Must Be a Mistake

by Fiona West

  “I’ll cut it for you, gorgeous.”

  She stacked the planks next to him and straightened, rolling her eyes. “Shameless.”

  “Why? Because I’m seventy-two? I’m not dead, you know.” He cackled.

  “Neither is your wife, Perry!” she called over her shoulder. Her father’s friends were always giving her a hard time; they seemed to feel personally responsible for her single state. She went in through the garage, stopping to remind the ladies to wipe the drips off the floor. Kyle was done placing the planks she’d laid out for him.

  “Nice job, Doctor. I should’ve figured you’d be good with your hands.”

  He turned to look at her, eyebrows raised, and she played back the tape in her head to figure out what she’d said wrong.

  “Oh”—she felt her face flush—“I didn’t mean . . .”

  “That’s okay,” he said, brushing off his hands as he got to his feet, “I am good with my hands. In more than one sense.” He was staring at her. No, gazing at her, letting his hip rest on the kitchen island.

  I should look away. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. But she didn’t. Ainsley stood with him in the kitchen, looking deep into his brown eyes, until someone behind her cleared his throat.

  “Can you help me bring up some boxes of flooring to the master bath?” she asked Kyle, pointing over her shoulder.

  “Sure,” he said, but he was looking over her shoulder now, and she turned.

  “Hi, Pop. Need something?”

  Her father was glaring at Kyle. “Nope.”

  She looked between the two men, unsure how to break the weird, silent conversation they were apparently having. “Well, then.” She turned and went out to the trailer, climbing over all the stuff people had stacked in the middle to get to the flooring boxes. She passed them out to Kyle, who, predictably, had followed her out. Possibly, there’s a good reason I’m still single. And that reason is an overprotective ex-cop dad named Gary Buchanan.

  Her planks had been cut when they came back down; the two of them placed the last pieces, then added the molding.

  “You finally got to use a hammer!” Ainsley teased Kyle, and he scowled.

  “I was trying to be nice, offering to bring a hammer. Won’t make that mistake again,” he said haughtily, carefully keeping his eyes on his fingers as he tapped in the finishing nails.

  “I’m sure you won’t,” she said, using her soothing teacher voice.

  “What are you doing after this?” he asked.

  Ainsley’s nerves were starting to get raw. It was just too weird, having him here in her domain. “My dad usually takes me out for Mexican.”

  “Ixtapa?”

  “No, Muchas Gracias.”

  “Ever been to Rico’s?”

  Ainsley forgot she was nervous. Thinking with her stomach did that to her. “No, where’s that?”

  “Sublimity. It’s a little farther, but it’s worth it.”

  “Good nachos?”

  “Yeah, they’re good,” he said, standing up. “But the breakfast burritos are my favorite. I like to grab one after I work a night shift.”

  “Do you have to do that a lot?”

  He nodded, placing the hammer gently on the island. They were gazing again.

  “Well,” she said cheerfully, “thanks for coming today, it was great to have your help.” Ainsley stuck out her hand, and he shook it, half a smile on his face.

  “You’re welcome. I’ll see you for Cooper pickup on Monday.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He moved past her toward the front hall.

  “Don’t forget to sign out,” she called.

  “I never signed in,” he called back.

  “Why not?”

  Kyle smiled, then disappeared out the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KYLE DROVE TO HIS HOUSE and sat in his car in the driveway. He was tired. Yawning, he scrubbed a hand over his face and heaved himself out of the car to go inside. He’d just take a quick shower—building was surprisingly dirty work—and then head over to his parents’ house for dinner—

  Ugh. Again? Daniel and Winnie were on the couch, trying to act innocent, but he could see the color on both their cheeks was higher than normal. And it wasn’t because Daniel had turned up the thermostat again. Their presence here was becoming a problem. Why weren’t they at Winnie’s apartment? Ainsley would be out most of the day, if he’d overheard her correctly. People made no sense sometimes. They just didn’t think things through.

