Page 25 of Brenna, Brat

“You don’t seem to be. I wasn’t trying to say that you are, just because you were looking at new ski stuff. It really doesn’t matter very much.”

“I don’t know why I started telling you all this crap.” He looked at me and then shook his head, frowning. “Does it sound like I’m complaining about the life that was handed to me? I’m not trying to.” He moved his head again, now like he was shaking it off. “Did I mention that I’m making dinner tonight?”

“No, but I can help.”

“Do you know how to cook?”

“We all had to, especially after Nicola moved out,” I said. “My mom is pretty good but she had a lot of other interests that tookup more of her time.” Care of her seven children had never been high on her list of priorities.

“Did your dad do much in the kitchen?”

I thought again about him grilling. “No, he worked a lot,” I said. “I assume that now, he’s getting deliveries and eating alone.” It made me sad to think about, but hadn’t it been his choice? “We always had dinner together, at least the people who were home. Everybody did a lot of other stuff, like jobs and clubs or whatever, but there was usually someone to be with. It was weird when everyone started peeling off and moving out, and the house got quieter and quieter.” Maybe that was why my mom had wanted Patrick and his baby to move home last winter and live with her and my dad. I knew from the experience of having my own apartment that you were sad when you were alone.

“Do you want to have a big family like that?”

“No,” I answered immediately. “I don’t plan to ever do any of the marriage-baby stuff. All my sisters besides Grace are into it, but I can’t see the advantage.”

“Love? Companionship?” Campbell suggested, and I shrugged a little, because I wouldn’t have minded either of those things. I didn’t mind the new Curran babies either, not too much. But marriage took two people, and both of them had to be sentient. That meant I couldn’t wed a dressmaker’s dummy, which had been my longest relationship to date. I thought of the woman eying him over the clothes racks this afternoon and imagined that he got quite enough companionship without having to worry about a relationship at all.

But then I didn’t want to think about that topic anymore, and I changed the subject. “What are we making for dinner?”

Pasta and sauce, it turned out, which involved a lot of chopping of vegetables. He had a recipe that he wanted to follow very, very carefully, like assessing if we had the correct amount of diced carrots by checking them in a measuring cup, and removing a few little squares if they teetered on the metal lip.

“It’s fine,” I told him, and swept them all into the pot.

“Is that how you sew? Isn’t precision important?”

“Yes, unless you want strange ripples in the fabric or a big bulge in your crotch area.”

“I’m usually ok with that one.”

“Ugh,” I said, and threw one of the tiny carrot pieces at him. Being too athletic, he caught it and ate it. “You should have seen the first things I made. I wore them to school, too, which really made things better for me there. I thought I was good at hats, so I would make these triangles that I had to balance on the top of my head.”

“Like at a birthday party?”

“Yes, but a lot floppier and less secure,” I answered. “And I used to sew myself into things and then have so much trouble moving.”

He was laughing as he added celery. “Why would you have done that? Why not zip yourself instead?”

“Because putting in zippers is hard at first,” I told him. “I’ll make you come to my new atelier and try one, and then you’ll see.”

“What’s that? You have an atelier?”

I told him about it, getting increasingly excited as I did. “In my apartment, I hardly have room for a seam ripper, but now I’ll have plenty of space. I’m going to have tons of lights, lights everywhere. That’s necessary because there aren’t any in the ceiling, and the windows aren’t as big as I would have liked. There aren’t as many of those as I wanted, either. But without a bed and other furniture, and without the kitchen area, I can really spread out.”

“What’s your new address?” he asked, and he got a funny expression when I told him. “I’ve driven around there…”

“It’s not the safest area in Detroit, but it should be fine. I wanted something closer to where I live or work, but I’ve looked forever and I’m really tired of stepping over my sewing machine every time I have to go to the bathroom. Also, the electrical stuff in my apartment is always shorting out if I have the lights on and I try to sew at the same time. I couldn’t really test the new place, but I’m sure it will be better.”

“I could come take a look for you,” he suggested.

“You know how to fix things?”

“That was what I used to do during the summer when I wasn’t playing hockey,” he said. “My dad thought I was too soft and coddled, so I went out with some of his maintenance crews. I learned a lot from those guys.”

“Were you really coddled?”

“Probably. Is this burning?”

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