdly, so do I.
"You know," I tell her in a quiet moment, "I didn't expect to enjoy this."
"What, manual labor isn't your usual weekend entertainment?"
"Actually..." I drag a hand through my hair and feel paint transfer. Sure. Fine. "I forgot how good it feels to build something real. To be using my hands and doing something, inventing something. Most of my work these days is spreadsheets and investor meetings."
"Poor billionaire," she deadpans. "Trapped in your penthouse, counting all that money."
The joke is right there waiting for me. A dozen jokes are right there, and I don't reach for any of them. "You really think that's all I am?"
Her lips part for a moment, then close without speaking. I will never know what she might have said, because Annie hollers a five-minute warning and the room dissolves into cleanup chaos.
I walk Joshua through storing the materials for tomorrow's painting—specific instructions, the kind I'd have killed for at his age. Which pieces, what order, no guesswork. He listens attentively and nods, absorbing every word I say.
The kids file out in a chorus of "Thank you, Mr. Bardot!" and "This was awesome!" and one "See you next time!" that I don't correct.
Annie makes a show of checking her phone. "Would you look at the time? I should get going. Darcy, you'll lock up for me?" And then she's gone with the subtlety of a stage exit, leaving me alone with Darcy and a half-built forest.
I survey the archway, hands on my hips, ridiculously pleased with a plywood arch in a high school drama room. "You know, this wasn't what I was expecting when you won that auction."
"Let me guess." She's gathering her things, busying her hands. "You thought I'd have you cleaning chalkboard erasers all day?"
It’s an easy layup. She set the rim at regulation height and everything.
"Nah," I say, grinning now, unable to resist taking the offered shot. "I figured it’d be more like Dictionary Darcy to put me to work organizing library cards all weekend."
She doesn’t laugh. Admittedly, the joke was lame. But she only stares at me in response.
The temperature in the room drops forty degrees. I watch the freeze come over her in real time. Her shoulders square, her face closes like a register drawer, and the woman who led me through a tango this morning is replaced by someone issuing instructions to a contractor. "You still have one more day of service left. Be at the bookshop tomorrow at 7 a.m. sharp."
"Seven? That's practically dawn on a Sunday."
"Yes, well, community service waits for no man." She heads for the door without looking back. "Not even billionaires."
"Darcy—"
"Goodnight, Finn."
I stare at her retreating back. "Wait. Don’t you want me to drive you home?"