  From his bag, he pulled out the list he’d printed last night. “Here.”

  “What’s this?” Daniel asked, taking the paper. “Grievances?”

  “I considered nailing them to the front door, but you don’t usually come in that way.”

  “Lack of dish-doing, that’s fair. Failure to contribute to the cleanliness of shared spaces . . . I know I was supposed to vacuum, but I got called into work. I’ll do it tomorrow, I swear. Poor hygiene? What?”

  “You left dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. It’s unacceptable.” Kyle crossed his arms over his chest as Winnie gave them a bemused glance. “Look, I know you’re moving out soon, but in the meantime, you need to change your ways. Consider it practice so that Winnie doesn’t throttle you.”

  “Kyle . . .”

  “No.” He held up a hand. “This is my house. These stipulations were in the contract you signed. You either start upholding your part of the deal, or I’ll double your rent.” Kyle started up the stairs.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Yes, I can,” he called back. “And read the fine print before you sign anything for your next place.” He shut the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. At least Daniel never came into his bedroom; he was safe from his brother’s slovenly chaos in here. He touched his bookshelf protectively; his football trading cards were still laid out in order. It made him breathe easier to look at them; a little visual stimulation when he was tired or stressed. When he’d lived with his parents, his siblings had found it amusing to move them while he was out, and it still annoyed him to think about it. They’d even timed how long it would take him to notice, like it was hard. Like anyone wouldn’t notice that immediately. He just didn’t get them sometimes. Neurotypicals were so weird.

  Kyle took his shower and changed into basically the same clothes he’d just been wearing before he lay down on his bed and retreated into Twitter. Unlike other social media platforms, there were no real friendships here; he could lurk anonymously and leave without anyone knowing he’d been there. If people tried to DM him, he just ignored them. It was just the right amount of stimulation, little bites of all the stuff that interested him: sports, video games, politics. The politics was too much and got him fired up sometimes, but he seldom responded to the provocation. He did, however, answer a lot of questions for people stuck on a game level or unable to find the stat they were looking for, and it had garnered him a few thousand followers.

  His favorite account had been active. Brad was a gamer in Massachusetts, autistic like him. SaveTheNeurotypicals was a close second; she helped him put his family and friends into context sometimes. Helped him see his own condition more objectively.

  BrokenBrad: Anyone up to Minecraft this afternoon?

  Yeah, he had time for that. He found Brad’s Minecraft server and began to build a library, losing himself in the creation. Kyle preferred games that were a little more low-key after the intensity of the emergency room. Stardew Valley with its little farm, Kerbal Space Program with its cute green alien astronauts, Minecraft with its infinite sandbox feel . . . He wanted to try Animal Crossing, but he didn’t want anyone to find out and ridicule him. He broadcasted his games on Twitch occasionally, but he didn’t have many followers. He didn’t like the constant stream of chatter from the players and couldn’t emulate it, and his schedule was variable and strange enough that he couldn’t always log on at the same time.

  His phone rang, and he answered it on speaker
to keep his hands free.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Grumpy.” Maggie had dubbed her brothers Happy, Grumpy, and Bashful at a young age, and apparently, she felt the nicknames still applied.

  “What do you want? I’m coming over soon and I’m busy.”

  “Just wanted to give you a heads up about something.”

  He paused the game. “What?”

  “I want to have a Sibling Night monthly. I don’t get to see you guys much anymore, especially not together. Will you do that for me?”

  “Sure.” He assumed the conversation was over and moved to hit the red hang-up button on his phone, but she kept talking.

  “I know it’ll be a challenge with schedules and stuff, but it’s just once a month. And with Daniel moving out, I know you’ll be lonely by yourself.”

  “No, I won’t,” he said gruffly. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Whatever, Grump. I know you better than that.”

  He resumed his game, muting it so she wouldn’t know. “You’re mistaken.”

  “Do you think we should let Daniel bring Winnie? She’s kind of a sibling.”

