The man's jaw dropped. "This is middle class?"
I nodded, stretching up for the pull cord and putting my weight on it. "Most of the city is." The trapdoor barely moved, and my arms gave out. It snapped shut with a bang, and I dropped back down on my heels, disgusted.
Pierce smoothly took the cord and stepped under the door. He wasn't much taller, but he had more muscle. "I can do it," I said, but my arms were trembling, and I backed up while he swung the ladder down like it was nothing. But then again, it was.
Pierce looked up into the inky blackness spilling cool air down onto us, jumping when I flicked on the light.
"Sorry," I said, taking advantage of his surprise by pushing past him and up onto the ladder. "I'll be right back," I said, enjoying the cooler air up here smelling of wood and dusty boxes. The shush of a passing car from outside sounded odd and close. Arms wrapped around me, I looked over the past boxed up and piled haphazardly about, like memories in a person's brain. It was only a matter of knowing where a thought was and dusting it off.
My eyes lit upon the stack of carefully labeled tomato boxes that had my stuffed animals. A faint smile came over my face, and I stepped over the Halloween decorations to touch a dusty lid. I must have had about two hundred of them, all collected during my stints in and out of the hospital. I had counted them my friends, many taking on the names and personalities of my real friends who never made it out of the hospital that one last time. I knew my mom wanted them gone, but I couldn't throw them away, and as soon as I got my own place, I'd take them with me.
I lifted the first one and set it aside to find the box hiding under them. It was my dad's, tucked away lest my mom throw it out in a fit of melancholy. Some of his best stuff. I dug my fingernails into the little flaps to get a grip, grunting when it proved heavier than I thought. God, what had I put in here, anyway?
"Allow me," came Pierce's voice from my elbow, and I spun.
"Holy crap!" I exclaimed, then covered my mouth, feeling myself go red. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were up here."
Pierce's shock at my language melted into almost laughter. "My apologies," he said, and I shifted to let him to lift the box with enviable ease. "I like attics. They're as peaceful as God's church. Alone and apart, but a body can hear everything. The past stacked up like forgotten memories, but with a small effort, brought down and enjoyed again."
I listened to the cold night and smiled. "I know exactly what you mean."
Watching my footing, I followed him to the stairway. He took the box from me and gestured that I should go before him, and, flattered at the chivalry, I did. My shoulders eased as the warmth of the house slipped over me, and I stood aside when Pierce lightly descended. He handed me the box to fold the ladder back up, but he hesitated at the bare bulb, still glowing in the attic. Without glancing at me for permission, he carefully pushed the light switch down.
Of course the light went out. A delighted smile came over him, and much to his credit, he didn't play with the switch but shoved the collapsible ladder closed and back into the ceiling. I watched his eyes travel over the lines of it as he did, as if memorizing how it worked.
"Thank you," I said as I went before him, back into the kitchen with the box.
The coffeemaker was gurgling its last, and Pierce looked at it, undoubtedly figuring out what it was from the rich scent that had filled the kitchen. "If that doesn't cap the climax," he said, almost missing the table as he took the box from me and set it down. "It made itself."
"I'll get you some," I said as I hustled to the cupboard. It smelled great as I poured out two cups and I handed him one, our fingers touching. He smiled, and something tightened in my chest. God, I am not falling for him. He's dead. But he did have a nice, mischievous smile.
"I hope I'm not making a mistake drinking this," he said. "How real am I?"
I shrugged, and he took a sip, eyeing me over the rim to make my breath catch. God, he had beautiful eyes.
His eyebrows shot up, and jerking, he started to violently cough.
"Oh, golly," I said, remembering not to swear as I took the cup from him before it could spill. "I'm sorry. You can't drink, huh?"
"Strong," he gasped, his blue eyes vivid as they watered. "Really strong."
I set his cup down and took a sip of mine. My mouth tried to pucker up, and I forced myself to swallow. Crap, my mom had filled the filter, and the coffee was strong enough to kill a cat. "Don't drink that," I said, taking his cup and mine to the sink. "It's terrible."
"No, it's fine."
I froze as he caught my hand. I turned, feeling his light but certain grip. A slow quiver rose through me, and I stifled it before it could show as a tremor. I was suddenly very aware that we were here alone. Anything could happen-and as the moment hung, his silence and almost-words ready to be whispered that he was having thoughts, too-I nearly wished it would. He was different. Strong but unsure. Capable but lost. He knew I had been ill, and he didn't baby me. I liked him. A lot, maybe. And he needed my help. No one had ever needed my help before. No one. Especially someone as capable and strong as him.
"It's undrinkable," I said when I found my voice, and he took his cup from me.
"If you made it, it's divine," he said, smiling like the devil himself, and I felt my heart thump even as I knew he was bullshitting me.
His fingers left mine, and my presence of mind returned. I wasn't a fainting debutante to fall for a line like that, but still, to have a man drink nasty coffee to impress me was way flattering. My eyebrows rose, and I wondered how far he would go. I had half a thought to let him drink the nasty stuff.
"Why thank you, Pierce," I said, smiling. "You are a true gentleman."
I turned to open the box, looking over my shoulder in time to see him staring into his mug with a melancholy sigh. Ten to one he was going to spill it, but there was an entire pot to refill his cup with.
The dust made my nose tickle as I unfolded the flaps. A slow smile spread over me as I looked at the stash and saw my dad everywhere. He'd made many of his own ley line charms for work, and being home sick most of the time, some of my earliest memories were of him and me at the table while the sun set and he prepped for a night on the street apprehending bad guys. I had my crayons, he had his chalk, and while I colored pixies and fairies, he'd sketch pentagrams, spill wax in ley line figures, and burn all sorts of concoctions to make Mom wave her hands and complain about the smell, secretly proud of him.