Page 32 of Shattered Veil

I chuckled, her upbeat mood a rapid shift from our recent interactions that settled on me like a warm blanket, and I once again was inundated with an emotion that I felt the need to suppress. This time, instead of feeling the need to bottle up the feeling of disappointment at Cassie’s unwillingness to discuss her late-night text messages, I was wrestling with what I could only discern as excitement. Excitement for potentially spending one-on-one time with Cassie.

It was…dumb. Silly. Juvenile, even, because I knew. I knew this could potentially lead me toward a path that I shouldn’t venture down. That aside, the haze of excitement made me blind, and there was little time before I was replying:

“Twist my arm, Cas—I’ll help you.”

My Thursday at my place of employment was boring. Aside from the occasional dive into Tommy’s work stats, which was rapidly becoming a daily activity, the numbers just…numbered. I sidestepped any of Brooks’ inquisitions, the data I had to dive into, for whatever reason, was simpler than it typically was, and the hours dragged by. At exactly 4:45 P.M., I was entirely done waiting…and I figured that shaving fifteen minutes off of my shift would do no harm.

I drove with no music on, for my head was already abuzz. I cursed myself for that, and instead of careening down an expectant path that would lead me to rather ungentlemanly thoughts, I attempted to focus on the fact that Cassie had pointedly asked to bypass what had happened the night before. It was for the best, really. I told myself that on repeat as I made my way to her house, anyway, and by the time I arrived, I forced myself to believe that those words had stuck.

I strolled to her patio, walked up the few steps, and stopped in my tracks the moment that I saw Cassie’s bench-swing thing, which was situated to my right.

Cream-colored and entirely wooden, save for the grey seat padding that rested against the siding of her house, it was half-built. Cassie had insinuated this already, but what she didn’t describe were the approximately 1,001 steps that were remaining to complete putting it together. There were plentiful thin, wood slats making up the seat connecting on the left to an armrest, but the right was entirely disassembled. The slim panels were resting on the patio along with several pieces of similarly colored wood beside it, which I assumed were designated for the second armrest. A clear plastic bag with separate compartments for various screws, nuts, and corresponding Allen wrenches laid at my feet, and I bent down to pick it up with my eyebrows raised. It appeared that Cassie had cut open several of the sections to use the hardware within—much of it was left still unopened, but the areas that she had cut with scissors were entirely empty. It was then that I noticed a handful of large screws and wooden dowels scattered along the porch.

I glanced around me to ensure that none of them had skittered elsewhere, and the front door swung open. Cassie leaned herself against the doorframe. Her dark hair in a messy bun, she was dressed in a looser-fitting pair of jeans and a heather grey long-sleeve shirt.

She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled. “Hi.”

I pointed at the pile of wood to my right. “Um…oh my God? When you said it was half-built, I didn’t think you meant literally…or maybe that you meant it literally, but I didn’t think it was entirely a do-it-yourself operation.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Cassie,” I laughed disbelievingly. “This is gonna take a while.”

“Well, thank goodness you’re dressed for manual labor, then,” she joked, eyeing me up and down.

I held my hands out to the side and looked down at my appearance—khaki slacks and brown loafers with a button-down shirt most definitely did not scream carpenter. My glasses, which I had nearly forgotten I was wearing, slid down my nose, and I grasped them by the stems to place them on top of my head.

I looked back to Cassie, who appeared to be thoroughly amused, and replied, “Yeah, I didn’t anticipate having to woodwork. Thanks for the heads up.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like you’re, I dunno, sawing anything—it’s just a few screws.”

I chortled. “This is not just a few screws…and you spilled half of them on the ground! Are you missing pieces? This is the least organized operation I’ve ever seen.”

Her head bobbled from side to side, considering my sentiment, and instead of answering my question, she simply offered, “I’ll buy you pizza?”

“Thought I owed you,” I noted wryly.

“Olive branch,” she whispered with a smirk. “Are you a pepperoni guy?”

I repeated her action from before, tipping my head to the right and then the left and scrunching up my nose before saying, “Eh…sure.”

The pizza was delivered and sat waiting for us on Cassie’s kitchen table, but we remained outside. Pleasantly enough, in the time past, we had discussed what I do for work while we sat on the floor of the patio, putting together the second half of the bench. Cassie would hand me a screw, dowel, Allen wrench, or whatever else was necessary, and she would ask me a question. They ranged from, “You’re a financial analyst, right?” to, “Do you like it?” and the rattled off combination of, “So, it’s just looking at reports? Spreadsheets and stock activity? Do you get a lot of variety with what you see?” There were several more questions—all of which were followed with me answering her while holding whatever item she had given me in my hand. I’d wrap up my response, she’d nod and smile, and I would return my attention to the bench. Once the sun was beginning to set in the autumn sky and the chill in the air was growing brisker and brisker, I had legitimately lost count of the questions regarding my job, and I asked:

“Damn, Cas…did you think this was an interview?”

She laughed, glancing to the patio. “No, no.”

“I mean, if it were an interview, it’s going well,” I mocked. “I’m like five seconds away from asking you about your salary requirements.”

“Yeah?” She raised an eyebrow and jokingly asked, “You gonna hire me?”

A corner of my lip pulled up. “I, unfortunately, don’t have that power…are you job hunting now?”

I had said it sarcastically, but she appeared to give the notion genuine thought.

“Nah, I’m good where I am,” she paused. “For a while, at least. Few years, I dunno.”

My head cocked to the side. “Are you…actually interested in my job? It’s pretty bland subject matter for most people—I figured you were just trying to find something to talk about.”

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