Twice Shy, Sarah Hogle [100 books to read in a lifetime .txt] 📗

it responds by raining plaster over me and moving the broom and dustpan so that they’re never where I last put them. Every time I open a window to get rid of the thick dust-and-lemon-Pledge cloud that hangs at nose level, I hear a rattle and glance over to watch the sash juddering back down. I’ve had two pairs of rubber gloves disintegrate on me somehow, but luckily the hoard replenishes itself and more pairs of gloves reappear on the living room mantel. Along with a bottle of ointment, which has helped heal the blisters that stupid shovel gave my fingers.

Wesley is going room by room upstairs and getting rid of broken stuff first, or stuff that’s rusted, expired, ruined from water damage, etc. After the obvious trash is dealt with, he sorts through whatever’s left. I, however, choose to tackle the hoard all at once, which results in a million piles whose purposes prove difficult to keep straight. We keep ramming into each other at the front door and in the yard, arms too full, each refusing to offer the other one assistance if an item is dropped. I rubberneck at whatever he tosses in the dumpster, but if I pick through his half of the house in addition to mine, this clean-out is going to take years.

Whenever I brush past Wesley, the image of him beneath the iron archway in my dream flickers to life, those eyes probing mine like I might offer the answer to a long-held question, or I remember him in the dark woods beside me, a solid protector, and it’s annoying. I don’t want to associate soft feelings with this person who scowls at me all day.

“What do you want the sunroom for?” I can’t resist asking at one point, as we’re passing each other in the foyer.

“Why’s my picture on your phone?” he shoots back so quickly, he had to have been already thinking about it.

I grumble as I skulk away and he takes off up the stairs. I am incredibly glad I called dibs on the first floor, because I can’t imagine what running up and down the grand staircase is doing to his calves.

Actually . . .

I try to steal a glimpse, but he’s too fast for me.

The next time we bump into each other, it’s because he’s got a busted armoire and can’t fit it through the door. I could help, but he didn’t help me when I was trying to roll up a rug and he watched me wrestle with it. So I lean against the wall and cross my ankles, observing.

“Hmm. Having some trouble there, partner?”

He grunts, shoving harder.

“Please do take care not to scratch the door frame.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why not? We need a new door frame, anyway.”

“Okay, well. If you scratch it, you’ll be responsible for putting the new one on.” I don’t know why I’m feeling particularly argumentative today.

“Try worrying about yourself,” he suggests. “You’re going about this so inefficiently, it hurts.”

“I’m being thorough. What would Violet say if she saw you treating her belongings like this? So callous.”

I think the reminder of Violet is going to stick him where it hurts, but he doesn’t care. “I informed her myself of exactly what I was going to do with her belongings. I told her several times, after she told me I’d inherit it all. At any rate, I don’t see her here. She doesn’t have to deal with this mess. We do.” I notice how he glances furtively up at the ceiling, as if the ghost of Violet Hannobar might be bobbing around up there, keeping an eye on us. Maybe she’s the one who tripped him on the stairs earlier when I hollered up that I’d discovered his little secret (it was the remnants of a bacon sandwich, to which he’d sputtered, red faced, that it was vegetarian bacon; I took a bite and spat it back out, confirming he was telling the truth).

He’s taking forever with the armoire. He has to stop for a break at intervals, sweat rolling down his ruddy complexion, flecking his shirt. “Need some help?” I ask. I’m an angel.

“No.”

Lord, he’s stubborn. “I wasn’t going to help, anyway.”

“I know. Can’t wait to see you try to drag the pool table out of the billiard room by yourself.”

I point my nose higher in the air. It was already up in the air to begin with, because I have to yank my head all the way back to look him in the eye (it’s rude that he won’t at least slouch), but I’ve got to make myself as big as I can. An equal voice. “I’m keeping the pool table.”

“Yeah? Along with all the pets you’ve got living in it?”

“What pets—” I scrunch my nose when understanding dawns, and he almost grins—I can see one forming, but he tamps it down.

The armoire door swings open, trash skidding out.

“Oh!” I exclaim, bending to pick up a box. “Hey, I’ve seen these on commercials!” I dig a wire head-scratcher out of its packaging and inspect the thing. It looks like a broken whisk, but if I fit the prongs over my scalp, it’s . . . “Ooooh, that feels nice.” Wesley watches in bemusement as my hair becomes a tumbleweed.

“That’s from the second floor,” he tells me, “which puts it under my jurisdiction. You can’t have my trash.”

My inner raccoon sulks. “You can’t use my kitchen, then.”

“There’s a kitchenette upstairs. It’s in better condition than yours, actually.”

I press down on the armoire to make it heavier. He twists away from me, and it’s just the right angle to finally squeeze them both out the door. “Thanks!” he chirps. I make a truly ugly face at him, and it happens again: that almost-smile. He fights it and wins. I think he’s under a curse—if he laughs, he’ll die. This is a sensible explanation to me. It isn’t that I’m not a joy to be around, it’s that he’ll literally die.

Chapter 8