Page 25 of Broken Rejected Mate

If I’m going to be awake, I might as well be getting things done. I go to my bathroom, brush my teeth, groom, dress, then head down to the garage.

The moment I flick the light on and smell the sawdust, something in my chest loosens up. If I had it my way, I’d be out on the lake, fishing—but this is the next best thing.

My last project was a new bookshelf for my study. I run my hands over some of the wood I still have left from that, thinking about the guest room. Once I have a plan, I get into the groove quickly, cutting and sanding, already thinking about what stain I might use for the piece.

“Good morning.”

“Ah!” I jump and turn to find Sarina in the doorway, staring at me, looking wide awake. There’s a book tucked under her arm, and she’s watching me with those open eyes. It makes her look like she absorbs everything around her. Maybe she does.

I should have smelled her before she spoke, even if I couldn’t hear her over the sound of the machine. Maybe it was the sawdust, clogging up my nose.

“Sorry,” Sarina laughs, her voice high and light, and not sounding sorry. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Really? Because it kind of seems like you meant to scare me.”

Sarina laughs again, rocks on her feet, and I realize she’s wearing one of the dresses my sister made for her. It’s yellow with little flowers, and suits her well, contrasting with her hair.

The hair that looks so much like mine, so much like Kira’s, that it doesn’t make sense. It’s not fair how much this girl looks like me, despite not belonging to me.

I can’t keep thinking about it, or I’ll drive myself mad.

“What are you doing?” Sarina asks, taking another step inside, her head tipping and turning as she takes everything in. My woodworking shop is in a little alcove off the main garage, which houses canoes, fishing gear, and my motorcycle.

“I’m working on a set of nightstands.” Reaching over, I pat my hand against the wood. “Figured your mom and you might like to each have an end table in that room.”

Sarina nods, matter-of-factly. “It would be nice to have a place to set my books.”

“Oh,” I tease, “yourbooks?”

Her face goes red. “I’m sorry—no, I meant—”

“Sarina,” I hold up a hand, shaking my head. “I’m just teasing you. You are welcome to use anything in this house as long as you’re staying here. I just want you and your mom to feel welcome.”

She stares at me for a long moment, then says, “I just can’t figure it out.”

“What?”

“Why my mom doesn’t like you.”

I bite my tongue, looking away from her. It’s Veva I want to talk to about this, and I have to resist the urge to dig, to find out what this kid knows. If her mother has said anything about me to her.

“You want to help me out with this?”

Sarina looks intrigued and surprises me by throwing herself into the project, following my instructions as we measure pieces, sand them down.

“Do you like to build things?” I ask, while we’re sanding down one of the pieces. I could use my tool for this, but it’s too loud and too dangerous around an eight-year-old. Besides, it’s kind of nice to get in and do it by hand.

Sarina shrugs. “I helped my mom build our house.”

That gives me pause, and I pull back a bit. “You and your mom…built a house?”

“Not like this,” Sarina laughs, looking around at the garage. “Well, maybe kind of like this—about as big as this. Not your whole house.”

She’s surprisingly well-spoken for her age. It must be from all the reading.

“That’s impressive,” I say, “that you built a place to live together.”

“I like it a lot more than the tent.”

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