“I did.”
Squinting, I trying to make that compute. “You made jewelry from a bike chain. Bike chains, Anthony, are evil.”
“Come again?”
“My favorite flower-power pants were eaten by a chain like that.”
“Flower-power pants?”
“They had pink flowers on a black background, and they were cruelly destroyed by a bike chain when I was about eight. The chain also left a black, greasy imprint on my calf that did not come off for days.”
“I’ll bet you were cute when you were eight.”
“Will you stop choosing adjectives for me? You’re terrible at it.” I cover the distance separating us and grab his left wrist. As I study his cuff, I feel his muscles stiffen beneath my fingers, the jump of his pulse. “I’ve always hated this.”
“You haven’t kept that a secret.”
“It’s very clunky. And probably somewhere in my subconscious, I recognized what it was.”
His eyes are wary now. “Can I have my wrist back?”
“No.” I run my finger over the links of the chain. “How’d you make it so smooth?”
“Two hundred twenty–grit sandpaper.”
I nod, though that means nothing to me. “Now that I know you made it, it’s, well…”
“Not horrible?”
Better than not horrible, but I’m feeling, well, all mushy inside. It’s a very uncomfortable feeling. What if I say something mushy because of it? I study his hands the way I have before. Short, bitten nails, calloused palms, tiny white scars. Rugged hands. Hands that can swing a baseball bat, that can work power tools. I always saw these hands as too different, too rough for me. These are the same hands that had the idea of taking a bike chain and turning it into a cuff. These are the hands that touch my cheek with impossible softness. I’ve been so wrong about these hands.
“Mai?”
His voice is gravelly, and I realize I’ve been sliding my thumb across the web of veins at his wrist. I’m not sure if I stepped closer or he did, but I can feel his breath on my hair. I don’t stop, working my fingers under the chain, warmed from his skin. The clasp is a square piece of metal. “How did you make this?”
“I bought the clasp. Soldered it to the ends of the chain.”
“With one of those fire things?”
His lips brush near my ear. A warm ache kicks up low in my belly. “It’s called a soldering iron.”
I lick my lips. “I find your knowledge of power tools strangely sexy.”
“Good to know.” I hear the smile in his voice. “I could describe the table saw and my oscillating multi tool.”
I’m smiling, too, as I notice something engraved in the face of the clasp. “6-2-17.” This Saturday. The anniversary of his dad’s death. My hand softens as his stiffens. The chunk of ugly is transformed with his words. “So now I really don’t hate it,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Why didn’t you tell me, Anthony?”
“You never asked.”
Our eyes meet. I know why I didn’t ask. Because I told myself I was an expert on the subject of Anthony Adams. And now I’ve gotten my test back and discovered I bombed it.
“I’m asking now,” I say. “Why the bike chain?”
“I told you my dad loved biking. He was always fixing up one or two bikes, so there were parts lying around the garage.” He looks away, but not before I see the flash of grief in his eyes. “Once he got too weak to ride, I took apart a chain from one of the bikes, and I made him this cuff. It was stupid, really. Too heavy for him to wear. But he held it like rosary beads. Some of the smoothness is from his thumb running over it those last weeks.” His throat works. “I engraved the clasp a few months after he died. Started wearing it. Got to where I don’t feel right without it on.”
I reach for his hand, weave my fingers through his. “I’m sorry I thought mean things about it.”
His fingers squeeze mine, accepting my apology.
I gesture to the tools and the worktable. “Did your dad teach you all of this?”
“In a way. My dad worked for a homebuilder, putting in air conditioning systems. When a new subdivision was going in, he’d be on site for weeks. Troy and I would hang out with him during summers and school breaks. Troy was always climbing shit and jumping off it, but I wanted to play construction.”
“So you made yard animals?” I guess.
“It didn’t start that way, but yeah. I was gluing metal and wood together and coming up with injuries waiting to happen. My dad finally got smart and signed me up for a construction class at the Y. I learned how to use a soldering iron and a table saw.”
“You have a whole shop here. It couldn’t have been cheap.”
“I got lucky with that. The general contractor I work for, Dan Garvey, does a lot of welding projects for remodels. When he found out I was interested, he started passing down his old tools. The table was his, too.”
“Have you sold any pieces?”
“No.” He sounds embarrassed that I even asked. “That stuff wouldn’t be out front right now except my mom is, well, my mom.”
I shake my head, taking all of it in again. “You’re an artist, Anthony.”
“Not an artist. Just a guy who likes junk and power tools.”
He means that, I can tell. He doesn’t think what he’s doing is special. “You made me think all you did in your spare time was chill. Nothing about this feels chill.” I move to a shelf of finished pieces, run a finger over the metal form of a man with a clock face in place of a heart. There’s something different about this. It’s not like anything I’ve seen before. “This is wonderful,” I say. “Why is it on a shelf in the garage?”
He shrugs. “It’s not that good.”
“Anthony.” I shake my head and wander back toward the tubs. “So what were you picking up in the desert?”
“Bottle caps mostly.”
“What’re you going to do with them?”
“I don’t know. I like the way they look, but it’s not like I have a plan.” He gives me the ghost of a smile. “A shocker, I know.”
I smile and study the towel-covered lump. “What is this?” I pull off the towel before he can protest.
He lets out a sigh. “It’s something I started a while back.”
Square metal frame. Pipes poking out in four directions. “A picture frame?” I guess. “No, wait. A window?”