I tipped my forehead to the cold window pane, waiting for another crash of snow-tinged whitecaps against the slate colored rocks.
The house had recently been updated, but the old windows spoke of the age of the house and the cold crept into my bones.
A scrape of wood against stone jolted me from the mesmerizing lap of water. I straightened away from the window in time to watch a mirror teeter off the evergreen sideboard and crash to the floor.
A kid with a mop of sandy hair froze, all color draining from his face. He’d been the local guy who’d shown up to help out this morning. His gaze swung to meet mine. “I?—”
I waved him off. “It’s fine.”
What was a little more bad luck in my shitstorm of a life?
I glanced around, spotting a broom in the kitchen. I grabbed it and started gathering the shards into a pile.
“Mr. Dutch, I’m so sorry.”
I just grunted. I should have been inside actually directing the flow of traffic. Instead, the furniture had been plunked down in random spots according to the colored Post-its I’d slapped on them.
Entry way, purple.
Living room, yellow.
Kitchen, orange.
Bedroom, blue.
Black for my office.
The organization kept me from losing my damn mind with a cross-country move. But it also required me paying attention. One thing I’d been failing at quite spectacularly.
I cracked my knuckles, the pop of each joint relieved pressure both in my hands and my mind. The sound grounding me in the now and away from the frothy disassociation that I slipped into so easily.
“What’s your name, kid?”
Sandy blond darted his gaze toward me. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“Dylan, sir.”
“Okay, Dylan. Push the sideboard out of the way, then take the broken mirror frame out to the truck.”
His head bobbed, relief eased his face with instructions.
I barked out directions to the other two movers who stomped through the door with their wet boots. The room was a wide rectangle with wood beams framing out the angled ceiling. At the back was a stone fireplace crafted into the stone wall. On either side was a bank of windows, one that looked out to the lake, and the other was all dark green trees that lined the gravel road into our little cove.
After a few trial and errors, I settled on my thinking couch butted up against the west facing windows so that I took advantage of the lake view. Three massive bookcases were clustered on either side of the bay window filling the whole wall. The kitchen was at the front of the house with more stone accents. New appliances and rustic cabinets were offset by sage tiles to make a serene space. A neat stack of boxes sat between the two spaces full of my cookware.
I often worked ten hour days which meant I’d had to learn to cook to survive since even in San Francisco, there was a limit to the available deliveries. It would come in handy since the only eateries I’d seen on the drive included pizza, a café, and fish fry.
I directed the last of the boxes to my office, but avoided going in.
I’d painted the room this morning hoping the black walls would activate my brain. I often used chalkboard-painted walls to sketch out ideas before they landed on the official rolling board. Instead of excitement, the massive blank wall made my stomach churn with acid.
There wasn’t a single word in my head. Just unending silence.
“Mr. Dutch?”
I glanced over at Dylan.