  He thought about it for a moment. It was setting a precedent if this kind of event was going to become a Durand family tradition. And if it was precedent, then he could bring Ainsley someday . . . if he ever managed to actually ask her out. He liked that idea.

  “Yes. Definitely. Winnie is welcome.”

  “Okay. See you later?”

  “I already said you would,” he said, disconnecting the call before she could start laughing.

  He played for a few more minutes, then decided to take a nap. He’d only been at the build site for four hours, but between the learning curve, the physical work, and the drive there and back, he was almost as tired as if he’d worked a full shift at the hospital. Not knowing what was going on or what he was supposed to do was hard, but putting himself in Ainsley’s hands? That was easy. He’d lucked out that her dad had made her train him. Was it luck? He didn’t know; Gary hadn’t seemed too thrilled about their moment in the kitchen, but the man was hard to read. But he did know one thing . . . tabbing over to an internet browser, he logged onto the Habitat site and signed up for another half day the next weekend.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AINSLEY HAD JUST WALKED into Muchas Gracias when her phone pinged with an email. She scanned it as they walked to their usual table. He signed up for next weekend. Her heart felt bubbly, but she quickly popped the happy feelings. It’s got nothing to do with me. Maybe he wants to work on his house and he’s using Habitat to learn how. Maybe he has a guilty conscience about something and he’s compensating. Maybe he just likes to work with his hands . . . Nope, nothing to do with me.

  “What’s got nothing to do with you?”

  She looked up at her dad. “What?”

  “Ainsley, if you’re going to talk to yourself, do it inside your head.”

  “Sorry.” She put the phone away and grinned at her dad. “What’s new, Pop?”

  “Nothing. That’s what it means to be retired. Nothing’s new. It’s nice.” He sipped the water the waitress had brought them. “What’s new with you?”

  “Starla conned me into doing the bake sale again.” Two dozen snickerdoodle cupcakes with browned buttercream frosting . . . She’d probably be up until midnight again, waiting for them to cool, because she had a PTA meeting that night, so she wouldn’t be able to start until late. She blew her bangs out of her eyes in annoyance. Why did everyone act like they could prevail upon her time? Just the idea of saying no made her chest feel tight. She wouldn’t think about why that was.

  He rubbed his protruding belly. “Good news for me.”

  “No, it’s not, Mr. Diabetic. You need to steer clear of that stuff.”

  Gary ignored her, and she frowned at him before changing the subject. “Did you go golfing with Randy?”

  He nodded. “Did a round at Elkhorn.”

  “Who won?”

  “I think you already know the answer to that.”

  “Why do you even play with him if he’s so terrible?”

  “Darlin’, I’ve known Randy since before you were born, going on thirty years. His ability or inability to play golf is immaterial to me at this point. We like taking a walk on green, level grass and we can afford to pay fifty dollars to do so at Elkhorn.”

  She gave him half a smile.

  “Speaking of old friends,” he said, and she knew what was coming next, “did you enjoy catching up with Dr. Durand?” He said his name with too much emphasis.

  “We weren’t really friends as kids, Dad.”

  “See, that’s funny, because I remember you coming home with stories about him all the time.”

  “Daniel was in the after-school orchestra with me in middle school, as you already know. The only time I saw Kyle was when he picked us up, and he was always in a hurry to go, let me tell you. No time to stand around and chat, that one.”

  “He broke my mailbox, you know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Is that why you were glaring at him?”

  “It was a brand-new mailbox. Custom made, Ainsley. But no, I was glaring at him because he was lusting after my beautiful daughter. Never would’ve had you orientate him if I’d known he was gonna be like that.”

  She ignored his attempts to bait her with bad grammar. “Dad, Kyle Durand did not break your custom-made mailbox in the shape of a rainbow trout’s head. And if he did, he did us all a service, that thing was ugly as heck. And he was certainly not lusting.”

