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“Just because I want to be more thoughtful about what I do in the world doesn’t mean I want to cut myself off from it completely.”
“As supported by your choice to live alone on a boat.”
He sat back on his heels, Cinderfella kneeling by his stove. “I’m still figuring out a lot of things. But I need the laptop for work—”
“What do you even do?”
“Anything that needs doing.”
“Like assassination?”
“Like shopping. Changing library books. Plumbing. Gardening. DIY. Cleaning. Bit of electrics. Bit of carpentry. I’m fairly handy thanks to prison.”
“And all this amounts to an actual job?”
“It can. People don’t always want to hire a—hire someone with my background. But I don’t have to earn much to get by.”
My chasm seemed to be growing. “And the computer?”
“Makes it easier for me to let people know where I’m going to be. Or for them to get in touch if they have work for me.” He was regarding me with a bewilderment I probably deserved. “It’s just a laptop. I use it the way most people use their laptops. But if you want to stream something—”
“You have access to streaming services now?”
“Well, there’s a router and a receiver, so I could. I just sort of fell out of the habit.”
“I think,” I said snappishly, “I can survive without access to a computer for a couple of days.”
“And I think I’ve given you the wrong impression of what I’m about.” He shuffled forward, his cheek brushing my leg. And my hand drifted to his shoulder, seemingly of its own accord. “This isn’t meant to be a judgment on anybody else’s choices. If anything, it’s a judgment on my own. But I’m also not trying to punish myself. I designed the boat the way I did because I wanted to be happy here.”
It shook me slightly to hear him speak so plainly of happiness.As if it was something you could just go and get. Or build like a dinette. “And are you?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, still working things out. But I do know I’d rather this than anything else I can think of.”
“You’re spending Christmas alone.” This was so typical. Leo had told me he was trying to be happy, and here I was trying to get him to admit that he wasn’t.
“So were you,” he pointed out.
“I was out for a walk. I was intending to go back to my family.”
“Well, I stopped seeing mine after my parole was up.”
“They disowned you?” I asked, horrified in spite of my determination to stay aloof.
He flashed a smile at me that was almost the smile of a stranger. It was a cold smile. A risk-taker’s smile, fearless of failure. “I disownedthem.”
I wasn’t particularly interested in kissing outside the bedroom. And not always in it. But I leaned forward, nearly dislodging the mostly melted icepack from my foot, to kiss him. Because I wasn’t sure what I’d say if I didn’t. Except I’d barely felt the brush of his beard when his stove started squealing.
“Your potatoes appear to be in pain,” I said.
He nodded. “They taste better that way.”
I stared at him.24
“I’m not serious.”
I reorientated my stare from appalled to scornful. “You seem to be under the impression you’re funny today.”
“The thing is”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“I got laidnot so long ago. I’m in a good mood.” And with that he turned back to the stove and poked a little at whatever was happening inside. “They just need turning.”
