Page 160 of On His Mind

I look at the pencil in my hand.

And then I throw it.

It goes across the room and hits the wall by the window and drops on the ground. The sound it makes is so small that I sit there staring at the place where it went with my heart going like I’ve done something enormous.

I don’t get up to pick it up.

I flex my hand because they always cramp. Then I breathe. I pick up the 4H and finish the stair detail, and it takes me forty minutes.

Chapter 52

Percy

Thebackdoorhitsthe wall hard enough to rattle the spice rack.

“Pers.”

I don’t look up. I’ve lived with Stanley Ermington long enough to learn that it’s best to not give him any attention.

“Pers. Percival. Percy —”

“That’s not my name.”

Plastic bags crash down onto the table in front of me, six or seven of them, one tipping sideways so a rotisserie chicken in a plastic dome rolls out and comes to a stop against my forearm.

“Move your book.”

I move my book and push the chicken towards the bag it fell out of.

He’s still got his coat on, snow melting in his hair, cheeks red.

“Exams are coming up,” he says, looking at the bags like he’s trying to decide which one to get to first.

“They are,” I reply.

“I need to study.” He grabs my shoulders and shakes me. My chair legs skid. “One more semester and I never get to see you sitting in that fucking chair again. I’m going to be devastated, man. I’m going to have to buy the chair off the landlord.”

“Not if I buy it first,” I say, thinking it’s not a bad idea.

Rowan comes in from the living room with his hair still wet from the shower. “I don’t think anybody would notice if you replaced it. There’s no housing police marking down everything in here.”

Blue says, “Pretty sure the furniture are hand-me-downs from the guys before us.”

“Probably,” Stanley says, already elbow-deep in the first bag. “Too bad I can’t buy this house. I’d buy it and put all of us in it once a year. We could come back here every year with our girls.” He pauses and points at Rowan. “Except for that sorry son of a bitch.”

“My mom’s a saint,” Rowan scoffs.

“Rowan’s going to always be the third wheel.”

Blue is in the seat beside me, scraping the plate of steak and the last of his mountain of mashed potatoes. He eyes the bags for a second.

“Sterm.” He chews his last bite, lifting his hand. “What is this?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s a lot of bags to not worry about.” He looks at me, but I keep my eyes on the bags.

Benson comes in and takes one look at the table. “Stanley. This is your worst idea.”