99 Percent Mine

by Sally Thorne

  I tilt her up to me. “Patty, you’ve gotta stop flirting with danger.”

  “Says the girl living in a house with fire-hazard wiring.” Tom gives me his notebook and begins unfolding a ladder. “I can’t believe Loretta lived in this place. Why didn’t she get me to renovate years ago?” He’s getting mad. “She shouldn’t have lived with these issues.”

  I have to laugh.

  “She couldn’t be bothered packing. She said, and I quote, You can deal with it.” I flip through the last few pages of his notes. I almost forgot his handwriting: square blocks, flat lines, and intriguing shorthand. Arrows up and down, measurements, estimates of cost. Page after page of bad news. “And she thought the issues were quirks. Which they are.”

  “You are so similar to your grandmother that it’s scary.” Tom hooks the ladder on the side of the house. “Please, just promise me you won’t touch any of the outlets. Or tell my fortune.”

  “I know how to manage this house. I’ve lived in this house part-time for most of my life, remember? Every single ski season.” My parents are obsessed with sliding down snowy hills in matching padded onesies. I wonder what it’s like.

  “Did you used to hate me?” He took my place on those ski trips. I stayed with Loretta, took photos until I lost the light, and read books by the fire, my hand in a candy bowl. Lovely, but it was no black-diamond run.

  I shake my head. “No, I was glad you went.”

  I’m glad you all got to live a little, unencumbered by my shortcomings.

  “Glad for me because I was poor,” Tom says in a wry voice. He looks up the ladder and puts a foot on the bottom rung. “Glad that your parents are incredibly generous and took me everywhere.”

  “No, glad for you because staying behind sucked, and I wouldn’t wish it on you.”

  I remember Loretta saying to me, Wave goodbye for God’s sake, they might all have a plane crash. You’ll regret it if you don’t. That kind of statement is even more startling when said by a fortune-teller. Smile and let them enjoy themselves.

  The only translation I could possibly make from that was: Who could relax around me, the ticking time bomb?

  “I’m glad you all got a vacation from stressing out about me.”

  “We weren’t vacationing from you,” Tom says, surprised. He begins climbing up the ladder. “Loretta let you believe some things that weren’t true.”

  For one sharp moment I feel like he knows that I confided in Loretta and she got me the hell out of town. But there’s no way he could. I’ve never told a soul. His eyes are mild and have no bad memories in them when he looks down at me.

  “If you need anything switched on or off inside, ask me. I hid your hair dryer.”

  “That just means you put it up somewhere high, out of my eye line? Your hiding skills are terrible.” I watch his butt as he climbs higher. “What are you doing up there, anyway?”

  “Just looking at the gutters back here.”

  “Me too.” I grin breezily up at him as he glowers back down at me. “What? I’m interested in the state of my house.”

  There’s a loose rattling noise. Tom shakes the entire gutter about a foot away from the roofline. Slimy leaves splatter down onto me. Patty and I both yap like seals.

  “You asshole.”

  “You deserved that, you deviant.” He rattles the gutter again.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  “Do you want to climb up this ladder while I stand down there looking at your butt? See how it feels?” Busted again. If he registers every time my eyes are on him, I’m doomed.

  “I’ve got nothing on you, babe.”

  “You sure did hide in the shower a long time. Didn’t know the water heater could handle that.” Tom’s hand goes to his back pocket and he pulls out a screwdriver.

  “That water heater is a tin can. It was freezing by the end.” I just let it go cold, numbing me down to the bones, cooling the strange restless energy inside me to manageable levels. I’ve never actually taken a cold shower over a guy before.

  He looks across at the neighbor’s roof, and in his profile, I see him swallow. In his mind, he thinks, Ew, gross. Darcy Barrett, a shivering drowned rat, boy hair flattened to her skull.

  He hoists himself a little higher onto the edge of the roof. There’s a tile-scraping sound and the ladder trembles. I leap on the base of the ladder and wrap my entire body around it. “Fuck! Be careful.” Another wet leaf plops down on my face.

