I try not to laugh at the image and skulk as far away from him as I can in this limited space. I pick up a snorkeling mask from the shelf and hold it up in front of my face. There are several just like it next to it, and other things like wetsuits and oxygen tanks. “What’s all this stuff?” I ask.
“My dad was a diving instructor. This was his old equipment.” He holds up a breathing tube between his fingers and stares at it for a moment. His shoulders square off and I am reminded of how he looked the first night when we met. A little sad and lonely.
“Do you just want me to put everything into garbage bags? Is there anything you want to keep?” I ask carefully. I have noticed that he has been sorting through each item in the house diligently, assessing its sentimental value before deciding to donate or keep it. For the things he wants to keep, he packs them carefully into cardboard boxes that he plans to ship to his address in New York. I didn’t think for a billionaire, he would be so sentimental. The items that went into the boxes often have little monetary value: a raggedy baseball glove, a threadbare flannel work shirt, a handmade mug with shaky, childish handwriting that says “I <3 MOM” on it, et cetera.
“Just toss it all out.” He throws the black plastic tube away as if he hasn’t just spent the last few minutes staring at it like it’s a missing piece of his childhood. “It’s all too old anyway. These things never keep. The sun and the saltwater eat away the materials and it all falls apart too quickly.”
“Are you sure?” I ask again. “Some of these seem to be in good shape. I’m sure you can use it or at least donate it.” I hold up a diving mask that looks almost new. “Like this one.”
“Just toss it.” His mouth forms a hard, thin line and I know that’s the end of the discussion. I take it back. He thinks that he is right all the time.
I bite down on my lower lip and grab things off the shelves and racks, putting everything into garbage bags that I already have in hand. I am surprised that Fletcher does the same and starts working next to me. It is my third day working here, and we have seemed to find our rhythm. Despite my initial misgivings, I find Fletcher easy to work for. He may be demanding initially and he is blunt about pointing out faults, but he is also generous with his help and very attentive if I need a break. However, he doesn’t take many breaks himself. He has usually been up for hours before I get here in the morning, and after I leave, he is always working late into the night.
Today, I am surprised because he stays in the garage with me. He usually works alone in a room by himself. He plans it out so that we never have to be in the same room together for long, which I’ve been grateful for. When he is around, I find myself moving unnaturally and speak in awkward, stilted sentences, as if my body wants to attract his attention yet at the same time, wants to run as far away from him as possible.
We work quietly in the small space, elbow to elbow. Even though neither of us is looking at or talking to the other, I am sure that both of us are very aware of each other’s presence.
I let out a quiet breath. I am just being an idiot; I tell myself as I fill another bag. He just wants the stuff out quickly so we can move the car when the guy comes today. But it doesn’t stop me from being very alert about his movements and watching him from the corner of my eye.
He’s dressed casually today in a plain black T-shirt and dark jeans. The cuffs of the sleeves are wrapped around his hard biceps and the shirt itself drapes flawlessly over his long torso. The jeans are a little tightly wrapped over his behind, and my eyes linger for a second too long. This is a man who would look good wearing anything.
I look down at the yellow sundress that I’m wearing. It is my mother’s and the nicest thing we own. I feel self-conscious of my arms and legs that are bare in the chilly ocean breeze, but I really wanted to wear something feminine in front of Fletcher today and it has nothing to do with what Meghan said last night. I just don’t want to hide behind my oversized hoodie anymore. Like most girls, I want to look pretty for once.
I’m not ashamed of how frumpy I normally look. It’s not like I have the money or the time to pretty myself up every day. I’m comfortable in my clothes and I can afford them since they cost me nothing from the donation bins behind the local ShopMart. But I remember how he looked at me that day in front of the bookshelf. For hours after, I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed just a second longer. Yet when I came back later that day, he was cold and professional toward me as if nothing had happened. I want to see the same hungry look in his eyes. It pleases me I have that kind of power over this powerful and uncompromising man.
I stealthily tug at the hem of my dress. I am bigger and taller than my mom, so the dress is a little too small for me. I feel like I can’t bend over or make any sudden movements unless I want to display my underwear to the world. It barely covers the top
