Page 43 of Dream House
I tilt my head toward the bathroom. “That tub is pretty deep, and the hot water tank is huge. I’m pretty sure my grandmother kept some Epsom salts in the cabinet,” I say, making my voice and posture as casual as possible. “Hot baths are on the house.”
A faint smile softens her mouth. The sight of it makes me smile huge.
She bows her head. “Thank you.” Her words are timid and soft, but the appreciation in them is clear. She turns again, and this time I let her go.
When I make my way back to the kitchen, I feel lighter. At peace.
“Everything all right?” Pen asks, tilting her head in the direction of the stairs.
“Yeah.” I pick up Maisy’s and my empty plates and carry them to the sink. “I’m going to hire a locksmith to put a lock on her door.”
Pen shrugs in amakes sensekinda way. Tyler turns around in his chair. His face is angled to me, but his gaze is on the ground, his brow furrowed.
He looks like he’s trying to find his words. I shut off the water at the sink and wait.
“Lo... ck?” Tyler lifts his gaze to mine, still frowning.
“Yeah, the bedrooms upstairs don’t have locks.” I study his face and worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “Remember?”
Asking if Tyler remembers something is always a gamble. But the older the memory is, the safer the bet. When we were really little, before Mom and Dad split up, we used to sleep downstairs with Nanna when we spent the night. But we had our own rooms when we moved in that summer of their divorce. Even when we got older and stayed for the weekend when Mom went to Orange Beach with her girlfriends or needed a night off, we’d claim rooms upstairs and even invite over our friends.
Not having a locking door on those rooms was both a liability and an opportunity. Tyler and his friends always wanted to mess with me and mine. Putting earthworms in our shoes. Digging through our purses to understand the mysteries of a tampon. Hiding in the closet in hopes of hearing us talk about them.
I confess that Pen and I hid in a couple of closets to see if they were talking about us. In our defense, Tyler’s high school friend Patrick was really cute.
When a slow-dawning smile takes over Tyler’s face, I know my brother and I are touching a shared past. He nods.
But then his grin dissolves, and he’s back to now.
“Sh… She… nee...ds… a…. lo...ck,” he manages. “I… ca… n… do… i...t.”
Everyone at the table looks at Tyler. Even Maisy. My Dad stares at him like he’s a stranger. I hide my shock as best I can.
“What’s that, son?” Dad asks, frowning.
I see the instant Tyler realizes we’re all staring. His posture turtles, but then his brow sets.
“I… ca… n.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. Tyler’s occupational therapist has stressed that he needs to be encouraged to do tasks he used to do whenever possible. Tyler wasn’t a locksmith. Before the accident, he was an electrician.
He worked with his hands all day. His tools—screwdriver, wirestripper, drill—were practically extensions of his body.
But all of those require a hell of a lot of fine motor control, and he just doesn’t have that anymore. Yeah, practice improves everything, but when you’re an electrician with the hand-eye coordination of a two-year-old, your whole universe becomes frustration.
Since the accident, Tyler hasn’t even once picked up a utility knife or a set of pliers. Not as far as I know. But I’m not about to second-guess him now.
“We’ll go to the hardware store tomorrow,” I say with a nod.
Tyler’s stare pins me. “To...nigh...t.”
Before the accident, Tyler wanted everything when he wanted it. These days, he hardly asks for anything. Except for pancakes for dinner and to go see the latest Marvel movie.
I’ll be the first to admit, the old Tyler’s sense of entitlement wasn’t something I cherished about him before the accident. I resented it if I’m being honest. But when it was gone, along with so much else, I missed it. If he’s demanding to go to Home Depot tonight for a lock, that’s what we’re going to do.
“Sure,” I say, never taking my gaze from his. “Right after I cut Dad’s hair.”
ChapterEight
