Cheaper to sleep here than drive 2 hours back to my apartment and turn right back around. Claire frowned, crossing her arms. I don't pay you to sleep on my floor. I pay you to work. You pay me for the wood.
Dean said quietly. The wood gets done. Where I close my eyes is my business. She walked further into the room, stopping a few feet from his makeshift seat. The sheer lack of deference grated on her.
In her world, when she walked into a room, people sat up straighter. They smiled. They spoke. They filled the air with status updates, flattering remarks, and nervous chatter. Dean did none of that.
He just sat there, looking at her like she was the weather. Something happening outside of him that he simply had to wait out. "You know," Claire started, pacing slowly in front of the restored fireplace. "I've worked with hundreds of contractors, project managers, executives. Most of them can't wait to tell me how brilliant they are, how hard they're working.
You've been here for 3 weeks, and I don't think I've heard you string more than two sentences together. " Dean stared at his thermos. "I don't have much to say. " "It's unsettling," Claire pushed. The stress of her day bleeding into her voice. She wanted an argument. She wanted friction.
She wanted something real to push against, because the victory of her corporate takeover that afternoon felt completely hollow. "I walk in here, and it's like talking to a brick wall. Are you always this quiet, or is it just around me? " Dean finally looked up. He didn't look angry. He looked profoundly tired.
He screwed the lid back onto his thermos, set it on the floor, and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He looked at her, his gray eyes cutting right through the expensive coat, the flawless makeup, the armor of her wealth. "I used to talk a lot," Dean said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that barely disturbed the air in the room. "I was a foreman for a commercial developer. Big union crew.
I yelled all day. I came home and my head was so full of noise, I kept yelling. I talked over my wife. I talked over my friends. I always had to be the loudest guy in the room, so everyone knew I was in charge. " He turned his head slowly, looking at the small, sleeping form of his son.
"Then she got sick. Pancreatic. " Dean's voice didn't waver, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. "She lasted 4 months. In the hospital, at the end, she couldn't speak. Her vocal cords were paralyzed from the intubation.
For the last 2 weeks of her life, she just laid there, looking at me. And I had to sit there in that quiet and realize that all the noise I made for 30 years didn't mean a damn thing. It didn't fix her. It didn't save her. It didn't make me a better man. " Claire stood frozen.
The air left her lungs. Her aggressive posture suddenly felt clumsy, grotesque. Dean looked back at Claire. So, yeah, I'm quiet, Ms. Montgomery, because words are cheap.