33. Vincent

THIRTY-THREE

"Gray? Which gray? There's like fifty shades of gray."

Booklet in hand, Kent pulls at his beard as he cocks his head back and forth.

"Fifty shades of gray? Is that a hint?" I tease, but Kent's face remains focused on the booklet. Unaware of my joke, his fingers poke in his whiskers, searching for a clue.

"They printed the directions on black paper. The grays all look the same." He points at a page, studying. "Do you need a degree in engineering to do this?"

"Let me see," I say, taking the booklet. He's right. The similar shades of gray mingle on the shiny black paper, making it almost impossible to distinguish them.

"Here's what we do. Sort all the pieces, count them, and then check the inventory numbers in the back." I flip and point to the page near the back, listing every included element and its quantity. My finger glides on the glossy paper, and the smell of ink and plastic comforts me.

"Seriously?" Kent's chin lowers to his chest with a soft sigh.

"It won't take long. You start sorting by color," I say, placing three empty small white bowls in front of him, "and I'll count."

Kent sorts, and I place a sticky note in front of each bowl, ready to document the pieces.

When the bowls are almost full, and Kent's pile grows smaller, I slowly count. Kent finishes and waits, watching me methodically pick and account for each one. After each bowl, I write the number on the corresponding sticky note.

"There. Now we know which is which. See?" I point to the back inventory page. "Forty-one." My shoulders prickle at the odd number. "The darkest ones, so we'll know when you see them."

Kent's face softens. He takes the directions from me and puts them on the table. With my hand in his, he delicately brings it to his face and presses a gentle kiss on each knuckle.

"My sweet, handsome boy. We're a good team, eh?"

"We are." I lean forward and tilt my head, offering my neck as an invitation. Kent's soft lips, his beard adding a pleasant tickle that I've grown to cherish, brush my sensitive skin.

Almost two hours later, the set actually begins to resemble the photo on the box. With clear tiles for the glass pyramid out front and the large museum building behind, the Louvre, in all its glory, takes shape in the first arrondissement of LEGO Paris on my dining-room table.

"It's going to be perfect." I take Kent's arm and cuddle into his chest. "I love it."

"How much longer?" His lips brush the skin on the top of my head.

"Probably twenty minutes. Just the plates on the roof." I point to the open spaces waiting for their finishing touches.

"Is that how long it typically takes?"

"About. I'm faster than a novice," I say, patting his belly. "It really depends on the experience and expertise of the builder. I'd say together we were slightly better than average."

"I'll take it." He plants another kiss on my head. The pressure of his lips instantly causes my shoulders to drop. I certainly could've done this myself. It would have been easier. Quicker. But working with Kent, with his questions, curiosity, glances, and kisses, is a million times better.

My phone vibrates on the kitchen island, piercing our bubble of solace. Oh right. The implementation. The system. Not everything comes down to LEGO. As I reach for my phone, a notification brings me back to reality—an error.

"I need to log in and check something," I say, heading for my laptop. "Why don't you snap those last few tiles on? I'll check your work after."

"Is everything okay?" Kent nibbles his bottom lip and I'm tempted to take over for him.

"Yes, fine. I just need to confirm something." I open my computer. "You put those last few pieces on."

Kent's eyebrows spring up, and a smile appears. "Okay. I'll be careful."

The clicking of Kent handling and snapping tiles onto bricks in the background fills the room while I log in and wait for the status screen to load. When the system message flies across the screen, I scan the error to investigate.

SYSTEM ERROR: DATABASE > 500 GIGABYTES. TURN ON COMPRESSION? Y/N

"Did you fix it?" Kent asks me—more clicking noises echo.

"Not yet." I lower my voice. "It's asking me about compression. This didn't happen during our testing."

"Compression? For what?"

"The system wants to confirm the database size."

My mind clouds with pieces clicking, Kent's voice, and Geoff's face—less than 500 gigs. My head spins with uncertainty. Is it greater or less than 500 gigs that we need compression? Greater than. Geoff told me this—more than once. My head grapples with the information when a cacophony of bricks, plates, tiles, and joiner pieces engulfs the room, joined by Kent's scream. "Fuck!"

As I turn to see what's happening, the entire baseplate, holding the Louvre and the surrounding buildings, crashes to the floor and shatters. Hundreds of pieces fly in every direction, plinking and clanking against wood and walls. Adrenaline shoots through my entire body. My heart slams into overdrive—less than 500 gigs. The room spins. I quickly hit NO and sprint over.

"I'm so sorry," Kent says. He's on the floor, surrounded by elements. Hours of work ruined.

"What happened?" I grab a bowl to gather pieces. My breath quickens. Dark clouds gather in my head as a storm brews in the distance.

"I don't know. I got distracted. Talking with you. Thinking about the error."

"It's fine. I handled it."

"The pieces were so small. And my hand slipped, and then I tried to catch myself and made it worse, and then, and then …" He motions to the disaster, littering the floor. Tears dust his eyes, and my heart sinks.

"We'll fix this," I say. "Now."

Sweat begins on my brow. My heart reverberates in my chest cavity. Every element. Found. Retrieved. Sorted. Rebuilt. I need to restore this—all of it. Finish. Now. My fingers twitch, and I get to work.