99 Percent Mine

by Sally Thorne

  “It goes without saying that I’m doing the hard work, and you’re paying me to do it,” Tom interjects, ever the calm referee. “Does five percent of the sale price work for you, Darce?”

  “Math isn’t her strong point,” Jamie says cruelly, at the same time as I say, “Sure.”

  “You don’t even know how much that will be,” Tom prompts, unwillingly agreeing with Jamie. “Do you know what the current market is in this area?”

  He holds the phone away a little and lowers his voice. “Make sure you know what you’re saying yes to. This is your inheritance, Darce. I’ve got contracts that you both need to sign. Even though we’re all friends, everything is going to be done right. You’re both clients as soon as you sign.”

  “Business is business,” Jamie’s voice says faintly from the phone. “I taught you well.”

  I’d have said yes to ten. Twenty. Five percent of his heart. Anything.

  “What’s the big deal? I trust you. I’m sure it’s fair. As long as the house is restored, that’s all I care about.”

  “You’ve got to start caring about money more.” Tom doesn’t look like he’s glad that I’ve got blind faith in him. He looks like he’s feeling sick.

  “Hear that, Tom? You’re the only person on earth Darcy Barrett trusts!” Jamie says, a little too exaggerated, a lot jealous. I narrow my eyes at the phone.

  “He’s the perfect man,” I say, just to jab at Jamie.

  “You’ve got to stop saying things like that,” Tom says in a pained way. To himself, he says, “No pressure.”

  “You’ve been telling her the truth about everything, have you?” Jamie says, and there’s a long silence. Endless. The cotton threads on Tom’s body squeak. “Ah, I see,” Jamie says, speculation in his tone. “Yes, I think I know why you’re playing it this way. Smart.”

  For the first time, I feel a sliver of doubt. Tom won’t look at me now. “What the hell are you two cooking up?”

  “Nothing,” Tom tells me with a heavy sigh. “All right, this is going nowhere. I’ve got a guy coming to look at the foundation. I really need you two to agree on the style before Wednesday. I’ve got to order stuff.”

  “Just make it look exactly the same, but new.” I nod. Case closed.

  “Make it look like my apartment,” Jamie orders him. “Just deal with her until she leaves and do your standard modern renovation. Like that place you did last year, with the fancy gray feature wall. Do what sells.”

  “Gray feature wall? Loretta is laughing until she’s crying right now.” I look around at the beautiful wallpaper. I thought I could trust Tom to take care of this place. “You know that an old cottage like this would look ridiculous done modern.”

  “We’ll need to have a weekly budget meeting,” Tom says, persevering, “and any changes once we’ve set the baseline will have to be agreed on by both of you. I’m having this job come in early and under budget.”

  “I know you will,” Jamie says, his voice nothing but confidence. I’ve never heard him sound like that. “I’m going to a meeting. Tom, make it modern.” Jamie hangs up. Tom tosses the phone onto the coffee table and leans back. Under the blanket, my feet are pinned by his thigh.

  “Modern vintage,” Tom says to himself. “Barrett versus Barrett. I’m not sure how I’m going to pull this one off. You know I can’t make you both happy, right?”

  “You just have to decide who you want to make more happy. Hint: It’s me.” I smile at him. As doubt pinches his features, I smile wider, cuter, a nose-wrinkle, putting every bit of spoiled baby sister that I can into it.

  “I do like making you happy,” he admits grudgingly, and I’m bumped up. Three percent. I feel like a store’s millionth shopper.

  “Why was Jamie hinting about a secret? You can tell me, you know.”

  He takes the empty takeout container from me, and I swipe the syrup container and drink the rest. Judging from his expression, that was gross.

  “You’re going to get diabetes,” he says faintly. “Or rot your perfect teeth right out of your head.”

  Perfect? “Worth it.”

  “There are no secrets when it comes to this renovation. I’ll be up front with you both.”

  His eyes catch on my mouth. I lick and everything’s sweet. Everything’s heavy. He’s still sitting on my foot and I didn’t know that was a fetish, but hey, what did I know two minutes ago? I sit up with an ab-muscle tremble and it was a mistake, because now we’re closer.

