It’s leaking.
Peering into the back of the fridge, I try to gauge where it’s coming from and see the motor frosted over and caked with ice.
I stand up straight and chew the corner of my mouth. Should I tell him? I’m sure he knows.
Spotting their iPad on the counter, I grab it and turn it on. A password prompt comes up, and right away I enter “nomercy,” hazarding a guess. It immediately unlocks.
Heading to YouTube, I check the model of the refrigerator and bring up some videos. Over the next hour, I empty the refrigerator and work it away from the wall, putting all of my weight into pulling it out and unplugging the power. Then, I swipe some tools from the shop and get to work following the video’s directions, chipping away and unthawing the motor, repairing the leak in the tube, and reassembling everything. I’m not sure if it will work, or how mad he’ll be if I made it worse, but that’s a perk of being rich. I’ll buy him a new one.
I stop twisting the screwdriver, realization hitting all of a sudden. Can I buy him a new one? I mean, minors can’t inherit money. Their guardians have power of attorney until they’re of age.
So technically, my inheritance is completely in his hands. Unless my parents put something into a trust, which their lawyer might’ve had the foresight to do, but…
Should I be worried? The money never mattered, but that’s only because I always had it. I talk a big talk, but if I can’t pay for college, then that changes things. Did my parents trust him with me and my well-being, or…was there just not anyone else? I don’t know if I can trust him, but I definitely didn’t trust them to do what was right for me. This guy has my future in his grip.
For the next ten weeks anyway.
Despite the kick up of my pulse, I forge ahead—lost in thought—and refasten the motor cover and reach behind the appliance, plugging it back in. The motor gently purrs and cool air starts to breathe back into the machine. So far so good.
“You did that?” I hear someone ask.
I turn my head, seeing Noah standing at the island, shirt off, sweaty, and out of breath, as he looks at the video on the iPad I have propped up on the counter.
Looking over to where the leak was, he sees it’s now dry.
“Good job,” he says. “We’ve been meaning to get on that.”
I turn back around, but not before I take another quick glance, noticing his torso and arms are completely clean of any tattoos. I don’t know why that strikes me as off. Maybe since his father has one, I thought he would.
Getting busy, I reload all of the food into the fridge, faintly hearing some kind of machine running outside and guessing it must be Jake.
“So, when do you turn eighteen?” Noah asks.
I don’t stop as he just leans against the island, watching me.
“November first.”
“You gonna leave then?”
I glance at him, taking a moment to realize what he means.
I don’t have to stay now. Didn’t his father tell him he gave me a choice on the phone?
“I would leave,” he offers. “I would leave in a heartbeat. You’re here, and you don’t have to be. I have to be here, but I don’t want to be.”
“It’s as good a place as any,” I reply softly, placing some condiments back onto the door shelf.
“Why?”
“Because you’re still you, no matter where you go,” I retort.
I stop and look up at him, his sweaty hair falling in his eyes and his hat hanging from his fingers. He still looks puzzled.
“There are just as many happy people in Cleveland as there are in Paris,” I explain. “And just as many sad ones.”
“Yeah, well, I’d rather be sad on a beach.”
I snort, smiling despite myself. I laugh a little, but I quickly turn away, pushing the amusement down.
But in a moment, he’s at my side, putting the A.1. and Heinz sauce on the rack on the door.
He stares down at me, and my stomach dips.
“You have a pretty smile, cuz,” he tells me. “If you stay, I’ll make you smile some more.”
Oh, geez. Isn’t he charming?
Ignoring him, I finish reloading everything, not even caring that nothing is organized. He laughs under his breath and helps me—both of us getting the job done in a few minutes.
Jake walks in and heads for the fridge, and I move out of the way, letting him in.
I gather the tools I used and start to walk away to put them back in the shop where I found them, but I hear my uncle’s gruff voice.
“Where’s the sausage?” he asks.