  “It’s fine,” he says, treading down the rungs. He doesn’t turn, but instead spends a lot of time pulling the ladder down, folding and refolding it. I’m glad. I can hide my sudden heart jolt.

  “I thought I was going to have to catch you then.” I move to the fishpond, my back to him. My heart has jumped up into my throat. I swallow again and again, but it won’t budge. Blood begins sliding the wrong way in my veins.

  My heart says, Oh hey, did you just have a little fright? Cool, I’m going to make a big deal out of it. And now we’re pumpin’. Palpitations, pixelation, it’s all cranking into gear.

  Quick, think about something else.

  Aside from my heart situation, a worse pattern keeps repeating. I tease him like always, he calls me on it, and I remember Megan. I crush myself down inside like an empty beer can. Then I look at him and that joyful feeling expands, and the cycle happens again.

  I know what the solution to this problem is, and it involves a cab to the airport.

  “I bet you would catch me. You’d just . . .” He holds his arms up to the sky. “Get squashed flat. Hey.” He’s noticed my stillness. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing,” I say on a slow exhale. My heart is climbing up out of my body, fluttering and struggling in the base of my neck.

  Tom’s hands are on my body. “Your little spool of thread,” he says with deep empathy. “Aw, it’s rattling around in there, isn’t it?”

  “Stop it. Don’t fuss.” I tug away but he steps with me. “It will stop if I can just take my mind off it. Your hands are making it worse.”

  He drops them like he’s been scalded.

  He smells like he always has: a blown-out birthday candle, sharp and smoky. It’s that smell in your nostrils when closing your eyes and making an impossible wish, and your mouth is watering for something sweet.

  “Breathe,” he says, encouraging me just like Jamie would. When I give myself one glance up at his beautiful face, the stark look in his eyes reminds me of why I stayed behind at the airport as a child. I am stress. Fear. Uncertainty.

  I am a liability.

  I make myself fake a big breath out. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing a little time on a beach somewhere can’t fix.”

  He eases away and the chilling air fills the space between us. I step completely out of his reach and then put the fishpond between us. I pat my chest like I’m burping a baby. If I do it firmly enough, I can’t feel the individual off-kilter beats.

  Tom is a little wretched. “I’m sorry about what I said before. You know that, right? You’re not a liability. This is your house, and you have every right to work on it.” He turns back to his notes, but he’s looking at them without seeing. “But I don’t think you should travel. You’re clearly not okay.”

  “I’ve been like this for years. Don’t,” I warn, and he sighs heavily.

  “So, my ladder wobbles and you can throw yourself on it like it’s a grenade, but you turn into a wax statue and I’m supposed to, what? Just ignore it?” You know he’s getting close to the end of his tether when his hand is on his hip. “You’ve got a set of rules that I can’t agree to.”

  “I’ve had a lifetime of fussing.” I put my hand up to grip my plait and my hand finds nothing but air. It’s a good reminder. I’m a new person now. “Just worry about this house.”

  “I’m worried about you,” he says in a cut the shit voice. “Tell me what’s really going on with you. I have never seen so many empty wine bottles in my life.” He jerks a thumb at the recyclin
g bin at the side of the house. “You are not doing well.”

  “Don’t start,” I begin, but he silences me.

  “You’re drinking when I know you shouldn’t. Your medication’s so old it’s expired, did you realize that? You’re working somewhere where guys grab you. Bruise you. Drive past all night.”

  “It’s not like that—”

  “Your fridge is empty. You’re not taking real photos,” he says in a tone like it’s a tragedy. “And you’re trying to keep me at arm’s length, as usual, by doing that thing you do.”

  “What do I do?”

  “You know exactly what you do. You mess around with me.”

  “Well, what is it like being messed with by me?” I can’t stop looking at how his short, neat fingernails are pressing into the cotton at his hip. I’m sweating now. I need to press my sleeve to my brow, but he’ll see.

  “Being messed with by Darcy Barrett?” He considers the question. “It sounds like she’s joking with me, but it feels like she’s telling the truth. And I never know which is right.”

  Whoa. He really has my number. “You’re a smart guy, you’ll work it out.”

