The Favour. Megan Hart
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for a screwdriver to open up the bottom panel. It came away easily enough, and what was inside wasn’t anything he’d never seen before. If anything, these older models were easier to fix because they didn’t rely on all the electronic bells and whistles the new ones did.
He was aware of Janelle watching him. Too aware. Her heavy winter clothes had been hiding a pair of black leggings and an oversize T-shirt cut at the neck so it hung off one shoulder. She wore thick, bunched socks and stood with one hip against the counter and her foot propped against the inside of her calf. It was strange seeing her as a redhead, even though that was how he’d always thought of her even when she’d been dying her hair black.
“Do you think you can fix it?”
“Yes. It’ll need a couple new parts, but you can get them at the hardware store. I’ll write a list.”
Janelle sighed. “Will they be expensive?”
Gabe looked up at her. From the living room came a burst of laughter that gave him pause before he answered. “Cheaper than a new dishwasher.”
“Yeah. Of course.” She laughed. “And better than washing all the dishes by hand, I guess.”
They didn’t have a dishwasher, working or broken, at the Tierney house. The old man had probably never washed a dish in his life. He’d firmly believed chores like that belonged to women and children...even grown children who still lived at home.
She was still watching him, her gaze a tickle on the back of his neck. Gabe carefully replaced the screws on the front panel and got to his feet. “Do you have some paper and a pen? I’ll write down what you need.”
“Yeah, sure. In the drawer.” She leaned past him to reach it.
She smelled good.
Gabe backed up a step. She noticed, of course. She was sharp like that. She pulled open the drawer, the contents rattling, and sighed.
“Huh, not here. I’ll have to get some from upstairs. Be right back.” She looked into his eyes when she moved past him, holding his gaze for several long seconds.
She’d been gone for only a minute when Bennett came into the kitchen. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Gabe looked up from the tool bag he was putting back in order. “Bennett, right?”
The kid nodded and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I came to get a drink.”
Gabe got out of the way, shoving his bag with a foot so it slid across the linoleum. The kid took a glass from the cupboard, then opened the fridge to pull out a gallon of milk. “You want some?”
“Uh...no, thanks.”
“You want a soda? Or my mom has a few beers in there.” The kid gave him that same curious head tilt his mother had.
Gabe shook his head. “No, thanks.”
Bennett sipped some milk and licked at the mustache it left behind. “Did you fix it?”
“Not yet.”
“But you will,” the kid said.
“I hope so. If I can get the right parts. It’s pretty old,” Gabe said. “But...I’ll do what I can.”
The kid beamed. “Good. Loading and unloading it is my chore, but if it’s broken, guess what my chore is.”
“Taking out the trash?”
“That, too,” Bennett said. “But also washing the dishes. It freaking sucks.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Gabe’s mouth, though he did his best to keep it straight. “Hey, language.”
Bennett looked surprised. “You think freaking’s a bad word?”
He didn’t, exactly, and it wasn’t even his place to have said anything to begin with. It had just slipped out automatically. To his horror, it was the sort of thing his old man would’ve said. Gabe grimaced.
Bennett frowned. “Don’t tell my mom, okay? She’ll be mad.”
In high school, Janelle had had a vast and colorful vocabulary. It had included a lot of creative curses that went well beyond the normal four-letter words. Freaking wouldn’t even have registered on her radar.
“You knew my mom when she was little, huh?”
It was weird the way he’d echoed Gabe’s thoughts from just a few moments ago, and Gabe stuttered a little bit on his answer. “Um, yeah. I did.”
Bennett nodded. “Nan said you did. She said you’ve lived next to her since you were born. How long is that?”
“A long time.”
“So you knew my mom when she lived here, with Nan?”
Gabe looked at the ceiling again, wondering if he could just write down the parts he needed at home and give them to Andy to bring over. Hell, he could just go to the hardware store himself and buy them. He didn’t want to stand here talking to Janelle’s son about knowing her, but the kid was clearly waiting for an answer.
“Yeah, I knew her.”
“You went to school together?”
“Yeah.”
“Same grade?”
“Yes,” Gabe said, irritated now. “Jesus, kid. What’s with the interrogation?”
Bennett frowned for a second. “Sorry. My mom says the only way to ever find anything out is if you ask questions. I just wanted to know what she was like when she was younger.”
“So why don’t you ask her?”
Bennett shrugged. “Duh, you think the stories she tells me are the ones I’d think were more interesting to hear? Or just the sorts of things a parent tells a kid.”
“What kinds of things would you want to hear?” Gabe nudged his tool bag with a toe, getting ready to pick it up and make his exit.
“You know, the good stuff. Maybe you don’t know any good stuff.”
Gabe looked at the kid seriously. “If I did, you think I’d tell you?”
“Maybe.” Bennett shrugged again. “Andy knew my mom in high school, too—she says he did. But he doesn’t remember her at all. So I figured you must remember. Especially if you were good friends.”
“Did she...tell you that?” Gabe bent for the tool bag, hefting its weight so the contents jingled. “She talked about me?”
“Nope. Not really. But you knew each other. You lived next door. Went to school together.” The kid gave Gabe another of those curious head tilts; it made his hair fall in front of his face until he shook it out. “She talks a lot about her other friends. Mom says the friends you make in school are the ones you remember best, and if you’re lucky they stay with you.”
“Sometimes if you’re unlucky,” Gabe muttered.
“The kids here are dickweeds.”
Gabe shouldn’t have laughed; the kid was clearly serious. But he looked so much like his mother. It reminded Gabe of too much that had happened, and he couldn’t do anything but stare. Bennett’s smile, so much like Janelle’s, slid off his face.
“I’ve moved four times since I was born. Including this time, that’s five times.” Bennett ticked them off on his fingers. “We moved when I was a baby, two times. I don’t remember it. Then when I was in first grade. Third grade. Now here. I had friends in my old school, but I haven’t made any here yet.”
“You will.”
Bennett scowled. “I liked California better, but Mom says Pennsylvania’s nicer in the summer. And no earthquakes.”
The kid paused expectantly, waiting for Gabe to answer.