Page 55 of The Dark Before Light

His thumb drags over the scar, making me shiver. Blue eyes flash to mine, roaming my face and neck with intense focus. Then he drops my hand and picks up his chisel again.

“I know what I’m going to make.”

“Good,” I say weakly, grabbing my own tool.

He goes to work, each movement methodical and confident—too confident for someone unfamiliar with the tools.

“You’ve done this before,” I guess.

He smiles slightly. “Not since I was little. I went through hobbies as fast as I outgrew my clothes. There was a whittling phase, a spear-fishing phase, an astronomy phase. You name it, I probably tried it when I was a kid. There was even a snake phase, though that was shut down fast. Eventually, I started tinkering with all the electronics in the house. Mam threw a fit, so Dad started bringing home broken ones for me to fix. Toasters and coffee makers, mostly.” He chuckles. “When I found he was charging people for my services, I made him give me a cut.”

I smile at this insight into his relationship with his father. “I love that. Are you two close now?”

“Yes.”

The crisp reply tells me it’s a sore point at the moment, likely due to his mother’s illness. I don’t press him. Although the topic is integral to his therapy, I’m tackling a different one tonight.

Chipping aimlessly at my block, I surreptitiously watch him process the emotional discomfort. Eventually, his shoulders relax and the tightness around his mouth disappears.

Then I begin.

“What do you see your life looking like five years from now?”

His focus doesn’t leave the block, but his eyes crinkle. “Really?”

“Humor me.”

He hums, chewing on his lip a moment, then frowns. “I honestly have no idea.”

There’s vulnerability in the answer—he didn’t like admitting that—so I gentle my voice. “Has envisioning the future been easy for you in the past?”

He nods shortly. “I’ve always had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted in life. Not the specifics, necessarily, but the end goals. The specifics came when I started making five- and ten-year plans in my teens. Kept using them for the bulk of my twenties.”

“Did you always achieve your goals?”

His carving pauses, then resumes. “Professionally, yes. And for a while, personally, too.”

I give his answer a moment to breathe, for the acknowledgment of his grief to be felt.

“Would it be correct to say you value strategy over spontaneity?”

He smirks. “I’m an engineer and a scientist, Stirling.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Changing tracks to a seemingly random tangent, I ask, “Do you have a history of alcoholism or drug addiction in your family?”

A smile curves over his face. “Because I’m Irish, I must be an alcoholic?”

“Come on,” I admonish.

His teasing eyes briefly meet mine. “The answer is no. But I did have a friend in college who was a recovering addict. Even went to some meetings with him. I know the warning signs.”

“Is your binge-drinking and drug use a strategy rather than unplanned impulse, then? Do you consider it normal?”

“What’s normal about my situation?” He scoffs, then sighs. “Yes, I’m aware I’ve overdone it a bit lately. But there are a few distinct differences between me and an addict.”

Something an addict would say, is my first thought. But I’ve learned that generalizations are dangerous where this man is concerned. And my instincts have been off before.

“And those differences are?”

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