Staying Grounded [BXB]

Not A Bottle

SEBASTIAN:

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Craig says as I reenter the shed, Dobby at my heel. He doesn't lift his head from under the bonnet of my ancient Ranger, his hands busy in the grimy guts of its engine. "I would have come back another time."

I set the two mugs of coffee down on a clear patch of the cluttered workbench and prop myself against its edge, folding my arms. "Perhaps. But it's tonight you didn't want to go home."

There's a momentary pause to the flex of his shoulder blades, the only sign he gives of hearing me.

I'm choosing to give him the benefit of the doubt that his eager offer to check over my motor came from a sincere place, just as I'm willing to believe that he knows what it is he's doing. Because faith stands to gain me more than I can lose. I don't currently have a working truck, and the rusting bucket isn't worth what a mechanic would charge to fix it. If I'm still without a working truck tomorrow, then so be it. On one point, though, I am entirely sure: When we'd arrived at the farmhouse, and Craig climbed out of his car with us, his reluctance to leave was palpable.

It had been Ashleigh's suggestion that perhaps our 'emergency' required his help. And I've now fulfilled my part of the ruse, informing his parents that his extended absence from their games night was of the utmost necessity.

My vehicular trouble, however, was not the excuse I gave them.

"You heard Dad tonight, right?" Craig raised objection, shaking his head. "The whole philosophy he has about well-honed wits saving hands from the dirty work. He barely tolerates me tinkering with Roxy."

The reminder of Philip's sour face at noting the callouses on my hands, and the dismissive way he turned from me, had chafed a sore spot raw. There's not a chance Uncle Kye would've let that go unchallenged. I shouldn't have either. "You start tinkering with Dolores-fucking-Sue," I'd said, provoked and stupid. "I'll handle your folks!"

I cannot claim to have handled them well. I also cannot claim to have gone into that phone call with a solid handle on myself.

"Your mum hung up on me," I admit as Dobby looks balefully up from his place at my feet, the only witness to my tumultuous performance. I flick my gaze away to the cobwebbed rafters. "According to your dad, I'm an insolent deadbeat."

"What?!" Craig thwacks his head off the bonnet in his haste to straighten. It sounds painful, and my teeth nip the inside of my cheek as I flinch. "Christ, ow! What the hell did you say?"

"A bit of cursing felt right, given the urgency of the situation I was selling, but—"

"Brilliant!"

"I never once directed it at them."

"Just brilliant. Thanks, Bastian. Knew this was a moronic idea."

"Not half so moronic as the need to lie."

"I should go."

"Yeah?" My eyes drop, cutting sharply to his. "Okay then, fine," I call his bluff. And it's not even because of the trouble he's already put me through for this. "If you're ready to scurry back home with your tail between your legs, I won't try to stop you." At my thumb jab toward the door, I see his jaw muscle twitch. "You've more purpose here than there tonight, Craig. In both the reality that you don't want your folks knowing and the fiction I've just spun. But if you'd rather disappear somewhere else and busy yourself with something entirely more destructive, I can't stop you from doing that either."

He holds my stare for the count of six slow breaths before he sighs and blinks away. "Quit acting like you get it, Bas."

Dobby sighs too, a gruff rumble that suggests he's done with this whole farcical disturbance I've brought upon his peaceful night, and he curls himself into a furry bagel as I reply. "I'm simply intrigued to see if you can figure out the problem with my truck."