  He puts a hand into his hair. That bicep. Those lines. He’s art. “See, you’re doing it again. It’s your technique to put me off track, so you won’t have to actually answer me.”

  He turns back to the house like he’s looking for its moral support. Patty obliges, running to him and standing up on his shin. He looks down at her. “I’m just a chew toy, Patty. Aunt Darcy likes hearing me squeak.”

  “If I were Megan, I’d punch me in the face.” I ball up my fist and give myself a soft uppercut. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what comes over me. If it’s any consolation, I don’t do it to anyone else. You’re . . . special.”

  “Really?” His eyes have a new light in them when he looks back at me. It gives me a bad little flashback to Keith. Tom’s heart is the Rock of Gibraltar, but I shouldn’t risk it.

  “You shouldn’t like hearing that,” I remind him. “Face-punching, remember?”

  “She wouldn’t care.” It’s the same phrase he used before, when I asked about his tent. He’s trying to tell me something about her, and I don’t know if I want to hear it. She’s clearly as cool as her ice-white diamond. She’s secure in herself, and she has the most trustworthy man alive.

  He confirms it. “We’re not like that.”

  “No jury on earth would convict her.” I seem to be using my messing-with-you voice. Sounds like joking but I’m serious. “If I bagged and tagged a beauty like you, I’d turn vicious. I bet she’s the same.”

  He laughs and it’s not a happy sound. “I guess it’s redundant to point out that you’re already pretty vicious.” A pause, then he says awkwardly, “She’s not like you at all.”

  “That much is obvious.” I run a hand up and down my inferior face and body, and he’s confused. “Well, I won’t push my luck with her. Like I said, I’m going to find someone new to torment. You’re off the hook. Pity my doomed future husband.”

  I think about Loretta’s ring again and hold up my left hand to study my bare fingers.

  He snorts in disbelief. “You’d never get married.”

  “I would.” I hide the little paper cut his incredulous tone gives me. “Why the hell wouldn’t I? Am I too much to take on?” I drag both hands through my hair so it’s up and pointy. I hope it’s horns.

  “I just never pictured it.” He sighs and the shape of his body droops as he looks up at the house, like a switch has been flipped off inside him. I take a few cautious steps toward him. He’s sad?

  I can’t imagine what kind of bad news he’s heard today. “What did the electrician and plumber say?”

  “What do you think they said?” He’s desolate. “They would be the most expensive jobs of their careers. It’s a tear-down. Most of the pipes need replacing. New waterproofing. Then new tiles. Then new wiring. New everything. I cannot name one thing so far that doesn’t need replacing.”

  “Will Loretta’s budget cover it?”

  He stalls. That means, Probably not. “I’m going to put everything into a spreadsheet for you guys.”

  “Unspeakably expensive then. So expensive that formulas and cells are involved. And it’ll all be spent on chrome and gray paint. Jamie will get his way. You know he will. You’re his.”

  Tom gives me a wry look. “He’s way out of my league.”

  “One hundred percent his.” I tap his pinky fingernail. “Jamie would maybe let me have that much of you.”

  He shrugs. “He’s not here now. I hereby gift you this.” He holds out his other hand and I realize he means his other pinky fingernail. I now have two. I’m absurdly pleased.

  “I’ll treasure them always.” We go inside together, collecting Patty along the way.

  “What do I get in return?”

  “You know, heart, soul. The usual.”

  “Oh, Darce.” He sighs like I’ve learned nothing. “You’re messing with me again.”

  Chapter 8

  I inexplicably wish for Jamie. He’d walk in and fill this expanding awkward silence with talking, jokes, and insults. I feel like I’m fast-tracking a total implosion of my relationship with Tom. When it happens, I’ll have lost another person.

  Loretta, my parents, Jamie, Tom, Truly. How many more special people do I have left? I itch to walk out. No one can leave me if I’ve left first. This disturbing thought knocks a little air out of my lungs. Loretta died when I was suspended over an ocean in an aisle seat. Maybe my strategy sucks.

  Maybe I should be holding on to people I love with white-knuckled intensity.

