“It took ten seconds,” Booker says quickly, turning toward me, “and I look forward to seeing what you can accomplish with more time. Of course, I will be charging a dollar for the rental of my laptop, so we’ll have to call it even. But it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. Welcome to the team!”
“Yes, Liv,” Deiss says, “welcome to the team. No need to learn names. Staff changes are imminent if I can’t get a hand with the stocking.”
“I’ve got a hand.” Booker lifts one eagerly in the air. “Well, look at that, I’ve got two! And both of them have an affinity for cardboard boxes. Let’s put ’em to work, boss.”
Deiss lifts an eyebrow and tugs himself off the wall, heading for a door that opens to a set of stairs.
Booker starts after him but turns around, so he’s walking backward while facing me. “Password is Ramones versus Stones. Capital R and S, no spaces.”
I nod and watch him disappear through the door.
“Yay!” Phoebe gives a little clap of excitement and slaps me on the back like she’s mistaken me for a sweaty man covered in football padding. “You got your first client!”
“I guess I did.” In spite of myself—and the lack of payment or structure or general explanation of my task—I feel a flare of pride.
CHAPTER 14
I attach Cat Stevens’s photo to the email on my phone and hit send. I have to find him. After the terrible meeting I’ve just had with the bank, the thought of his little face is the only thing keeping me from falling over the edge. It’s not like I think he’d provide comfort. Even if he were here, his disdainful gaze would be guaranteed to project nothing but doubt about my abilities. But I need to know he’s safe. I’ve failed to protect myself, but I can’t have failed him.
“You’re here,” Deiss says, coming into the loft and swinging the door shut behind him. I haven’t seen him since we walked home from the shop last night and he tilted his chin at me in a silent good night before closing his bedroom door behind him.
If it were yesterday or even this morning, I’d probably turn from my spot at the counter and search his voice for any sign of disappointment, wondering if he’d expected me to hide in the spare room or generally stay out of his way. Since it’s now, and I’m still reeling from the bank manager’s apathy, I nod and finger my bowl of baby carrots absently, my eyes settling blankly on the couch. I’ve reached out to four shelters, but is that enough? How much ground could a cat cover in a week?
Behind me, I hear Deiss open the fridge. He has it open long enough that its coldness makes its way to the back of my legs, making me feel like my skirt has gotten tucked up inside my panties, leaving my butt exposed. I swat my hand at the flimsy material, making sure I’m covered before nibbling at the carrot. It’s dried out, likely because I’ve opted for the ones discounted due to their sell-by date. My stomach turns, although whether in response to the tiny white cracks in the orange or the general state of my life I couldn’t say.
“How did it go at the bank?” he asks over the rustling of whatever it is he’s slapped on the counter.
“Fine.” I take in the green walls, wishing there really were a burbling brook running through it. I’d like to float away in it. Or elegantly drown myself.
It occurs to me that I can’t lie to Deiss. And not just because I’m supposed to have let go of my compulsion to appear perfect. I’m staying in his home. He has the right to know I might become a full-on squatter. Slowly, I turn to find him leaning against the counter, a poorly constructed sandwich in his hand. He meets my eyes and lifts it to his mouth, taking a bite that obliterates an entire quarter of it.
“They think it will be a few weeks before my account is restored.” I take a deep breath and train my gaze slightly past his shoulder to the shiny silver of the stove. “If I get my money back at all.”
“Any clues as to which outcome is more likely?” The minute the words are out of his mouth, he shoves another bite of sandwich in.
As far as reactions go, I find his lacking. In sympathy. In outrage. In shock. I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to build a nest egg. It would be nice if, for once, Deiss could summon enough energy to acknowledge the drama of the conversation, rather than responding as if we’re discussing tomorrow’s weather report.
As much as I want to give him a curt no and leave him alone to continue testing the capacity of his mouth, I can’t ignore the fact that this affects him nearly as much as it does me, even if he hasn’t yet realized it. He deserves all the details.