99 Percent Mine

by Sally Thorne

  For the first time in forever, I feel concerned for myself. This is worse than when I let my Furby die under my bed, mewling and crying. How do I correct this monumental neglect? I pat my chest. “Hang in there.” I really should go have a review and an ECG, but Jamie always comes with me to those appointments. I’m a baby. I’m just Princess, playing at being a grown-up, and failing.

  I’m going to sew every single anchor before Truly wakes up. I’m like the elves helping the shoemaker. I will sew and sew. Maybe it will take my mind off Tom’s walking around in the world, single and resplendent.

  Maybe I could convince him, my brain suggests optimistically, and my needle goes into my finger.

  How could I risk hurting and losing him, just to have his body? I’d have to be the worst person. The most reckless, careless person. A rebound kind of girl. Oh wait. I am.

  “Human flotsam,” I say to myself, and I stitch on, and on, and on.

  Chapter 11

  I haven’t seen the colors of sunrise in a long, long time.

  In my old life, I’d be loading my car with photography gear even earlier than this and heading off to a shoot, a slave to this buttercream light. Everyone looks beautiful in this glow. It airbrushes in a way that my software package never could. It puts a flush in everything it touches.

  But, all that said: Kill. Me. Now. It’s. Early. I lie in bed and stare at the exposed rafters above me.

  I’d nearly bought a tent, but Tom had shaken his head and moved me into the backyard studio. Just store yourself in here with your furniture, DB. When he tossed my mattress down onto the bedframe with a sexual grunt, we never made eye contact. Not even Patty’s cheerful sneezes could break the tension. Sorry little buffer, Aunt Darcy did a big, bad thing.

  I tore up the kitchen and I tore up my oldest friendship.

  My voice is ringing in every silence: Tom Valeska, get in me. It echoes louder and louder, until we’re wincing and walking away from each other. He’s usually so good at erasing my weird moments, but this was too much. But I feel those gold lamplight eyes are always watching me. Something deep inside me—optimism, perhaps—tells me that he’s turning over my offer and inspecting it from all angles. Measuring it and testing it for faults. Show me what you got.

  It’s our first day on site; the day that Tom has been obsessively preparing for. He’s been working so hard, and it’s why I’m up this early, to prove that I’m as committed to this as he is. What do building crews wear? I’m not entirely sure. I go with a tank, black jeans, and Underswears that say VILLAGE IDIOT across the rump. Girl panda makeup. Elvis hair. I tie my boots tight. I am no-nonsense.

  I slide open the studio door and step out into the beautiful light. I feel like I should be dragging a suitcase to the airport. I check the time on my brand-new phone. Five thirty A.M.

  Time to be a grown up again.

  Tom lives outside my bedroom window, down on the grass, just like the Valeska I pictured as a child. No one would make it past that tent to my studio’s glass door. Right now, his tent is zipped shut. He’s being very quiet in there.

  I walk up to the front and scratch my fingers lightly on the flap. Patty scratches back. “Tom? Is the water turned off inside? I’m busting.”

  Every time I go to use a basic amenity, it’s off. Or on, but can’t be used. It’s infuriating.

  There’s no sound and no reply. I unzip a corner just big enough for Patty to squeeze through. She stampedes to the nearest clump of grass and pees endlessly. I’m almost ready to join her. “Tom? Are you in there?”

  “What?” His voice is blurry from sleep. There’s a pause. “Oh fuck.” There’s a rustling sound, some struggling grunts, and Tom forces his way out of the tent like he’s being born. “Fuck. What time is it?” He looks me up and down; hair and makeup and black.

  “Five thirty.” Anyone could hear how proud I am.

  “My phone died. I slept in. Fuck.” He rubs both of his hands over his face and his T-shirt slides up higher than his belly button. His phone isn’t the only one who is now dead. That’s the kind of flat, hard stomach you’d be able to sign an important document against, with a ballpoint pen.

  Safer, I remind myself reflexively as my body responds, warming and pinching. Safer. Just the word gives me the strength to refocus my eyes somewhere that isn’t his body or face.

  “Thank God you woke up.” He sighs like I have saved his life.

  “No biggie.”