  Ainsley was saved from having to endure more mailbox complaints when the waitress came to take their order . . . but her reprieve from the questions was short-lived. With nachos and enchiladas on their way, her father returned to his previous line of questioning.

  “Sure seemed like he was willing to chat with you today.”

  “He just needed instructions. He doesn’t know anything about building.”

  “Darlin’, he stuck to you like fly paper. Followed you around like a puppy. Not me, not Perry Helsing, you.”

  “Just wait until he gets his confidence up. You’ll see.”

  Her father’s eyebrows disappeared from view under the brim of his hat. “He’s coming back?”

  She wiggled her phone. “Just got the notification. Surprised me, too.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t be the first man to admire your confidence around a construction site. And you’re welcome for that.”

  Ainsley laughed. “Yes, but the rest of them qualify for AARP.”

  He snorted. “You gonna sleep over tonight? Eat my pancakes in the morning?”

  Her heart warmed at the idea of sleeping at her parents’ house. She liked her apartment, but it lacked a certain hominess that they provided. She missed her family.

  “Is maple syrup the best?”

  Her dad shook his head, smiling, and lapsed into silence, watching the basketball game on the TV behind her. Ainsley looked around the small restaurant. A child was waving at her; it was Emily Miller. With a smile, she slid out of the booth and crossed the seating area to give Starla a side hug and greet her family—even Señor Douchebag, who was currently eating a dos manos burrito, living proof that being handsome wasn’t everything.

  “Hi, Ms. B!” Emily chirped.

  Ainsley plucked a chip from the girl’s basket and enjoyed her fake outrage. “Then eat, girl!” she chided; Em was always too busy talking to eat. “What’re you guys doing here?”

  “We came to meet Daddy for lunch!” That made sense; the dealership was just down the road.

  “Oh, is he working today?” Ainsley asked innocently. She gave him about a 25 percent chance of actually working versus meeting one of his girlfriends.

  “Unfortunately,” Charlie said, but his fakety-fake-fake grimace gave way quickly to a smile. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Ainsley. How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Busy, but fine. How’s business?”

  Charlie’s fa
ce brightened. “Oh, it’s been great. We’re selling lots of four-wheel-drive vehicles, people getting ready for winter. Jason’s been busy in the shop. We’re running some great deals; you ought to come in and replace that junker you’re driving.”

  “No, I’m good, thanks.” She loved her funky old truck. Truth be told, it was her favorite accessory. The bright salmon paint job made her smile; you’d never lose it in a parking lot.

  “How about you, Aiden? Still playing chess?”

  He mumbled an answer, but didn’t look up from his food. He’d loved chess when he was in her class, but he’d been extra surly lately. She’d thought it was just boy hormones, but her teacher sense told her there might be something else going on.

  “He’s doing great, aren’t you, Aid?” said Charlie, slapping him lightly on the knee, and Ainsley bit her tongue to keep from snarling that she hadn’t asked him.

  “Maybe we could set up a game this week at the library after school?” That earned her a small smile and some fleeting eye contact, at least. Maybe that’s the best you could expect from a nine-year-old whose home life was a bit tense.

  She glanced at Star, and she didn’t need to ask how she was doing; her annoyance was in the tightness around her eyes, the dip of her eyebrows, but she was forcing a smile. Ainsley was tired of seeing that look on her beautiful friend’s face. She put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’ll give you a call later tonight so we can catch up, okay?”

  Starla nodded, giving her a little wave as she left. Ainsley made herself walk back to her own table; she knew it would still be hard to get the details out of her friend when she called later. Starla didn’t like being a martyr; she just hid from the world, playing possum, until people left her alone. Fortunately for her, Ainsley loved her far too much to do so. Her phone vibrated with a text.

  Starla: Found an earring in my bed this morning when I was changing the sheets.

  She shot her a look across the restaurant, and the defeated look on her friend’s face almost made her cry.

  Ainsley: Not yours?

  Starla: Not mine.