and I almost regretted the change I'd wrought, wondering what might have followed.
'I'd have to turn you down. We've only got six minutes now. They'd kick us out before it was done.' He snapped his attention to the drills with renewed vigor. 'And as for my so-called handy skills,' he added, 'I'm a remarkably fast learner, so I wasn't really exaggerating. By the end of the night, I will excel.'
Not true.
After arbitrarily picking out a drill and coming home, Roman set himself to aligning the bookcase's pieces and putting them together. He fit one of the shelves to the backboard, lined up his screw, and drilled.
The drill went through at an angle, missing the shelf entirely.
'Son of a bitch,' he swore.
I moved in and yelped when I saw the screw sticking through the back of my bookshelf. We took it out and stared bleakly at the conspicuous hole left behind.
'Probably it'll be covered by books,' I suggested.
He set his mouth in a grim line and attempted the same feat again. The screw made contact this time but was still at an obvious angle. He pulled it out again, finally inserting it correctly on his third try.
Unfortunately, the process only repeated as he continued. Watching hole after hole appear, I finally asked if I could try. He waved his hand in a defeatist gesture and handed me the drill. I fitted in a screw, leaned over, and drilled it in perfectly in my first attempt.
'Jesus,' he said. 'I'm completely superfluous. I'm the damsel in distress.'
'No way. You brought the cereal.'
I finished attaching the shelves. The walls came next. The backboard had small hash marks to help with alignment. With careful scrutiny, I tried to line it up cleanly along the edges.
It proved impossible, and I soon realized why. Despite my perfect drilling, all of the shelves were affixed crookedly, some too far to the left or right. The walls could not fit flush with the backboard's edges.
Roman sat back against my couch, running a hand over his eyes. 'My God.'
I munched on a handful of Lucky Charms and considered. 'Well. Let's just line them up as best we can.'
'This thing'll never hold books.'
'Yeah. We'll do what we can.'
We tried it with the first wall, and though it took a while and looked terrible, it sufficed as serviceable. We moved on to the next one.
'I think I finally have to admit I'm not so good at this,' he observed. 'But you seem to have kind of a knack. A regular handywoman.'
'I don't know about that. I think the only thing I have a knack for is barely scraping by with things I have to do.'
'That was a world-weary tone if ever I heard one. Why? You got a lot of things you 'have to do'?'
I nearly choked on my laugh, thinking about the whole succubus survival scene. 'You might say that. I mean, doesn't everyone?'
'Yes, of course, but you've got to balance them with things you want to do. Don't get bogged down with the have- to's. Otherwise, there's no point in being alive. Life becomes a matter of survival.'
I finished a screw. 'You're getting kind of deep for me tonight, Descartes.'
'Don't be cute. I'm serious. What do you really want? From life? For your future? For example, do you plan on being at the bookstore forever?'
'For a while. Why? Are you saying there's something wrong with that?'
'No. Just seems kind of mundane. Like a way to fill the time.'
I smiled. 'No, definitely not. And even if it was, we can still enjoy mundane things.'
'Yes, but I've found most people harbor dreams of a more exciting vocation. The one that's too crazy to ever actually do. The one that's too hard, too much work, or just too 'out there.' The gas station attendant who dreams of being a rock star. The accountant who wishes she'd taken art history classes instead of statistics. People put their dreams off, either because they think it's impossible, or because they'll do it 'someday' “
He had paused from our work, his face serious once more.
'So what do you want, Georgina Kincaid? What is your crazy dream? The one you think you can't have but secretly fantasize about?'
Honestly, my deepest longing was to have a normal relationship, to love and be loved without supernatural complications. Such a small thing, I thought sadly, compared to his grandiose examples. Not crazy at all, just impossible. I didn't know if I wanted love now as a way of making up for the mortal marriage I'd destroyed or simply because the years had shown me that love could be a bit more fulfilling than being a continual servant of the flesh. Not that that didn't have its moments, of course. Being wanted and adored was an alluring thing, a thing most mortals and immortals craved. But loving and longing were not the same things.
Relationships with other immortals seemed a logical choice, but employees of hell proved nonideal candidates for stability and commitment. I'd had a few semisatisfying relationships with such men over the years, but they'd all come to nothing.
Explaining any of this, however, was not a conversation Roman and I were going to have anytime soon. So instead, I confessed my secondary fantasy, half-surprised at how much I wanted to. People didn't usually ask me what I wanted from life. Most just asked me what position I wanted to do it in.
'Well, if I weren't at the bookstore—and believe me, I'm very happy there—I think I'd like to choreograph Vegas dance shows.'
Roman's face split into a grin. 'There, you see that? That's the kind of wacky, off-the-wall thing I'm talking about.' He leaned forward. 'So what holds you back from bare breasts and sequins? Risk? Sensationalism? What others will say?'
'No,' I said sadly. 'Simply the fact that I can't do it.'
' 'Can't' is a—'
'I mean, I
He scoffed. 'I don't believe that.'
'No, it's true.'
Someone had once told me that immortals were not meant to create, that that was the province of humans who burned to leave behind a legacy after their short existence. But I'd known immortals who could do it. Peter was always concocting his original culinary surprises. Hugh used the human body as a canvas. But me? I had never been able to do it as a mortal either. The lack was in me.
'You don't know how hard I've tried to do creative things. Painting classes. Music lessons. I'm a dismal failure at worst, a copycat of another's genius at best.'
'You've been pretty adept with this building project.'
'Another person's design, another person's directions. I excel at that part. I'm smart. I can reason. I can read people, interact with them perfectly. I can copy things, learn the right moves and steps. My eyes, for example.' I pointed to them. 'I can apply makeup as well or better than any of the department store girls. But I get all my ideas and palettes from others, from pictures in magazines. I don't make up anything of my own. The Vegas thing? I could dance in a show and be perfect. Seriously. I could be the star of any revue—following another's choreography. But I couldn't write any moves myself, not in any major or significant way.'
The wall was done. 'I don't believe it,' he argued. His passionate defense both surprised and charmed me. 'You're bright and vivacious. You're intelligent—extremely so. You have to give yourself a chance. Start small, and go from there.'
'Is this the part where you tell me to believe in myself? The sky is the limit?'
'No. This is the part where I tell you it's getting late, and I need to go. Your shelf is finished, and I have had a lovely evening.'
We stood up and lifted the bookcase, leaning it against my living room wall. Stepping back, we studied it in silence. Even Aubrey appeared for the inspection.
Each shelf sat at a crooked angle. One of the sidewalls almost lined up straight with the backboard's edge, the other had a quarter-inch margin. Six holes were visible in the backboard. And most inexplicably of all, the whole thing seemed to lean slightly to the left.
