The Dimple Twins emerge. And now it’s all I can do not to titter and wave, squealingHey, guys!
“A little.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure.”
Luc gestures for me to proceed ahead of him. I do, stepping into the garage and moving past the car. Even from here, I can smell a change, as though wood particles, dust, and memories fill the air. I mount the steps and walk into the kitchen, catching my breath at the open air where cabinets used to hang.
A guy with a stringy ponytail and a Slim Jim moustache is carrying the oven hood toward me. He sees me and winks.
“Scoot that loose caboose to the side, sugar,” he says, leering. “Unless you want me coming at you hard and fast.”
My jaw drops.
“Excuse me?” The question isn’t mine but Luc’s. I turn back to see him filling the doorway, glowering like an avenging angel. Aside from Slim Jim, two other guys stand in the kitchen, and they are both watching the scene unfold, bug-eyed.
“Give me that.” Scowling, Luc gestures toward the metallic hood in Slim Jim’s arms.
“Hey, I got it,” he says casually. “No problem.”
“Oh, there’s a problem,” Luc affirms. “Hand it over.”
Drawing back with a look of shock, Slim Jim thrusts the contraption into Luc’s ready arms. Then Luc angles his head toward the open door.
“Your services will no longer be needed. I’ll see you out.”
“What?”Slim Jim’s eyes bulge. “I didn’t do nothing.”
Luc shakes his head. “We’re not doing this here. Outside.” The way he says this leaves little room for misinterpretation. That and the hunk of metal Luc’s holding as easily as if it were a box of cereal and not a major appliance must make Slim Jim think twice because he stalks out the door with a muttered,“Shiiiit.”
Without looking at me or the other guys, Luc follows and makes a point of closing the door behind him. I glance at the other workers, but they quickly jerk their gazes away, getting back to ripping out cabinets.
Did that really just happen?
I want to ask the question out loud, but I’m too stunned to form the words. Are these guys all buddies? Did they just watch their friend get fired? Are they afraid they’ll get fired too? Is this my fault?
The idea of heading upstairs and hiding in my room with Clarence is more than tempting, but I turn and beeline to the laundry room instead. I stop when I see the lion’s share of my lingerie collection. It’s exactly how I left it last night after putting everything through the delicate cycle, but instead of looking like regular laundry on a drying rack—like it has every other Sunday night of my adult life—the display looks lurid. Pornographic.
Shameful.
Red-faced, I yank an empty basket from the shelf above the washer and launch bras and panties into it.
“Goddammit,” I hiss, a knot forming in my throat.
“You don’t have to do that.”
I wheel around to find Luc standing in the doorway, jaw tense, hands balled into fists.
“Apparently, I do.” The drying rack is half-empty, and I rip a black Cosabella bralette from the back rod and whip it into the basket.
For the fraction of a second, Luc’s eyes follow the arc of the bralette. And why shouldn’t they? It’s beautiful.
And it cost $85,I remind myself a moment too late. I glance into the basket to make sure the precious garment survived the launch intact.
When I look up, his eyes are fixed on me, but I’m too mortified and too furious that I’m mortified to face him, so I turn my back and continue—with more care—to collect my lingerie.
From behind me I hear the door of the laundry room close, and for a moment, I think he’s gone, leaving me alone with my searing emotions.
