Free The Carpenter by Matt Lennox

her. It took him a little while to come down, to stop thinking about falling over the ottoman, to stop thinking of other things. He listened to the sounds of the house. He was listening for Billy and Emily and not hearing them.
    In the early morning, Pete dressed in his work clothes. The light from outside was grey and cold. His knuckles were sore from striking the wall and his head hurt. He looked at Nancy. She was a stranger. She was snoring and was still wearing her jeans. Pete picked up her hand and put it down again. She did not stir. He shoved the clothes he’d worn the night before into his backpack.
    He moved through the house. No one was around. He had no idea what room Billy and Emily might have ended up in, and he gritted his teeth against the idea of going door to door to find them. In the living room, he could smell burned carpet and spilled beer. It made his gorge rise. He went out the front door and down to his car and got his work jacket out of the trunk. It was a lined canvas jacket with his name stitched at the breast. He put it on and rubbed his hands together. He got into the car and started it. It was then that he saw Emily out on the front porch. She was wearing a cable-knit sweater and she had a steaming mug between her hands. She saw him and gave a little wave. He got out of the car and shuffled back to the porch.
    —I was in the kitchen making tea, said Emily. I usually don’t sleep the whole night through. But I would have a nap every single afternoon if I could. Where are you going?
    He found himself looking at Emily’s hair, looking for it to be askew, but it hung as dark and straight as the first time he’d seen her. At some point, she’d washed off her makeup, what little she had seemed to be wearing the night before, and though there were darker spots under her eyes, even in the early morning light she remained almost too pretty to look at.
    —Well, some of us can’t sleep at night because they have a guilty conscience, said Pete. And some of us can’t sleep because they have to go to work.
    —Guilty conscience?
    —I’m teasing you.
    —I know you are. You work at the gas station on the bypass, right?
    —Yeah, that’s right.
    —How long have you been doing that?
    —Since May.
    —And what else? said Emily.
    —What else what?
    —What else anything, Pete. What’s your story?
    —Oh, said Pete. I don’t know. There’s not much to it. I was born in North Bay. We lived there until I was eight or so, then we moved back here, because this is my mom’s hometown, this is where she grew up. She’s married to a pastor now. I never met my dad.
    —My mom teaches grade two, said Emily. My dad is a cop.
    —And you play the piano better than anyone I ever heard.
    —Thank you. My grandmother taught me. She could play like you wouldn’t believe.
    —My grandma lives with us, said Pete.
    He did not mention anything about his grandmother’s illness. For a moment he had a clear idea of how his story must sound to someone like Emily—his grandmother was dying, his uncle was an ex-con, he’d never met his father, and, as for himself, he was a dropout who worked at a gas station. Emily, meanwhile, had it good, and came from good people. At best, he thought, she might tolerate someone like him, as long as she was seeing his friend.
    And yet, he was conscious of how he felt, standing here with her, watching her sip her tea. He said: Do you think you’ll go with Billy again?
    She shrugged. The mug was in front of her mouth.
    —You never know. If he continues to be a gentleman, maybe I’ll go with him again.
    Pete rubbed the back of his neck: Yeah, Billy’s a good guy.
    —He’s very good-looking, said Emily. He’s got beautiful hair. And my dad would absolutely hate him.
    —I see.
    —Maybe you can see Nancy again. We could go out, the four of us. That would be fun.
    He agreed lamely that they should all meet again. Then he went down the steps and got in his car, wondering what it was