THEN AGAIN • TC ✔️

21. Waiting Game

Eight forty-five, and Timmy is waiting in his room for the front door to swing shut. Clem seems to be taking ages with this particular client, and it just means that he has to wait longer to ask her to be his plus one. Means he has less time to find someone else if she says no. (Which means he might just have to go alone.)

She's still nattering away; he can hear her voice through the stupid thin walls. Timmy spins around three times on his chair in quick succession. Turns around three times the other way so he doesn't get dizzy, and then pokes his feet between the sections of the chair's base, running socked toes over the wheels.

It feels like forever before he finally hears the door closing. Timmy springs up, out of his seat. Briefly checks his face in the mirror and then pulls back his bedroom door, skidding into the kitchen. Clem smiles at him, patting her hair into place as best she can.

They don't say anything for a while. It's just Clem asking for Timmy's help cutting through one of the massive fuck off sweet potatoes they bought on Monday. (Honestly, Timmy's not much help. His arms are hardly any bigger than Clem's and he has all the strength of a grasshopper, but he does his bit and manages, after several botched attempts using several different knives, to cut all the way though the potato.)

But then they stand there, side by side at the kitchen counter. Clem peels carrots as Timmy cuts the sweet potato into cubes. He severs off a little bruised patch from one of the pieces, and looks over at Clem, who's unintentionally lobbing carrot peel at the backsplash. He smiles.

"So this thing we need to talk about," Timmy begins, and Clem glances over at him.

"You're making it sound bad," she says. Edges a peeled carrot under the path of his knife so he can cut off the top. Clem chucks it in the colander. Moves onto the next.

"Sorry," Timmy says, before he can think. "I mean, I'm not- it's not a bad thing. But I've got to go and see this musical tomorrow, and-"

"Ooh, what is it?" she asks interestedly.

"Into the Woods," he replies, hesitant. Cuts a bit of potato into chunks that are too small.

"Oh, Sondheim," she sucks in air through her teeth. "Not my favourite."

This is already looking bad.

"Can you come with me?" he blurts out. Chops the top off another of the proffered carrots, and Clem nods.

"If you want."

If he wants.

"What time does it start?"

It takes Timmy a while to respond because he's still processing the fact that she's said yes. (He remembers the first event that he took Clem to. A school concert, squeaky violins and enough of a migraine to last him a lifetime. It's surprising to him that she's still agreeing to this. Even after something like that.)

"Oh, uh. Seven," he says distractedly. Cuts through the last of the potatoes. There's silence for a moment or two. The thwack of a knife on the chopping board and the scraping of the vegetable peeler.

"Yeah, okay, that works," she shrugs. Reaches over to Timmy's hand and stills it. Picks a bit of peel off the blade of his knife. "We've got enough potato, I think," Clem says. He leaves the knife on the chopping board and pinches some more peel between his fingers.

"So you're coming?" he asks, following her with his eyes as she starts to chop the carrots into chunks. He gathers up the little piles in cupped hands, and drops them into the colander, only managing to spill a couple here and there. One goes to the counter, then the floor, another goes straight to the floor, another rolls somewhere behind the kettle.

"If you want me there," she nods. Puts a gentle hand on his arm as she reaches around him for the carrot peeler which she's put in the sink. Timmy watches her scrape off a bit of carrot skin that was left on last time. He wants her hand to stay on his arm.

"I do," he says. "Please. I'm not sure if I can sit through it on my own."

Clem laughs prettily, scooping the last of the carrots into the colander and passing it to Timmy so he can wash them.

"I'm sure I can help you out," she smiles at him. "What should I wear?"

Timmy shakes his head, because he doesn't really know. What do people usually wear to these things? Nothing formal, but not sweatpants.

"Uh, I don't know, just wear something nice," he offers. "I mean, not that you don't usually, but not- no, I mean, like-" he rambles, backpedalling and tripping over his words as they spew out of his mouth.

"Yeah? What do I not look nice in then, Timmy?" she chides, laughing at him. Timmy feels ashamed. He lowers his head, shrugs his shoulders. Picks up a chunk of carrot and drops it back into the colander.

"You look nice in everything," he mumbles, and there's a pause for a moment. Then Clem's laugh again, somehow even brighter than before.

"Yeah, okay. Nice save," she giggles.

(It's not a save at all. It's a genuine compliment, but Timmy has no idea how to make Clem see that without letting her onto something that would be better kept a secret.)