  “You . . . haven’t just gotten home, have you?” He looks down from my makeup to my clothes. There’s a little spark of vulnerability in that one-second glance. Does he imagine I’ve been with a man?

  “I worked late at the bar, and I set my alarm like a grown-up. I’ve been right here. I’m always going to be right here.”

  It makes him blow out a breath. He drops his arms and the visible slice of stomach disappears. I blow out a breath, too.

  “You once told me that bad girls go to bed at six A.M.”

  I’m not touching that one. “Is the water turned on in the house or not?”

  “Yes, the water’s still on.” He disappears into his tent in a fluster. “Damn it. My guys will be here any second.” There’s the sound of clothes stretching. They make tents way too sturdy these days.

  I go into my bedroom and get the new powerpack I bought at the same time as my phone. Another one of my pitiful efforts at responsibility.

  “Plug your phone into this.”

  “This is off to a fucking great start,” he is muttering to himself. A hand reaches out for the powerpack. “Please don’t tell Jamie that I slept in. He won’t let me forget it.”

  “Don’t worry. I know what he’s like. He’ll tell the story for years. But your travel time is approximately thirty yards this morning, so you’re not late. You’re going to be fine.” It’s sad how hard he is on himself. “Even if you slept in until nine A.M., everything would be okay.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” he responds from his tent with a bit of temper in his tone. “I am doing everything perfectly.” The word sounds like a burden. I was the one that placed it on him. We all have.

  I use the bathroom and brush my teeth, then walk around the empty house as the magical morning light begins to shine in sideways. I feel like everything’s happening too fast; in the flurry of packing and avoiding Tom, I forgot that this is all about to be in my past. I’m not ready to say goodbye to this. I go to the wall and smooth my hands over it, feeling the old wallpaper crackle. How can I keep this forever?

  “I love you,” I whisper to the house. “Thank you. I’m sorry.” I go to the fireplace. I’ll make sure they cover it up with some sheets so it doesn’t get damaged. Each nail hammered in by Loretta is precious. I wonder how many little connections to her I’m about to lose as this house is stripped to its bones. I turn on the spot and I ache to ask Tom to cancel everything.

  If I looked him in the eye and pleaded with him, he’d do it.

  There’s a knock on the front door. I open it to find three men standing there in pristine polo shirts, embroidered with Valeska Building Services. I am speechless with pride. I can’t believe I almost considered asking Tom to ruin his life. He’s worth more than old wallpaper. That’s what I need to focus on: This is Tom’s big chance.

  Bartender 101? Find the alpha. “Girl Scouts again? Fuck off.”

  The bald one looks back at the street, checking he has the right house. The young guy grins. The old one purses his lips. There he is.

  “I’m just fucking with you. I’m Darcy. Tom’s nude right now, but he’ll be right with you.”

  “I’m not nude,” Tom snaps in irritation, striding into the room. He looks like he’s been very recently nude; his hair is a mess, and he’s got a shadow of stubble and a pillow crease on his cheek. How luscious. “Darcy, please behave yourself.”

  I hold my hands up. “I cannot be responsible for what I say before six A.M. And before coffee. Now, pay attention. I want this fireplace cared for like it is a hum
an child.” I pat my hand on the mantelpiece and go into the kitchen.

  “Sleep in, boss?” the young one says. He doesn’t wait for a reply but follows along behind me. He’s a muscly little nugget, full of youth and mischief. I would definitely card him at the bar. Maybe he’s an apprentice—the next-generation Tom. Fetch. Pull. Carry. He leans on the counter. “Did you say coffee?”

  “Sure did. Who wants one?”

  “We need to get some equipment unpacked,” Tom says.

  “A coffee won’t take a second,” I reply, pulling down a few mugs from the empty shelf. If I know anything in this life, it’s that people feel better once they’ve drunk some liquid. “I think Tom needs two coffees.” I grin over my shoulder at him. If I can just make things feel fun, he won’t feel that perfect pressure so much.

  “Unpack the equipment,” Tom says in a bass tone I’ve never heard in my life. It’s the kind of voice that should be saying, On your knees. My joints loosen and my body replies, Okay.

