Page 98 of Broken Pieces
Rainer grips it and gives a solid handshake.
He moves across the workshop and grabs his water bottle from the bench. Takes a long drink, then caps the lid.
“The girl who left this morning. She yours?”
The word sticks.“Yours.”
The thought hits hard. Too hard but I shake it off before it settles.
“Nah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Just helping out a friend.”
He doesn’t say anything, just waits. Steady and patient, giving me room to either speak or walk away.
“Her name’s Skylar,” I say eventually. “She aged out yesterday. Foster home kicked her out.” I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “I told her she could crash with me just for a bit. Until she gets her shit together.”
Rainer watches me for a beat. Then he nods once. “That’s fine.”
We work in silence, both of us buried in our own tasks.
Rainer sticks to the Chevy, grumbling under his breath about bolts that won’t budge. I’m at the bench, stripping down a busted alternator, hands deep in grease.
By the time I drag myself up the stairs for lunch, my shoulders ache and my stomach’s already growling. I haven’t eaten anything, and it’s catching up to me.
I always eat the same thing. Grilled cheese, cheap bread, whatever slices of cheese are left in the fridge. The same one I made for Skylar yesterday.
I shove open the apartment door, ready to zone out for ten minutes.
Then I stop.
The apartment is clean.
Not just clean. Fucking spotless.
The coffee table’s wiped down. The dishes I left in the sink are washed, dried, and stacked with military precision. The ratty throw blanket I used last night, the one I left half off the couch, is now folded tight over the armrest. My boots are lined up by the door, straight and even, which is already weird as shit.
The floor’s been swept. The counter’s been wiped down. The garbage is gone. She even scrubbed the grime off the stovetop, the same shit I’ve ignored for weeks.
I blink.
She’s not here, but the air still holds her. That soft, sweet scent I caught last night. The one that stuck in my head and hasn’t let go since.
I step inside.
The space feels quieter somehow, not in a hollow way, but settled. Warmer. Lived-in. Touched by someone who gave a shit. Someone who didn’t have to, but still took the time anyway.
There’s a note on the kitchen counter.
Torn paper, edges uneven, the corner curled up slightly, looped writing in black ink.
You live like a raccoon.
You’re welcome.
I stare at it for a long time.
Then I laugh.
I fold the note slowly, pressing the crease hard with my thumb. I slide it into my wallet and tuck it behind the card I never use.