  “Do you still live on-site when you renovate?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got my camping gear.” One second is up, and he’s passing his palms over his knees like he’s wiping away sweat. “Did Jamie say you pierced yourself somewhere?”

  “Yep. And it hurt like a bitch.”

  He won’t ask me where it is. He refuses to. “Thought you’ve had enough needles in your life.”

  “I needed one more.” I was so cavalier about it, imagining my next heart review and how tough it’d look. It hurt like my entire body and soul had been pierced and I loved it, because in that all-consuming agony, I couldn’t think about diamond rings and my brother’s fury.

  Plus, it looks hot. Silver and pink is one hell of a combination.

  He’s thinking about where it could possibly be, I just know it. Time to get Megan back in the room with us.

  “What does Megan think of you being away from home so much? She hates it,” I conclude without pause.

  “She doesn’t care,” Tom says with no bitterness. “She’s used to it.”

  “If you were mine,” I say, and the words seem to run down his spine because he sits up straight, “I wouldn’t like it. You know what I’m like, though.”

  “What are you like? I have no idea,” he adds when I cast him a come on look.

  “With most guys? I couldn’t care less if they lived or died. You, though . . .” I look at the two empty coffee cups and feel the weight of his goodness and I want to tell him the truth in return.

  The thought of how a million people must abuse his kindness—myself included—makes me crazy.

  I want to walk two steps in front of him, wherever he goes, bulldozing the world a little flatter for him. If he were sleeping on a building site, and he were mine, I’d be in that tent, too. All night, every night, as the wind whistled and the rain beat down. I’d never let another woman sit as close as I am right now. Megan seriously lets this walk around on earth, completely unattended?

  If I were Megan, I would fuck me up for sitting close enough to smell the scent on his skin. He smells like birthday-candle wishes. I’ve never in my life felt even a passing possessiveness for another man, but Tom Valeska? It’s something I have to keep lashed down inside me, hard and tight, because I have no right to it.

  Maybe he’s not the only wolfy sled dog around these parts.

  Some of this is in my eyes because he blinks and swallows. He’s trying to ignore the undercurrent between us. It’s because he’s a good guy. My brain doesn’t want him to be any different. But my body wants him to pick me up and put me against the wall. Windowsill. Floor. Bed.

  I have to salvage this situation.

  “Oh, come on. You know what I’m like better than anyone. Now, are you going to tell me this secret?”

  “It wouldn’t be a good idea, trust me,” he says carefully, but his pupils give him away. They’re black drugged eyes, and I know he wants to tell me. Why else would he leave a little gap for me to squeeze through? He didn’t just say no.

  It’s on the tip of his tongue. I need to bite it off. I wonder if I can make myself persuasive. “Is it about the house?”

  He shakes his head like he’s hypnotized. His brown eyes? They’re my favorite. In this morning light, they’re a treasure trove. Gold, sands, tombs, coins, riches. Egyptian pyramids, eternal life. Gilded sarcophagi. Cleopatra’s dinnerware.

  “Is it about Jamie?” He shakes his head no again. I put everything I have into it. “You can tell me.”

  He seems to g
ive himself a little mental slap, and his brow creases downward. “You can stop it now.”

  “Stop what?”

  “What Jamie said. Stop trying to flirt things out of me.” He’s disgusted. “You really should get into Loretta’s line of work.”

  If I can occasionally hypnotize him, Jamie can make him walk over hot coals. This house is a sitting duck in the hands of my tyrannical genetic copy and someone who has never had any creative license in his entire career.

  “And you should stop hiding something from me. I’m going to work on the house.”

  As I say it out loud, something clicks down into position inside me.

  It’s the perfect retort I should have said to Jamie. The usual feeling of chickenshit guilt dissipates like squeezing a zit. I’m going to work on fulfilling Loretta’s wish for this place and protect it from anyone who can’t appreciate Maison de Destin’s inherent magic.

