34. Kent

THIRTY-FOUR

Why am I so clumsy? SO FUCKING CLUMSY. Sometimes, my brain and body run on different tracks at different speeds, constantly attempting to calibrate and sync up. Talking with Vincent. The tapping on his keyboard. An error. Hopscotch. The school's reputation. Dr. Cutler. The school board. My job. I'm lightheaded. Weakness creeps over me. I'm about to unravel—I'm usually able to keep the stress caused by living my life and doing my job at bay. Now, it crashes down like the shiny, smooth tiles slipping from my grasp, conjuring a LEGO nightmare.

Paris. Shattered. At least half of the sprawling city flung into the air and destroyed. Sure, they made LEGO to withstand children's rough-and-tumble play, but not an out-of-shape fifty-two-year-old man slamming into them, sending them across the room like projectile missiles. And not with such intricate, small, delicate pieces so carefully planned and placed. By Vincent. Sweet Vincent. He finally sees what a complete disaster I am and will surely hightail it out of my life. Who needs this kind of chaos? I'm the epitome of a schlemiel.

Vincent's already moved into action. On the floor, surrounded by broken buildings, elements scattered everywhere. I grab a bowl and collect pieces.

"I've got it," he says flatly, not making eye contact. My stomach churns with nausea.

"What can I do to help?"

"Nothing. I need to do it. Myself."

My cheeks burn, and I take a chair from the table and slide it toward the corner of the room. I cringe and shake my head in my hands, knowing I've done this to him.

"Maybe I should go," I say.

Vincent's head shakes briskly as he quickly sorts pieces into white bowls.

"Don't." There's a furious symphony of pieces plinking. "Please."

So I watch. And apologize. Vincent's furrowed brow and set jaw offer some relief. As I watch him work, swiftly selecting, snapping, and securing pieces with precision, it dawns on me. He's not upset. He's determined. Fixated. Obsessed. He's fallen into an episode. Because of me.

I'm seated about five feet away from him. He's standing now, plugging away at the rebuild. Some of the larger sections attached to baseplates weren't totaled. There's at least a semblance of a foundation. And with no directions, seemingly from memory, he's snapping and clicking things into place.

"Vincent. I'm right here," I say. "I'm not leaving."

There's no answer. He works. And works. He focuses on one structure at a time, quickly returning each to its original pre-Kent-disaster glory. Not hampered by my greenness and ignorance, he works rapidly. Fingers move. Pieces snap. His hands move so swiftly, at times, they become a blur. He's a man on a mission to build. Toiling into the night, Vincent is relentless. Quiet. Focused.

I ponder asking him to stop and go to bed. But there's no way. He needs to do this. Finish.

"Smoothie, do you need a drink?"

He shakes his head, and I carefully place a glass of water on an open area of the table.

At some point, I walk over, softly kiss his neck, and settle into the sofa. Pulling myself into a ball, I lie, watching, hypnotized by the sound of Vincent's building. Unable to keep my eyes open any longer, I whisper, "I love you," and doze off.

I wake up groggy, unsure where I am for a moment or what time it is. The rising sun slowly pierces the darkness outside. At the other end of the couch, Vincent lies. He's in the fetal position, his head on a throw pillow, softly sleeping. Socked feet poke at my thighs, and I'm tempted to reach down and caress them. He's safe. Near. I'm not sure he needed me to stay, but him lying so close makes me glad I did. I move toward him and kiss the top of his beautiful head. If he senses my lips, he doesn't show it. He's out. Breathing deeply.

And then I see it. LEGO Paris stretches across Vincent's dining-room table. It's as if nothing ever happened. He rebuilt every single building and structure to completion—even the Louvre. Vincent finished what I destroyed.

Softly, he stirs, and I shimmy behind him, holding him the best I can in such close quarters. I wrap my arm around his chest. It slowly rises and falls, and he moves slightly when I nuzzle my face into his neck.

"Tickles," he murmurs. My beard. Oops. "You're still here."

"I told you," I say, kissing the back of his head, "I wasn't leaving you."

"Mmmh." He pushes back into me.

"Vincent, I'll be right beside you, even when it's hard."

He exhales, his warm breath blowing the hair on my arms.

"Do you believe me?"

He nods, and I pull him closer.

Surveying his work, I'm completely in awe of his skill and speed. "You finished it."

"Had to. Couldn't stop."

I pull him closer, the heat of his body against me, yearning to be even closer and savor the sensation of his skin against mine.

"I'm so sorry." My lips brush the warm, soft skin on his head.

"It was an accident," he whispers.

"Because I'm a klutz."

"My klutz."

He clutches my hand to his chest and squeezes it. Tears nip the corners of my eyes, and I do my best to melt into him. Yes, I almost ruined his masterpiece. But he's not upset. He fixed it. I'm here. We're okay.

"What time is it?" he asks. I have no idea. No clue.

"Early. Hold on." I reach for my phone on the coffee table to check the time.

The screen lights up at my touch, and notifications assault me. They're layered on each other, jumbled, so many I can't make sense of the clutter. I touch one, and my phone flickers on. Eight missed calls. Fourteen messages. All from Shreya within the last hour. My stomach drops. What the fuck happened?