My baseball bat left a nice purple knot on his forehead, and I almost feel bad about it. Almost, but the man continues working as if he doesn’t see me standing in front of him, and that irritates me.
I clear my throat. “Isn’t there a law about making noise before a certain time in the morning?”
He glances at the watch on his wrist. “It’s noon.”
“Yeah, well, some asshole broke into my house last night so I didn’t get much sleep.”
He presses the trigger on the drill, and the noise makes my shoulders jump.
Jerk.
After the noise stops, he reaches down for another screw.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I could’ve done this myself.”
“That’s a funny way of saying thank you.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Is he shitting me? “Oh, yes. Thank you for replacing the doorknobyoubroke when you illegally let yourself into my home last night.”
“You needed a better one anyway.”
“Why do you care?”
“It’s not safe without a lock on your door.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He lets out a long exhale, and the muscles in his jaw work under his skin as he stares down at the screw between his fingers. “I feel bad about scaring you last night. Figured I should replace the lock so you can feel more secure here.”
I pause. A criminal wouldn’t care about how I felt. Neither would an asshole. And when was the last time someone cared enough to make sure I felt safe?
I swallow the retort climbing up my throat and glance at my new doorknob. “Well, how much do I owe you for this?”
He shakes his head as he pushes off his knees to stand.
“No, no. This one’s much fancier than the one that was on there before. Tell me how much it was.”
He collects the garbage and places the key on the railing before turning to make his way down the stairs.
I throw up my hands. “I know you hear me.”
He glances over his shoulder, and his eyes finally meet mine. His irises are a light-yellowish-brown color, like honey reflecting in the morning sunlight. They’re beautiful and warm, despite the way his skin tightens around them to scowl at me.
“Just let me do this, okay?” He asks the question with a desperate edge to his voice, like it’ll pain him if he doesn’t do it, and I’m only making it worse by trying to get him to take it back.
“Sure.” I avert my gaze to the doorknob again and chew on my bottom lip. It looks so much nicer than the rest of the house. “This place really went to shit. My father would hate to see it like this.” Sadness seeps into my bloodstream, coursing through me like a slow and subtle poison.
James gives the house a quick appraisal—the overgrown, weed-filled landscaping, the rusted railing, the dilapidated garage door, and the rotting shutters. He hesitates a moment, and I wait for him to say something. But James just turns around and walks back to his house.
Good talk.
Returning my attention to my house, I start making a mental checklist of all the things I can see that need fixing. I head inside to write them down and sort them into tasks I can do on my own, versus jobs I need to hire people for. I’m not too handy, but I’m not incapable either. I’ll fix whatever I can from YouTube and pay for a professional to fix whatever I can’t.
Keeping busy is important when you have depression. When your mind is occupied, you don’t have time to think or wallow in despair. People with a purpose are less likely to kill themselves, which is good news for me because I can’t leave anything unfinished. Not books or shows or projects. I have to see it through to the end. I figure if I start a project in the house, it’ll lead to another, and another. At the very least, it’ll get me through the upcoming dark winter months.
I stan the House of Stark, after all, andwinter is coming.
I’ve been spackling all day, going from room to room like a tornado.