  They all turn and walk out. Tom casts me a dark look over his shoulder as he departs. My exhalation in the empty room is like a wheeze. Imagine being bossed around by Tom Valeska. I think he’s the only man I’d trust to do it right with me.

  I’ve got to stop having these thoughts.

  “Well, I don’t know how, but I’ve fucked up somehow,” I say to Patty. I’ve never seen Tom so deeply annoyed with me. I spoon out some breakfast into her bowl and find Diana sitting on the windowsill in the old laundry room. “We screwed up your house, didn’t we, lady?”

  Diana won’t turn to look at me as she stares out the cracked window, her fur fluffed up and her tail wrapped around her toes. I didn’t even make sure she had somewhere to sleep last night. Just because she doesn’t need me, or like me, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t keep trying. I pick up her stiff, unwilling body and carry her under my arm down to my new bedroom. I leave her with a bowl of her favorite fish brains and an apology.

  I wonder if Truly would like a cat.

  Besides Diana, the main thing I need to sort out is my passport. I packed the entire house with my own two hands, but it still didn’t turn up. It makes no sense. I checked every pocket, every bag, every shoebox. It’s becoming a very real possibility that Jamie took it with him. I’ve texted him twice about it. Zero replies.

  I make my coffee in my #1 Asshole mug, just to establish myself, and with Patty at my heels I go in search of the guys. They are all in the drive, unloading piles of gear. “Are you going to introduce me to everyone?” I sip my coffee and try to look nonchalant.

  Tom is dragging ladders out of the back of a truck. “Yes, when we get this stuff out and the others turn up.” He’s got a schedule planned out in his head.

  “Here, I’ll take something.”

  He regards my outstretched hand with faint disbelief on his brow. “You’re the client.” Then he turns his back on me, and hoists two ladders on one forearm, and picks up a toolbox with the other. I can’t even begin to wonder how much all that weighs.

  “Out of the way, please,” he says and walks down the side of the house. Patty has way more experience than me, standing at the side of the path. This time she’s absolutely judging me.

  “Excuse us,” the bald guy says, because I’m in their way, too. The old one just eyeballs me, and my mug. Then he thinks to himself, That’s about right, and sniffs. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this useless. Have I committed myself to several months of being in everyone’s way?

  “You could take this,” the young guy says, and I am absurdly grateful to be treated like a human being. He gives me a heavy plastic case. Dignity somewhat restored, I follow them down the side of the house. Patty brings up the rear.

  I say to the young guy, “Where are you staying?”

  “The motel over on Fairfax. I’m Alex, by the way,” he says as we round the corner. Tom looks at my coffee, the Chihuahua at my heels, and the case in my hand.

  “I just said, she’s the client,” Tom reprimands Alex in a patient adult voice.

  “I’m the worker,” I argue back. “Listen up. I’m part of this team now.” I level a stare at Tom, but he won’t look back. How is my mere presence altering his usual deep calm? Am I embarrassing him or something? I remember he said he can’t focus with me here. I guess he was telling the truth.

  “Let’s start again everyone. I’m Darcy Barrett. What’s your name?”

  The old guy clears his throat. “Colin.”

  “Ben,” the bald guy says hastily, like this is school roll call. Bald Ben, I can remember that.

  I point at the kid. “I’ve met Alex. And I know who this grumpy asshole is. His name’s on your shirts. Where do you want Patty?”

  “I’ll put her in your bedroom,” Tom says shortly. Grumpy doesn’t suit him. “More guys will start arriving. Are those boots steel-caps?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Tom’s phone, revived and plugged into my powerpack, begins to ring. Judging from the despair in his eyes he’s off to a bad start this morning.

  “Hey. Eyes to yourself,” Tom warns Alex before answering his phone. Alex looks like a smacked puppy. As he talks on the phone about a delivery time, Tom crosses to me and fussily tucks the strap of my bra under my tank. I feel it everywhere. It’s the first deliberate physical contact he’s made with me since that cringeworthy moment he touched my neck and I made a sound like a mountain lion. It’s amazing how the mortification just never seems to fade.

  “Don’t.” I shrug him off.

  There’s a familiar shape to Tom’s shoulders now as he paces off. His beast is showing.

