Page 90 of One Small Spark
“Same to you, kitten.”
Her eyes spark. “I told you that’s a terrible nickname.”
“I know. But I’m saving ‘goddess’ for the right time.”
“Oh my gosh.” She turns away to free the bike’s handlebars from the crowd of boxes around it, failing to hide her smile.
I help her get the bike out of the graveyard of long forgotten things and heft the middle of the frame onto my hip. Crossing the garage, I take it to where I backed my truck into the driveway and lay it in the cargo bed. When I turn, she’s at my side, hands in her back jeans pockets.
She shivers, but I don’t have the satisfaction of being the cause of it. The brisk fall air is already too much to be out in for long this evening.
“Do you want to come in for a minute?” she asks. “Mom and Daniel aren’t here right now. Not that that’s incentive or something. That would be so wildly inappropriate. ‘Nobody’s home, come over.’ I’m just saying—you know what? Never mind.”
“I’d love to come in.” I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to see the home where she grew up even if her entire family was inside.
“Great.” She spins, peeking at me over her shoulder as she crooks a finger. “Follow me.”
Anywhere.
She leads me through a side door into the kitchen. It’s been lightly remodeled, but the bones of the old Craftsman house are still intact, from the L-shaped galley kitchen to the curved archways that lead from room to room. The living room has two big sofas facing each other, framing the fireplace. Light floods in from the dual front windows. A collection of children’s books sits next to the coffee table. It’s comfortable, if surprisingly beige.
She tosses a hand toward the room. “Pretty basic, I guess. Do you want to see my room?”
She scrunches her nose as if she regrets the question. I sure don’t.
“I can’t wait to see the dartboard with my face on it.”
“It’s actually a punching bag with a flannel shirt over it.”
She heads up the stairs, and I trail behind, struggling to keep my eyes anywhere but on the glorious view in front of me.
At the top of the landing, family photos and little kid art line the walls. She moves to a door at the far end before I can get a good look at any of the pictures. Walking in, she spreads her hands wide. “Ta da.”
Nowthisis Wren’s room. Bold fuchsia and yellow accent the quilt on the bed topped with half a dozen throw pillows. Frames in a variety of colors decorate one wall. A vision board hangs over the desk, crammed with photographs, fabric, and mementos. The desk itself is covered in strange yarn creations.
“Are these your weirdos?” I move closer to inspect the small stuffed animals. There’s at least ten oddly shaped creatures here, each bearing an eclectic variety of appendages, eyes, and accessories.
She joins me in admiring the colorful assortment. “Those are my guys.”
I pick one up. It’s dark green, with spikes down its back likea dinosaur, but big webbed feet like a duck. The head has seven eyes that goggle up at me. It’s also got a curving red topknot like a quail that bobbles when I move.
“You can see they’re absolute nonsense.” She flicks a finger over the topknot. “But that’s the whole point. They’re impossible to mess up.”
“I don’t know what it is, but it’s cute.”
“Then that one’s yours.” Her smile falls. “I mean, if you want it. Not that you would. It’s a scientific abnormality with uneven stitches and?—”
I hug it to my chest as she tries to grab it from me. “I want it.”
She relaxes again, her mouth tipping back up. “Okay.”
“So this is your refuge.” I can’t decide what I want to look at most. Her collage of photographs. The vision board. Her low bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks. The collection of enamel pins stuck in a long lanyard.
One says,Ask me about my existential crisis.
She sits down on the edge of the bed. “It’s my woman cave.” She scrunches her nose. “No. That’s awful. It’s my lair. That sounds way more mysterious and evil.”
“It’s a good lair. But I hate to think of you shrinking yourself down in here to make other people more comfortable.”
