Page 46 of Summer Holiday Lifeline

“Jake sort of nicknamed it that after he got turned around down there once.”

“Are you talking about your basement?”

“Do you want to see?” As soon as he asked the question, Steven wanted to kick himself. Why would he even ask that? Just because he geeked out over the sheer volume of old books down there didn’t mean anyone else would care. Who wanted a tour of someone’s overstuffed basement?

Myles poked at the top box, then dusted his fingers together, then rubbed them on his jeans. Then brushed at his jeans like he thought they must be streaked with the offending dirt now.

“Never mind,” Steven said, shoving the boxes nearly off the far side of the table and stepping in front of them. As if blocking them from Myles’s view would make him forget they were there.

“No, it’s fine. I can help. Here.” He offered Steven the bills again. “Before I forget, take this.”

“I’ll get you a receipt.” Steven huffed at himself as he hurried to the register, rang up the album, and wrote out a receipt. “Idiot,” he muttered as he scribbled. “What were you thinking? You already knew this about him. The drawer, remember? Hey, guy who abhors a mess, let me show you the most chaotic part of my existence. Oh, and also, it’s filthy. So. That gonna trigger you?”

He fished change out of the till and slammed the drawer shut, then pressed both palms to it to steady his nerves. “Stop it, Steven. You’re talking to yourself. Great impression that’s going to make.”

Another forced breath or two and an elusive tendril of calm wafted through him with the distant strains of classic rock music that was probably in his head, since the store speakers had stopped working years ago. The song soothed him like a quiet afternoon in the shop usually did. It would have to do, or Myles would really start to wonder. Plastering on a smile, he returned to the main room.

All of the books from both boxes were piled haphazardly on the table, and the boxes were folded flat with the one Stephanie had left, a golden ball of tape resting on top.

Myles stood next to the piles, both hands held out in front of himself like they might be contaminated and he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

“You didn’t have to,” Steven blurted.

“Gotta wash.” Myles pinned him with wide eyes. “Where?”

“Kitchen.” Steven pointed to the door at the back of the room, stepping aside to leave plenty of room as Myles darted past.

“Right. Knew that.” The clipped sentences all but sweat anxiety, and Steven counted to ten before he followed, hopefully giving Myles enough time to pull back.

“Okay?” he asked from the doorway.

“Okay,” Myles grated, even as he scrubbed at his hands under steaming water. “All good.”

“Okay.” Steven whipped the towel from the stove handle and sidled in next to Myles.

Myles eyed it.

“Right.” Tossing it aside, Steven plucked a clean one from a drawer. “Use this.”

“Thanks.” Myles took it from him and rubbed hard. “I was… that was… I, um.” He grunted, furrowed his brow, and glared at the floor.

“No worries.” Gentle, so as not to cause more flurry, Steven took Myles’s hands in his and slowly rubbed the towel between his fingers until his hands were dry. When he’d finished, he eased the towel free of Myles’s death grip. “Those boxes are pretty dire.”

“Just dust,” Myles said. “Didn’t think I’d…”

“Tell you a secret,” Steven offered.

Myles tilted his head but said nothing.

“The other day, when I came back to find you cleaning out the junk drawer, and you thought I was being super chill about it?”

“I freaked you out.” Myles’s gaze dropped so heavily Steven imagined he heard it hit the floor with a thump.

“No.” He touched fingertips to Myles’s forearm, not sure if skin to skin was okay.

It got Myles to look up again, but he didn’t pull away or look otherwise alarmed. In fact, some of the tension eased and his shoulders dropped the barest amount.

“I was glad of the distraction from my own shit storm.”