Page 30 of The Fix-Up

My secret shame. Every single craft project I’d ever started…and never finished. So many skeins of yarn. So many. An embroidery machine. Two dozen plates I had been excited to hand-paint…for about a week. That was just the beginning. “Stuff?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No. It’s just some stuff I collect.” With a wobbly smile, I put a hand on his chest and patted reassuringly.

The corner of his mouth twitched and if I didn’t know better, I would say he was almost amused. “You aren’t collecting human skulls, right? Roadkill? The skin of your former roommates.”

I scowled. “If I were going to collect anything like that, it would be jewelry made from human hair. I saw this video about it. It used to be popular in the eighteen hundreds. After someone died, they’d collect some hair and make brooches and necklaces and rings. You would never guess it was made of hair. Pretty amazing stuff. I’ll send you a link to the video.”

He didn’t make a sound, just stared at me like I’d grown a third eye. Just as well. He should probably know now I could be…eccentric at times. His chest expanded with a breath, and I realized my hand still rested there, against the warm, solid wall of his chest.

Objectively, he was handsome if you liked uptight, principal types with hints of gray in their hair and dark-rimmed glasses and nice hands. Some people might even say he was a ten. But he was also here to take my dream away from me. Minus eight points. Plus, he ate plain oatmealon purpose. Take away another three points. Which makes him a negative one. So there.

I snatched my hand back like I’d touched a hot oven. “Let’s finish this up, okay? I have things to do.” I slid out from between him and the door and hustled down the hallway and back to the kitchen. “Oliver and I moved in about three years ago. Honestly, I think Ollie might have been a bit of a hoarder, but we’d been making real progress getting everything sorted. Still have more work ahead of us, but that’s okay. I don’t mind the hard work. This house is worth it.”

“Is it?” He leaned back against a kitchen counter. “This place is a dump. Everything needs to be updated. It would be better to sell it as-is and move on.”

My hands balled into fists. I forced myself to take a deep breath. “This house is over a hundred years old. Generations ofyourfamily have lived here.”

“My family?” he scoffed. “You need to get something straight right now. I’m not going to agree to keep this house or the café or anything else.”

“You aren’t the only one who gets to make the decision,” I said, trying to keep the outrage out of my voice. “I own half of it.”

And I can’t afford to buy him out for the other half.

A mulish expression settled on his face, the one that reminded me of Ollie, and I had a flash of a dark-haired little boy who’d been told his favorite sweater vest was dirty and he couldn’t wear it to school. “So do I.”

“I know that.” I took a step forward, poking him in the chest. “And you know what, it’s not fair. You didn’t even know Ollie. You are—were—his grandson. How can you just take one look atthis house, this legacy he left to you, and decide you don’t want it? This is part of your heritage. Aren’t you even a little curious?”

“I’m curious about the money I’ll make when we sell it.”

“I am not selli?—”

“And I sure as hell don’t want to keep a house I can’t even sleep in.”

I let out a frustrated growl. He was right. It was unfair of me. He wouldn’t get anything out of keeping the house. I hated that he was right.

“Fine. I know you probably think I’m some selfish brat and you know, maybe I am right now. But I loved Ollie.” My voice caught when I said his name. “You didn’t even know him, and he still wanted to give you this. Give it a chance, at least.”

“A chance to what? Get to know a man who abandoned my grandmother and my mom? Doesn’t sound like the kind of guy I want to know.”

“Ollie didn’t abandon them,” I said fiercely. But truly, I had no idea what Ollie’s story had been. No one did, but the Ollie I knew wouldn’t have done that.

“You don’t know that.” He took a step back, his dark-blue eyes like lasers burning into my skull. “And you don’t know me.”

With a jerk, he opened the door. I jumped when it slammed shut.

TEN

Love is when my parents stay in my room with me at night because they know I’m afraid.

—DAELYN G., AGE 12

I fumed while I folded the clothes. I fumed while I made dinner. I fumed when Oliver got water all over the floor during his shower. I was one big fuming…fum-er.

Sunny would say I should just go talk to the guy. But you know what? Sunny hadn’t known Ollie, hadn’t worked with him and lived with him and loved him like my own grandfather. Sunny couldn’t expect me to accept Gilbert Dalton with open arms.

She would expect that. Because, she’d say, it was the mature, adult thing to do. “Communication is the key to any relationship,” she liked to remind me.

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