  I sip slowly from my coffee and hold eye contact with the old guy, Colin. He puts up a valiant effort, but after thirty seconds—I count them—he looks away.

  Meet your new alpha, bitch.

  “I want to talk to you three,” I say as they begin to shuffle after their master. Time for some abuse of power. “As the client, I’m the boss, right?”

  “Tom’s the boss,” Alex blurts, scared and wanting his daddy, despite his scolding.

  “I’m his boss.” They all look like they feel this is bad news. “Hey, I’m cool. But I’m not into being babied, or ignored, or stepped around. You’re all going to treat me like one of the team. Especially you,” I say to Colin, the sour old bastard. “I have no experience doing this, but I have two hands and a heartbeat. This is my grandmother’s house.”

  This seems to be the missing piece of information. They all drop into more relaxed stances. Now the forceful on-site client makes sense.

  “Are you going to explain all this to Tom?” Alex says, his eyes on Tom’s profile. “Because he’s in a bad mood. And he’s never in a bad mood.”

  “He knows me well enough to know that this is how it’s going to be.” I toss my remaining coffee into the garden and put my mug on the railing. “Now let’s get our asses to work.”

  We clomp past Tom as a team now, and I ignore his beady stare when I walk back down with a crate of electrical cords. My heart feels fine. I’ve set a reminder in my phone that says, MEDICATE YOURSELF, DIPSHIT, and my alcohol intake has been slashed.

  Keep going, little heart, because I need you.

  We continue to unpack. Tom hangs up from a call. He looks like he’s got a caution or a scold on the tip of his tongue, but his phone begins ringing again. With a frustrated huff he answers it. “Jamie, I can’t talk. We’re unpacking. Yes. She’s fine. I’ll call at lunch.”

  “It would be killing him to not be here,” I say to Tom as I walk past with more gear. “If we’re not careful he’s going to get on the next flight.”

  Tom winces so hard I bet he’s bruised himself internally. “That is my nightmare scenario. Can you please just—” He comes to take my load from me, but the phone rings again. “Tom Valeska,” he says on a sigh.

  “. . . Is totally frazzled,” I finish his sentence to myself as I hoist gear onto the back porch. “Seriously, what is up with
him?” Alex and I give each other yeesh looks.

  More cars begin to slot along the curbs. I’m reading polo shirts: electrician, foundation, roofing, scaffolding, plumbing. There are cigarettes, takeout coffee cups, and male voices everywhere.

  “He’s not enjoying this,” Ben comments in a hushed tone as we look at Tom, pacing around now, the phone at his ear. “Aldo was always the one on the phone. Tom’s used to being the muscle.”

  “And what a set of muscles they are,” I say out loud in reflex.

  Colin doesn’t look sympathetic. “He’s got a few things to learn. He wanted this, and he got it.” He has an air of I told you so. “He’s on his own now.”

  The tinge of mutiny in his tone has my hackles up. “He’s not on his own. He’s got us. And anyone who isn’t on his side can go that way”—I point up the side of the house—“and keep walking.”

  “Darcy,” Tom says behind me, sharp and frustrated. Fuck, I’m in trouble. “Everyone into the kitchen, please.”

  I grab my mug and we file in. There are possibly the first glimmers of respect in Colin’s eyes when he looks at me. I privately breathe out. I’m lucky he didn’t take up my offer to walk. I’d be dead meat.

  “Can you get me one of those polo shirts?” I ask Alex. I would love a Valeska shirt. The reverse imprint of those stitches on my skin would feel better than lingerie.

  “Sure, I’ve got a spare.”

  I look down at my own tank top. Nothing is remotely amiss, apart from lacy bra straps poking out.

  We are all assembled in the kitchen. I pour myself a second mug of coffee, and at least eight sets of eyes watch me do it. The room is warm and spicy from so many men and their hideous deodorants, so I go to open the kitchen window. Of course, it’s stuck. The lift-and-jiggle technique doesn’t work. I struggle and yank, right at center stage. Everyone goes silent.

  “Come on, you miserable fucker,” I whisper, and someone laughs.

  “Morning,” Tom says, and there’s the boot-scraping sound of everyone straightening up and paying attention. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”