Pace tugged off his ball cap and scraped his hair. He hesitated only a minute; something warred behind his light blue eyes. Finally, he slid a smile back in place. “Nah, I’m good. I just got off a shift and am tired, is all.”
I held his gaze and waited. Sometimes, if I remained silent, I could wait him out in the awkwardness, and he’d break first, spilling whatever it was that was bothering him.
He flicked his eyes to the side, breaking the eye contact.
I waited, still watching him closely.
He cleared his throat and chuckled. “Really, man. I’m fine.”
“If you need to?—”
Ruth popped her head in. “The power went out in the downstairs parlor. Hi, Levi.” Ruth flashed a wide smile at me, her gaze snagging, distracting her from whatever she’d been about to say. “Look at how flushed you are. Must be that pretty brunette chatting with Gigi across the street. The one I saw you dancing with?”
Pace gave me a look, fighting a grin.
I bent to pick up my stuff to leave. I’d had enough.
“I was wondering, if you have a minute, I’d love to ask you about some photos of your mother’s?” she asked me.
I shook my head. The adrenaline still bolting through me. This was too much. It was all too much.
“Maybe next time. I have to head home. Pace is going to finish up here, Ruth,” I said.
She gave me a long look that almost made me back down before she nodded. “Okay, sweetie.”
Pace opened his mouth and closed it tightly after I pointed at the black spot on the wall switch.
“Yeah. I’ll finish up here,” he said.
This had been the reminder I needed. No leaving the house. Definitely, no falling for the tenant.
Chapter 20
Claire
For the next week,I lost myself in research on the life of Lily Carmichael. Aside from Dad’s daily check-ins, I felt myself hardening into a Claire-shaped mass hunched over the keyboard. Some nights, as I worked late into the night, Levi was there in his workshop, blaring weepy indie rock. My favorite nights.
I text him occasionally, but without anything important to say, it felt like desperation.
“The bird is back,” I texted him one morning.
“I’m starting to understand his language.”
“He said, ‘Put the slingshot down, lady.’” I sent in my patented rapid-fire series of texts.
“Lol,” he replied.
“Oof,” I said to Ripley, who was at my side. “El oh el, nopunctuation. Even I can read the subtext in that.” I stopped texting after that. Maybe I had my answer.
I couldn’t even use Ripley as an excuse to text or visit because as we worked and throughout the days, she’d wander between Big Cabin and Little Cabin when attention became too lacking. I tried not to get stuck in the circular loop of why Levi ran so hot and cold. It did me no good.
When my phone buzzed with a text this morning, I’d had a moment of hope, thinking it might be Levi, at least checking in.
It was Kevin.
Instant stomachache.
He was all moved into his home in New York. It was swanky indeed. I knew that because he sent a grinning selfie of a luxurious-looking apartment with skyscrapers in the background window and a caption that read. “Never thought I would make it.”