  “I feel like if there’s any chance to get back into Jamie’s good graces, it’s going to take blood, sweat, and tears. I’m going to redeem myself.”

  “Not too much of your blood, or tears. Or sweat,” Tom says, thinking. “Just be around when I need to call Jamie to get a quick decision made. Can you move out and stay with Truly?”

  “No way. I’m working and I’m staying here in a tent, just like you. I’m on your crew.”

  He grins at the thought, but it fades off. “Sorry, no.”

  “Any particular reason? Don’t you need free labor?”

  “I can’t focus when you’re around,” he says with complete honesty, and a little starburst thrill pops inside my stomach. His eye contact is uncomplicated so I don’t think there’s anything more to the statement. “But it’s your house, so I can’t stop you. You could help on the occasional small project. Maybe painting the new front fence.”

  “No. I’m not doing the girly stuff. I’m using tools.”

  “No heavy lifting, no manual labor, no ladders, no electrical—” Tom stops himself. He’s imagining me with my finger in a socket, I bet. He’s got a big brow crease. “I don’t think my insurance would cover this. You’re a liability.”

  My mouth drops open, the void opens up like a canyon inside my chest, and everything’s whooshing. A liability.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He is obviously horrified at what he just said. “Darce, that came out completely wrong.”

  “Fine, it’s fine. It’s true. Do whatever you want to the cottage. Like I care. It’s being sold to some rich Jamie clone, anyway. What does it matter?” It’s a miracle I can still speak. I struggle up and nearly trip over the coffee table.

  “You do care,” he protests, hot on my heels as I make a beeline for the bathroom. I slip in, shut the door, and lock it. “You care so much it’s crazy. I’m not going to do a job that you’re going to be unhappy with.”

  “I don’t care. I’m going to be about ten million miles away by the time you crack open a can of paint. Just do whatever Jamie wants, liability free.” Time to get these feelings together like loose sheets of paper. Tap them into a stack. Stick them into a shredder.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Time to leave before I do something I can’t undo.

  “Open up, please,” Tom says, knocking again. Does he have no self-preservation? “I really didn’t mean it how it sounded. Of course you aren’t a liability.”

  “You never lie.”

  “I do lie. Every day.”

  I look at myself in the old speckled mirror. I look terrible. Under each eye is a purple mark. Each cheek has a vaudeville spot of color. I’ve studied Megan at every Christmas party I’ve been home for. I’m telling you, she is poreless.

  “Go away,” I say because I can feel he’s still there. He can’t follow me here. I pull my clothes off and look down at my weird body, with its too-big joints and waffle-belly fatness. The piercing on my nipple now looks like it’s part of a costume.

  “I could unscrew the hinges,” he says in a friendly voice. I think of myself last night, lying on the floor outside like a hound.

  “If you do that you’ll be scarred for life. I’m taking a shower.”

  “Don’t go back into your shell. It’s okay that you care about this house. And I want to hear how you picture the finished product.” Through the door, he says in a new tone, “DB, please get dressed so I can hug you and tell you I’m sorry.”

  “You heard your boss. Make it modern.” My voice sounds even harder when it bounces off the tiles. I crank the shower and it spits and steams. Then I stand in the water and when I cry, the tears wash away. The perfect crime.

  I’m standing in the exact same place that Tom Valeska stood naked.

  I’m not going to think about things like that anymore.

  Chapter 7

  An electrician arrives after lunch, walks in, and flips the switch beside the front door. There’s a pop sound, the lights blink, and the electrician curses, snatching his hand back. The house is a viper today. It wants to hurt somebody.

  This mug says #1 ASSHOLE on the side. It would be the perfect birthday gift for Jamie. If we’re on speaking terms by then.

  I click the camera, turn the mug slightly on the little white turntable, take another shot, and then record a three-hundred-sixty-degree rotation. Then I transfer the digital files and label them with serial numbers. I tick the checklist. If I lose track of which mug is which I will lose my mind. It’s slow, boring, meticulous work.

