Chapter 22: The Workshop

The lease letter came on Wednesday.

The landlord was a retired man who had never liked Dorian, and he wrote three lines.

The shop was mine at the old rent, with no signature but mine.

I opened the shutters that night for the first time in two weeks.

Dust floated in the lamplight.

The half-restored dresser stood where I'd left it, one drawer pulled out.

Hank had taken the boy for the night.

"I'm teaching him to play poker," he had said, with a straight face. "Don't come home."

I stood at the bench, sanding the drawer front, when I heard the door.

Leanne stood on the threshold in her gray cardigan with a paper bag in her hand.

"I brought dinner," she said.

"You didn't have to."

"I know." She came in and shut the door behind her. "I also brought your pills."

She set the amber bottle on the bench.

Then she stepped back, with her hands at her sides.

I looked at the bottle.

I looked at her.

I opened the cap myself, shook one into my palm, and swallowed it dry.

Her mouth trembled.

"First time in five years," she said.

"It won't be the last."

"I didn't hand it to you."

"No," I said. "That's why it counts."

I put down the sandpaper.

Her eyes went to my forearms, to the dust on my shirt, and stayed.

My pulse picked up.

"Leanne."

"Mm."

"The food can wait."

"Yes," she said, quite steadily. "I think it can."

I crossed the room.

She did not move away.

I put my hand on her cheek and she turned her face into my palm, and I felt her breath against my wrist.

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