Page 23 of Summer Holiday Lifeline

Steven bit his tongue, because it wasn’t fair to point out Jake wasn’t the best judge of healthy emotional behavior. It wasn’t his fault his autism got in his way sometimes, and using it against him wasn’t just childish, it was cruel.

What was Steven’s excuse? “Hey,” he said finally. “I put some of Mom’s beef stew on for supper. You wanna stay?”

Jake shuffled from one foot to the other, hands dug deep in his pockets and teeth biting into his lower lip.

“You have plans,” Steven interpreted.

“Lucy’s mom made mac and cheese with crumbs on top. She gave me and Luce a pan full. Where’s Steph?”

“Off with Bob.”

Jake snickered. “Who she’s not dating.”

Steven couldn’t help a grin. “Because she doesn’t date.”

Jake paused, chin tilted up, gaze drifting towards the ceiling. “But Bob makes her smile.”

“So that’s good,” Steven agreed. He left the boxes leaning on the bed and went out into the hallway. “Go on.” He motioned down the stairs ahead of himself, and Jake took the invitation to thump down to the main floor. “Have mac and cheese with your girl,” Steven said. “I’ll see you around. And thanks for the boxes.”

“You should have supper at the B and B. Kreed’s making roast and potatoes tonight.” He was already shoving his feet back into his worn sneakers he’d lined up neatly by the back door, so he was talking over his shoulder.

“Maybe I will.”

With a last glance at the stairs, a slight frown, and a “see you” that Steven thought sounded a little tight around the edges, Jake left out the back door. Steven stayed on the threshold, toes butted up against the metal sill, and watched his brother hurry along the walkway that led from the main house to the carriage house at the back. It was the ideal situation, really. Jake needed his independence, and he and Lucy needed their privacy.

But he also needed to be close to the people who had his back, and close to his refuge when the world overwhelmed him. They’d left his tiny art room at the back of the bookstore for when he needed that, though they had carefully remodeled his bedroom on the second floor into an office for Steven. Not so many changes they couldn’t be undone if Jake needed to come home, but enough to make it a functioning space, unlike the too-small, overcrowded storage room their father had used as his office on the main floor.

And yet, Steven couldn’t bring himself to leave the house, even to go the short distance to the carriage house, which was literally, as Stephanie had pointed out, in his backyard. He could see his house from the window where Jake and Lucy had set up their dining table. And still. He couldn’t leave her.

Steven left the flattened boxes Jake had delivered, going instead to the main-floor store room as soon as he’d seen Jake enter the apartment. Not that he’d been watching over him to make sure he didn’t get sidetracked in the 20 metres door to door. That would be hovering.

“I have got to get out more.” But no. He got out just exactly as often as he wanted.

Standing in the middle of the room his father had once used as his office, Steven wondered why he’d come in here. Besides the fact it always made him feel safer, amongst his father’s things. Not that he hadn’t been feeling safe. This was his house, and nothing in it was worrisome. But the act of packing up his ex’s clothes and make-up and all the rest of the stuff she hadn’t bothered to take with her left him feeling hollow.

He couldn’t say he missed her. The last little while they’d been together had been full of stress for him. She liked a more active life than he did, and if he wasn’t going to take her places, she’d insisted on making his house more comfortable for her. Putting her stamp on things.

His gaze drifted to the floral print on the wall next to the door. She’d removed the old oil landscape his father had hung there when Steven was little, and replaced it with a pastel image of lilies and irises in its plain brass frame.

As he glared at it, it wavered, then dropped, hitting the floor with a crash of bent metal and shattered glass.

“Really?”

The house sighed around him, and the room settled into a pleased glow of lamplight.

A brief assessment of the wall showed that the nail the picture had hung on had pulled out, taking a chunk of plaster with it and tearing away a long, thin strip of wallpaper.

“It’s like you don’t even care that I have to clean that all up now,” he growled as he stomped to the kitchen for an empty pizza box to put the shards in, and a broom. “Calamity Jane. How do you like that name?”

The lights flared bright, then went out.

“Ha. Ha.”

They came back on as he thumped back to the little office, like a landing trail, lighting ahead of him and dimming behind until he stood in the doorway again.

He’d only picked up half the glass shards when the inevitable happened and he sliced three of his fingers open on a sharp edge.

“Fucking fuck sticks!” He clenched the hand into a fist, winced and swore some more as he stumbled over the broom handle to get to the kitchen. His feet caught, and he went down hard on one knee, probably giving himself a decent bruise in the process.