  If I think about the fact that I won the Rosburgh Portrait Prize when I was twenty, I get a shake in my hand and have to redo the set. Why did Tom have to remind me of that? I’d nearly left the memory under Jamie’s bed, along with the canvas print.

  “Number one asshole. Maybe I need this one,” I tell Patty, who is asleep on a cushion. “I’m pretty sure it’s my mug.”

  I pick it up and spy out the window at Tom, who is currently looking professional and competent, all slid into his clothes in the right way, pointing up at the roofline with a saggy tradesman nodding by his side.

  I have lost my goddamn mind in a short period of time. If I had my phone, I’d look at the photo of Megan’s engagement ring again to recalibrate myself. I close my eyes and I can picture it: cushion cut and colder than ice. Like she could press a button on the side and a white lightsaber would come out.

  I wouldn’t want something like that. I’d want something like Loretta’s ring: a black sapphire. I should clarify: I want Loretta’s ring, full stop. The fact she left it to Jamie in her will is inexplicable to me. She knew I loved it. She let me borrow it for weeks at a time and said to me, Oh, sweetness, doesn’t it suit you. Was it her way of punishing me for something?

  I offered in the solicitor’s parking lot to buy it from him, which was a tactical error. His gray eyes shifted into blue. “No,” he replied with relish.

  Now that he knows how badly I want it, that ring is worth more than the Mona Lisa. Luckily for me, no one would be insane enough to marry Jamie either.

  It’s sunset when I decide I should grow up and get things back to normal. I find Tom in the backyard alone, writing in a notebook. The tip of his tongue is caught between his teeth.

  “Look at you, being all meticulous.”

  “Sure am.” He takes a photo of the back stairs with his phone. I’ve never really noticed them before, but they are beautifully rustic. I clomp down them, feeling them bounce.

  “I’m so sorry—” he begins what is probably a rehearsed statement. I wave him silent.

  “It’s fine.” I take his phone and look at his last shot. “You could probably win an award with that shot. How annoying, I should have been the one to see that. Is there anything you can’t do?” I’m not really joking.

  “Plenty. Why don’t you get your camera and do it? Or maybe you could start taking photos of people again.” This might be the closest he’s going to get to asking me to shoot his wedding. He hesitates, and I know it’s about to come. The request that I won’t be able to say no to. “If t
aking a photo of me—”

  A big wave of don’t fucking ask me almost knocks me over. I interrupt him instantly.

  “I’m taking more photos than ever, and I’m never going back to people again. Mugs don’t complain. They don’t have little mental breakdowns and ruin their mascara. They don’t write reviews online.”

  “Did someone do that?” Googling me would never occur to him.

  “Scathing” is all I can say. Apparently, I very much deserve those empty screw holes by the front door.

  Unprofessional. Late. Hungover—possibly still drunk? Distracted. Poorly presented. Surly and rude to guests. Blurry. Badly framed. Ruined my memories. Contacting my lawyer.

  Tom wisely tucks the impending request back in his pocket. He shouldn’t risk getting his memories ruined, too. “Maybe if I’d gotten the studio done, you’d still be doing portraits.”

  He is now looking at the long, narrow building beyond the fishpond, against the fence line, that has had a lot of plans attached to it. It was once Grandpa William’s carpentry hideout, and it still smells like cyprus pine. Loretta used to sit in there on a folding chair, drinking coffee and thinking about him. It was going to be my photography studio, and before that, Loretta’s tarot room. One summer, Tom got as far as cladding the inside walls and putting down carpet before Aldo sent him on to his next job—then the next, and the next. An unfinished project would weigh heavily on Tom.

  “Don’t feel bad,” I warn him, but I think I’m too late. “You’ve been busy. You are not the cause of my career change.” I mean, technically yes, but he doesn’t need to know that. I was already on a long downhill slide.

  “If you’d called me, I would have come,” he says with the barest hint of accusation. “You know I would.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You’re here right when I need you most. Like always.”

  Patty is standing on the edge of the slime-filled fishpond. One foreleg lifts. I pick her up and kiss her little dome head. From the laundry window, Diana’s aghast face is like the feline version of The Scream.