“Hey,” Fisher said to Rory when she opened the door.
“Thanks for doing this,” Rory said almost begrudgingly.
“Sure. I would have done it sooner had I known you needed it.”
“Well, I’ve … been busy.” Rory led him to the bathroom.
But Fisher glanced back and saw me and Rose in the living room, and his face exploded into what I’d decided was his Reese Only smile.
I bit my lower lip, but it hid nothing.
“Fisher, are you coming?” Rory all but barked at him.
Rose sniggered as did I.
“Yes, ma’am,” Fisher said.
While he installed the bar, Rory made stuffing to be cooked the next day and Rose worked on pies. I had no cooking jobs yet, so I meandered down the hallway to the bathroom.
“Leave him alone so he can finish up,” Rory instructed.
“Yeah, yeah,” I pretty much ignored her. I was twenty-four not four. “Need help?” I asked, standing in the doorway as Fisher finished drilling holes in the wall.
“I’m good.” He stayed focused on his task.
I loved watching focused Fisher. It was foreplay for me. The stern focus on his face. The bend and stretch of his arms and large capable hands. The way his tongue would make a lazy swipe along his lower lip when he was measuring something and marking it with the pencil he kept behind his ear. The fact that his jeans rode low but only showed the side waistband of his briefs instead of plumber’s crack. Poor plumbers … it wasn’t like they all had big guts, poorly fitting jeans, and seemingly no underwear.
“Whatcha thinking about?” He caught me off guard when he shot me a quick glance over his shoulder.
I smirked. “You don’t want to know.”
Fisher’s gaze made a quick, appreciative swipe along the full length of my body. “Don’t be so sure.”
“I was thinking about plumbers’ cracks.”
“I don’t have a plumber’s crack.”
“I know.”
“Because you’re staring at my ass?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled without turning toward me again. “How’s it look?”
“No comment. Rory probably has the room bugged. I’d hate to be in timeout for Thanksgiving. Have you uh … remembered anything new since I saw you on Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
He screwed the plates onto the wall. “I remembered my senior prom.”
“That’s … interesting. Did something prompt it?”
“Yes and no. I think there was a trigger, but the memory wasn’t immediate. It came to me later while I was sleeping.”
“What triggered it?”
“Angie stopped by and showed me something. And I think that did it.” He attached the bar to the plates.
“That’s vague. What did she show you?”
“The dress she bought for her cousin’s wedding and the coordinating tie she bought for me to wear.”
They were going to wear coordinating outfits to her cousin’s wedding. How vomit-worthy. “And that triggered memories from prom?”
“Yes. The coordinating outfits.”
“So you dreamed of what? Shopping for a bowtie, cummerbund, and pocket square to match her dress?”
“Not exactly.” Fisher tested the rail, using it to help him stand, pushing down on it with his weight.
“Then what exactly?”
“You’ll take it wrong.”
“I doubt it,” I said reflexively.
As he returned his tools to his tool bag, he blew out a slow breath. “We had a hotel room that night. A friend who graduated two years early, but also went to prom because his girlfriend was younger, got the room for us when he booked one for himself and his date. I remember staring at her light pink dress on the floor the next morning and yes … my matching bowtie and cummerbund.”
The next morning. I swallowed past the thick lump in my throat. He was two for two. Both of his memories thus far about Angie involved sex. It wasn’t exactly how he presented them to me, but I could read between the lines.
They had sex … she got pregnant.
They had sex … the next morning he stared at their clothes on the hotel room floor.
He was remembering sex with Angie while remembering Happy Meals with me.
“See…” he derailed me from my train of thought “…you’re taking it wrong.” He brushed a little drywall dust off his shirt and jeans.
“I’m not taking anything wrong. You’re remembering sex with Angie.” I lifted a shoulder and dropped it like a ten-pound weight. “Was it good sex?”
Resting one hand on his hip, he dropped his chin to his chest and pushed another long sigh out his nose. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you. You asked me a question. I wanted to be honest with you. But I don’t want the strange cherry-picking of memories my brain seems to be doing to drive us apart. Just … don’t let it go there.”
Go there. I wasn’t supposed to let my brain go there, but his brain could go wherever it wanted to go. “I don’t feel like that’s an answer to my question.” Self-destruction was a lit fuse.
You saw it.
You sensed its impending urgency, it’s impending doom.