Page 45 of When the Smoke Clears

“When Maren showed me your house, she mentioned you built the she shed and did a lot of renovations around here. I can do most of it, but sometimes an extra set of hands is helpful.”

He whips his head to the side, eyes narrowed, and just as quickly turns back to the TV, but his avatar is dead. “Shit,” he mumbles, tossing the controller aside. “What do you mean you can do most of it?” He rubs the back of his neck while glancing at me again.

“I watch a lot of videos, and I’m a quick learner. Construction is just good math, measuring, and following instructions. But it also can be physically demanding, so that’s where an extra set of hands is helpful. I remodeled a bathroom in my previous house. I love tiling.”

Will returns a blank stare with slow blinks. “So you can tile?”

I nod.

“You put in the substrate, mixed the thinset, cut the pieces, and grouted?”

“Why do you look so shocked?”

“I’m not.”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“Because you’re you.”

I rest my back against the arm of the sofa and playfully kick his leg while stretching out mine. “What do you mean by that?”

Will eyes me, rubbing his fingers over his lips, but it doesn’t erase his amusement. “You’re so analytical, a brainiac. I look at you as a thinker more than a doer. But then you play video games and tile shit. You’re”—he scrubs his hands over his face—“all over the damn place.”

“You mean I’m unexpected and refreshingly delightful.”

He barks a laugh while reclining and stretching his arms along the back of the sofa. “I don’t know what I mean.” He yawns and brings a fist to his mouth.

“Told you it’s past your bedtime.”

“Because I’m older than you?”

“Because you’re older than half of the US population.”

“Normal people wouldn’t know that more than half of the US population is under forty.”

“Normal is boring,” I say.

He smirks. “And yet, you love that word. I bet you’ve said it to me half a dozen times or more. All you’ve ever wanted is to be normal.”

I drum my fingers on my legs and then fold my hands to stop fidgeting.

“What would Dr. Reichart say about Everleigh?” Will asks.

I return a hesitant chuckle. “That’s a tough question. I haven’t found an answer since Everleigh doesn’t fully trust Dr. Reichart, and Dr. Reichart is too emotionally attached to Everleigh.”

Will rubs his chin, eyes narrowed. “Hmm, let’s expand on that. Why doesn’t Everleigh fully trust Dr. Reichart?”

Laughter bubbles up from my chest. “Are you shrinking me?”

“Trying. But I don’t use the right words,” he says.

“What are the right words?”

“I don’t know. Probably words or phrases like: it’s my observation, positive correlation, proclivity, insofar as, plethora, universal consensus . . . It’s a long list.”

My face hurts from grinning so much. “It’s been my observation and experience”—I giggle—“that even if a psychiatrist or therapist has a proclivity for using clinical language, they try to use layman’s terms when speaking with people who are not their colleagues. And I try not to correct malapropisms. It can be embarrassing, and it’s pointless if I know what they mean.”

Will blinks without speaking.