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“Like oak,” Sully says, grinning.
“Sweet smelling like vanilla…”
“Like cedar and cherrywood.”
“You’re going to make me want to eat this pen.” I bring it up to my nose so I can inhale the freshly-sanded grain, so I can rub its silky smoothness against my upper lip.
But I would never eat it and never give it away or lose it. I’ll keep this pen forever because I made it with my own hands, inside of Sully’s, heads together, his lips against my ear.
He helps me with the final step, fitting the nib in place.
“There you are,” he says softly, handing it to me.
“I’m never lending it to anyone.” I laugh. “Not after all that work.”
Woodworking makes cooking seem simple by comparison—even a project as basic as a pen has more steps than the fiddliest quiche.
Sully shrugs. “Everybody’s always trying to get out of work, but that’s like trying to avoid your vegetables. Work is good for the soul, like meat, like potatoes. You can’t live on entertainment any more than you can live on chips and cotton candy.”
“Agreed,” I say. “But you’ve got to actually like your job.”
Sully gazes around at the workshop he’s already restored to neatness, sweeping up the sawdust, returning the tools to their rightful positions. His eyes are dark and distant.
“After we lost my mom, I threw myself into work because I had to. That’s what saved me. Instead of becoming more angry, more bitter, more lost, I had to get stronger. I got on a schedule. I started reading every morning and working out. I took control of myself because that’s the only thing I could control.”
He takes several slow breaths. I see the fire in his eyes, and I see how hard he’s worked to contain it, to use it as fuel instead of letting it burn free, consuming everything in its path.
That’s Sully’s demon: anger and rage.
Mine is cold, dark ocean.
When I lose myself, it’s in the depths of drowning—sadness that drags me down.
My dreams saved me. But dreams are as unsatisfying as cotton candy if they never become reality.
Sully says, “I was working with an agency at first, I think I told you—my boss became a mentor to me, or so I thought. We were supposed to do the land deal together; we had a buyer lined up. I put all my savings into it. Then he stabbed me in the back.”
I wince at the pain on his face, a betrayal that obviously still stings. “I’m sorry, Sully.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He gives a hard shake of his head. “But I have to tell you, Theo, I can’t swing the payments much longer, not on my own. We’ve got to close this thing with Angus.”
“We will,” I promise.
And maybe I shouldn’t make a promise so difficult to deliver.
But I’m more determined than ever not to let Sully down.
22
SULLY
Sunday’s supposed to be Theo’s last day at my house. Her apartment is habitable again, and there’s not really any reason for her to keep staying here.
Except that I want her to.
It’s not because of my dad, either. No, I’m a lot more selfish than that. It’s me who’s dreading the slide back to silence, the empty coldness of the house, its echoing space. Eating meals alone or with my dad, usually in front of the TV. He won’t want to keep dining outside on the picnic table when it’s just him and me, and my cooking certainly doesn’t deserve it.
And it’s not just the company, like any warm body would do. It’s the specific presence of Theo, the way she puts music on as soon as she walks through the door, the way she dances around the kitchen while she cooks and sashays down the hallways. She won’t sing along to the music, not while I’m listening, but she sings in the shower, adorably out of tune.