  Tom checks his phone. “Are you going to be here tomorrow afternoon? The power’s going to be off for a bit.”

  “Not sure.” I consult the calendar on the fridge. It’s been refreshing to go analog. “I’m helping Truly do some sewing late in the afternoon.”

  “So you’re sewing tomorrow? Not losing your temper and hightailing it to the airport?” Tom sounds so hopeful that it puts a little crack in my hard old heart.

  “Am I that impulsive?”

  “You are the most impulsive person I know.”

  What did he say before? He likes making me happy. Let me try it.

  “No, I still can’t find my passport.” It doesn’t ease that tension in him. I try again. “I’ll stay a little longer.” It was the right thing to say. I can’t handle it when he looks at me like this. Right now, in this moment, the rest of the world fades away. We’re suspended in a golden, fragile bubble. Pleasure is glowing in his eyes, candle-bright.

  He clears his throat and now I’m his client again. “I really think I need you to stay until we’ve all agreed on how this place should look.”

  I nod. “I’ll start packing the house tomorrow morning. Maybe I can get some of the guys at work to help move the furniture.”

  Now I’ve altered the ions in the air. He looks at my bruised wrist and says in a bass snarl, “Are you kidding me?”

  “Most of them are fine.”

  “Would you dig a grave for me?” He repeats my earlier joke without humor.

  “You know I would.” I go into my bedroom and tap a few of my chalky pills onto my palm. They have indeed expired. I’m sure it’s better than nothing. “I’ll dig it real slow so I don’t aggravate my crappy old heart.”

  Behind me, Tom is still vibrating. “I’m moving the furniture.”

  “Well, you clearly feel very passionate about it, so go ahead.”

  He’s in the doorway now, leaning on the door frame, watching me sort through my wardrobe. “Where are you going?”

  “Up the ladder. I’m going to go sit on the roof for a bit.” I pull a short dress out and shake the wrinkles out of it. My little smart-ass quip has him relaxing a little.

  “It’ll be cold up there.”

  “Of course that’s your first thought.” I circle my finger.

  He twirls on the ball of his foot to face away. He knows t
his drill by now. “You were never very good at closing your bedroom door,” he says, voice heavy with resignation. “Who’s this guy, then?”

  “What guy?” I quickly pull the dress on, tug on my boots, and treat myself to a few dots of the perfume oil Loretta made me. She didn’t use recipes, so it’s irreplaceable. A label on the base of the bottle, in her handwriting, reads: LIQUID DYNAMITE.

  “Who’s the guy you’re putting perfume on for?” He rotates to face me again. He hasn’t fully shape-shifted back into human form yet.

  “I’m putting it on for myself, not wasting it on male nostrils. He’s no one,” I say more forcefully when I see the frustration on his face.

  “I’m trying to make conversation with you, about what’s going on in your life. Who are you dating?” He sounds like he’s reading from a script. At gunpoint. Did Jamie tell him to report back?

  “Someone you wouldn’t like, and I wouldn’t call it dating,” I reply flatly, and duck out of the room under his arm. “You can sleep in my bed again tonight. I’ll take the couch when I get home. There’s a Thai place that delivers, the menu’s on the fridge. Say hi to Megan for me.”

  Behind me, his boots are following.

  I grab my keys, bag, and jacket in fluid swings of my arms and keep on walking. There’s no way I want to stay and marinate in this awkward tension. I’ll flag down a cab from the main road near the convenience store. Out the door, up the path, he’s behind me.

  “You look like you’re running away from home, Darce. Worried you’re actually going to have to think about the wine bottles and your heart?”

  If he keeps pressing me, I’m going to tell him what the problem is: Primarily, that I want to unzip his pants. Second problem, I’m the worst fucking person to be having these thoughts about an almost-married man.

  Third: I’m so jealous of Megan I’m going to rev the engine of a combine harvester and convert her into a bag of bloody grain.

  But these have always been my problems.

  “I think you should stop following me.” I turn and walk backward. “Unless you want to come out. That might be too much fun. That might actually classify as living life.”