Page 34 of Shattered Veil

“Flunked my freshman year,” she corrected. “Twice. Then, I dropped out. Worked a bit as a waitress after I turned sixteen, started studying, and sat for the GED once I was old enough.”

Her gaze was now stuck on mine, slightly hardened as if she were bracing herself for my rebuttal or, perhaps, waiting for me to inevitably question her intelligence. I did nothing of the sort, mentally or otherwise. I just nodded, extended my hand with the wrench, and she took it from me.

Without any inquisition from me, Cassie said, “Turns out, starting high school is a real bitch when your mom dies at the beginning of the semester.”

I inhaled sharply through my nostrils, and my heart slammed against my ribcage for a single beat.

Fuck. How did I not know that?

“Shit…” I gently spoke, “Cassie, I’m—”

“You’re sorry; you didn’t know; you would have never asked about it otherwise to save me the discomfort?” She flashed me the smallest of smiles. “I know. You’re good; don’t be sorry.”

My chest was heavy, and my mind was a blur with questions. Questions that I shouldn’t voice aloud—most certainly not now and perhaps not ever. The first was to ask how her mother died. If she was sick and the illness had taken such a toll over the years that her body had simply quit, or if it was sudden with the trauma debilitating and lightning quick. The second was an inquiry regarding her father because one of the first things that I had learned about Cassie was that he was abusive. I had pushed the memory out of my mind, but I was there months ago when Cassie had seen Liam with a bloodied face—I had absorbed the information when she had incorrectly assumed that the damage was done by their father, Carter. The knowledge of his abuse weighed especially heavy on me now, as I wondered where Cassie had continued to live as a young teenager following her mother’s death.

There were several other questions that paled in comparison, but those were the two that struck me the most. Because they were unspeakable at the moment, I replied quietly:

“I still am.”

Cassie nodded. “Can we rewind a bit?”

Her voice was uncharacteristically meek.

“Of course.”

She coughed as if to clear her throat. “Um—bench?”

“Just have to tighten a few screws, and it’s ready to hang,” I replied with as much enthusiasm as seemed appropriate, which wasn’t much.

She briefly flashed me a grin that appeared to be of appreciation. “Let’s do this, then.”

Chapter 7

The somber reality of Cassie’s childhood and subsequent teenage years hung over us like a dreary, overcast evening. It was dark, and though there wasn’t a rainstorm present, our surroundings were still scented in petrichor. I didn’t mind it while it lasted…on the contrary, I found myself sinking into it. Not in the way that a depressive episode can swallow someone whole, but in a way that almost felt bittersweet. Bitter with the recognition of what built her as a person…more than bitter—vile. Vile in that I wanted to scrub her past with disinfectant in the hopes that I could wash her pain away…and alternatively sweet with the realization that she had trusted me to be vulnerable, if only for a moment.

Thankfully, the metaphorical clouds inevitably cleared once Cassie made her way to retrieve a ladder from the shed at the backside of her house. We situated it where she wanted the bench to be—with respect to someone facing the house, on the far right-hand side, and perpendicular to the wall—and I climbed up to determine where it could be safely hung. The sun having quickly set, dusk was upon us, and Cassie watched me with a neon green drill in one hand and the other on her hip. Sliding a stud finder across the ceiling, I moved it toward the outer edge of the patio, searching for the joist beneath. It beeped loudly when I found it, and I reached into my pants pocket to grab the pencil Cassie had given me to mark the spot we intended to drill above.

I asked, “You got that string?” Cassie nodded, quickly handing me a blue piece of yarn and two thumbtacks. Because she didn’t own a measuring tape—how she didn’t ever have the need to buy one, I don’t know—we had improvised to measure the width of the bench chains with some yarn that Cassie had in the depths of her closet. As she plopped both of them into my outstretched hand, I joked, “We are so lucky that you decided to pick up knitting on a whim.”

I secured one end of the yarn right on the pencil mark with the thumb tack.

It was so quiet that I heard her blow an amused breath through her nose. “Yeah, I was shit at it…it’s probably good for everyone’s sake that hobby was short-lived. The Christmas sweaters would have been hideous.”

I laughed. “I would’ve worn it with pride.”

As I began to slide the stud finder across the ceiling once more, Cassie scoffed, “Who said I would have made one for you?” I stopped what I was doing, turning my focus to her but keeping my hand on the ceiling, and mockingly dropped my jaw open. She continued with a playful shrug, “I certainly didn’t say that.”

“Y’know what?” I quipped, “I take it back. You can keep your lumpy sweater.” I held up the piece of yarn pinched between my fingers. “If you made it with this, it’d be itchy anyway.”

She chuckled. “Oh no, that was my practice yarn. I’d bust out the big bucks for Christmas sweater yarn. I’m not saying it’d be pretty, but it would be soft…and warm. Probably loose-fitting since I wouldn’t be able to get the sizing right, so it would be cozy, too. You could wear it by a crackling fire, watching the snow fall while you drink whiskey…” Her picturesque description was vivid in my mind to the point that I could smell the essence of Christmas, and Cassie paused. “Not that you’d ever know. ’Cause I’m not knitting one for you.”

“That’s fucked up,” I replied with a loud snicker. “Don’t make me want a sweater I’m never gonna get!”

Cassie gave me a devious grin.

I knew that was exactly her intention, and I shook my head at her as I returned my attention to the ceiling. I ran the stud finder along the expected path of the joist toward the wall of the house, adjusting forward and back as the light and beeping signifying solid material beneath occasionally petered out. I stretched the yarn taut, pushed the thumb tack into the ceiling, and glanced from point A to point B thrice…because it just looked off.

“Uh…”

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