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Chapter Thirteen
It wasclose to midnight when Agatha made it home from waitressing with Harper. Lucy was still on maternity leave; despite that she had made most of the food that had been served. Tonight’s crew had been her, Maby, and three strangers. Agatha couldn’t believe Maby showed up to work since her husband was rich, but maybe she still did it for the same reason as Agatha: to spend time with her sisters.
Shutting off the car, she looked up at the house across the street and saw that lights were on. She wondered if he had destroyed anything else in the house since she had last seen it. Probably. It had been five days, and she had noticed him over there every day, so damage had most likely been done.
As long as his focus was on his house and not on her, she was fine. It had taken time, but she was now okay with him never remembering her. After all, once his house was renovated, he would be gone again. Him gone was all that mattered.
Slipping out into the dark warm night, she was glad she had shed the white long-sleeve blouse that Harper demanded the waiters wear. She had pulled on a neon green “File Done” shirt. Yes it was correctly spelled, but nobody knew who would want a shirt that said it. It was more comfortable than what she had been wearing all evening serving to rich snobs, even if Buzz and Jonas were in attendance. They were rich snobs, after all, since Jonas was a tech billionaire.
Agatha slammed her car door, happy to be home and done with work until Friday, when she had another gig with Harper. Until then, she was free, except from three to five every day when she was busy with Violet.
She headed toward her house until she heard a terrible, loud crash coming from the house Chris was destroying. Turning quickly, she hurried over there with phone in hand in case she had to call an ambulance. Pushing through the door, she couldn’t see past the dust cloud that engulfed the entire entrance.
“Chris, are you okay in there?” she called, not wanting to venture inside until the dust settled.
“I’m okay,” came from the stairway, or at least where she remembered the stairway being.
The dust started to settle, and Agatha took a deep breath and headed into the house to make sure Chris wasn’t dying. The house did have it out for him, but with good reason. She looked around upstairs until she saw movement in one of the bedrooms, the one that was probably above the living room downstairs.
He was completely covered in white powder, from head to. The floor was covered in small and large pieces of plaster.
She couldn’t stifle the laugh that erupted from her at the sight of perfect Chris Lowell covered in plaster and dust. He was busy shaking his body and using his hands to get the bigger pieces off him.
“Not funny, Agatha,” he said from his spot in the middle of the room.
“Very funny, actually. The living room is destroyed.” She leaned against the doorframe to watch.
He stomped his foot. “Shit. Again? That’s what happened to the dining room.”
“Did you do something to make the walls came down on you?” She laughed again at the image. He was probably big enough to make it happen.
“No, smartypants. I was taking down these wood pieces. They look weird.” He kicked one that was on the ground.
“You mean the ceiling supports? I can see how those wouldn’t seem important.” She continued to laugh as she turned to leave. He was alive, so her job was done.
“You’re going to just leave me?” he called after her.
“Yep. I don’t want to be here when this thing just falls in on you.” She headed for the stairs because she didn’t need to tempt herself by being near him.
“Ag,” he called again, stopping her in her tracks. Nobody called her that unless they were related to her. Not even the husbands were allowed to call her that, ever.
Spinning on her heels, she hissed, “Do not call me that. You are not allowed to call me nicknames.”
He was following her and stopped at her words, his smile gone. “Sorry, Agatha. I won’t call you that again.”
“Just don’t do it again.” She turned to leave again.
“Agatha, wait.”
Stopping, she turned back to him. “What?”
“I’m really sorry I called you that. I should have asked first.” His words hit their mark, as if he knew it was him that made her hate when people called her anything but her given name. Him and his Chrissy, and her trying to be someone else, someone that in the end, she didn’t want to be.
“It’s okay, Chris. Maybe I’m a little oversensitive about it.” She ran her hands over her face to keep him from seeing too much. “It’s late, and I’m tired.”
“Sorry I woke you,” he apologized.
She shrugged. “You didn’t. I was just getting home from work.”
