The slam of Noel's footsteps faded upstairs, leaving an awkward silence that hung over the kitchen. Evelyn's face was a picture of embarrassment, her blue eyes darting to the ceiling and back to Leo.
"I'm so sorry about that. Noel can be... well, she doesn't mean half of what she says." Her voice wobbled slightly as she straightened the silverware on her plate, aligning them perfectly parallel.
Leo shrugged and took another bite of pot roast.
"It's fine," he said, mouth full. "Don't worry about it."
As he chewed, flashes surfaced in his mind. Not memories exactly - more like movie clips of someone else's life. Noel shoving the old Leo against a wall, laughing as he stammered apologies.
The same girl "accidentally" spilling soda on his laptop, then walking away while he frantically tried to save it. Her voice, high and mocking: "Aw, is the little pervert sad? Maybe if you weren't such a loser, someone might actually touch you for real."
What a fucking doormat.
Another flash: a broad-shouldered man with graying temples standing over the old Leo, voice booming. "This is what Marcus's son has become? You think your father died so you could waste oxygen in my house? At least try to justify the resources we've spent on you."
That had to be Arthur. The husband. The man of the house.
The images kept coming as he ate. The old Leo sitting at this very table while conversation flowed around him, no one acknowledging his existence. The old Leo watching from the doorway as the family took Christmas photos without him. The old Leo hiding in his room, his only defense against a world that had decided he was worthless.
Seven years of this shit? Leo thought, spearing a carrot with unnecessary force. No wonder this body's a disaster. He was trying to eat himself to death.
He glanced at Evelyn, who was picking at her own food, still visibly upset by her daughter's outburst. Her fork pushed the same piece of meat around her plate in small circles.
And she let it happen. All of it.
The pot roast suddenly tasted like ash in his mouth, but he kept eating. His body needed the fuel, and he couldn't afford to waste this opportunity to learn more about his new situation.
"Victoria should be home around nine," Evelyn said, clearly trying to fill the silence. "And Chloe texted that practice might run late. Something about regionals coming up."
"You don't need to entertain me," he said. "I know where my room is."
Evelyn winced slightly at his directness, and he realized his tone had been harsher than intended. The old Leo probably never spoke to her like that.
Adjust tactics. She's not the enemy. Yet.
He finished the last bite on his plate, setting down his fork with deliberate care. But instead of excusing himself like the old Leo would have done, he remained seated. Waiting. Watching.
Evelyn continued picking at her food, obviously uncomfortable with his steady gaze. Her movements became more self-conscious. She tucked that stray strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, revealing a small pearl earring. Her throat moved as she swallowed, a graceful line that led down to the hollow where her collarbones met. The blue sweater hugged curves that had probably driven teenage boys to distraction twenty years ago. She was the kind of woman who aged into her beauty rather than away from it.
Leo didn't look away when she finally raised her eyes to meet his.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, her hand rising to her face. "Do I have something...?"
He shook his head slightly. "No. Just thinking."
He waited until she took her last bite. He watched her chew, swallow, and set down her fork. Only then did he speak, his voice level and calm.
"Evelyn."
Her eyes widened slightly at his use of it. Had the old Leo called her by name? Probably not. Another mistake, but he could work with it.
"That fever," he said, watching her reaction closely. "It did something to me. Burned away a lot of... fog."
He gestured vaguely toward the direction of his room. "I saw some things clearly for the first time. About myself. About my life here."
Her face shifted from surprise to concern. "What do you mean, Leo?"
"I mean I'm not going to be that person anymore. Starting today, I'm cleaning up my own mess. All of it. So if I seem different, that's why. The old Leo is gone."
Evelyn's lips parted slightly, her breathing visibly quickened. She searched his face for signs of deception, for the familiar evasiveness of the boy she knew. But the new Leo offered only calm certainty.
"Gone?" she repeated. "Leo, I don't understand. Are you saying you've had some kind of... revelation?"
He nodded once. "Something like that."
"Because of a fever?"
"Sometimes a high enough temperature kills the infection." He leaned forward slightly. "I saw who I've been. I won't be that person anymore."
"That's... well, that's wonderful, Leo. If you mean it." Her voice grew softer.
"I've always believed there was so much more to you than—" She stopped herself. "Than you've shown."
Nice save, Evelyn.
"I mean it," he replied.
She looked down at their empty plates, then back to him.
"How can I help?" she asked.
And there it was. The offer he'd been waiting for.
"Where do you keep the industrial-strength trash bags, face masks, and bleach?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "Trash bags and bleach?"
"My room is a biohazard," he stated flatly. "I'm not sleeping another night in that filth. It needs to be gutted."
A smile spread across her face—small at first, then wider. A genuine smile that transformed her from merely beautiful to radiant.
"The cleaning supplies are in the mudroom closet," she said, already standing. "I'll show you."
Leo rose as well, noticing how she automatically reached for his plate. He placed his hand over hers, stopping her.
"I've got this," he said.
The brief contact seemed to startle her. Her eyes flicked to where his hand covered hers, then back to his face. A faint pink touched her cheeks.
"Right. Of course." She withdrew her hand slowly. "I'll get those supplies."
He gathered both their plates and carried them to the sink, running hot water over them before placing them in the dishwasher. Such a simple act, but he could feel her watching him from the doorway as if he'd performed some remarkable feat.
Seven years of being a useless piece of shit really sets the bar low.
He followed her through a side door into what appeared to be a mudroom—a transitional space between the kitchen and the garage. She opened a closet door to reveal shelves of neatly organized cleaning supplies.
"We have these contractor bags," she said, pulling down a box of heavy black plastic sacks. "And there's bleach, disinfectant spray, rubber gloves... Will you need help? I could—"
"No," he cut her off, perhaps too sharply. He softened his tone. "This is something I need to do myself."
The truth was, he didn't want her to see the full extent of the old Leo's degradation. From what little he'd glimpsed of the room, there were things in there no woman should have to witness.
Especially not one who might be instrumental to his future plans.
She handed him the supplies, their fingers brushing again. This time, the contact lingered a beat longer than necessary.
"Leo," she said hesitantly, "what brought this on? Really?"
He considered his answer carefully. The "fever changed me" story would only go so far.
He needed something more substantial, something that aligned with what the real Leo might plausibly feel.
"I got tired of hating myself," he said simply.
The raw honesty in his voice surprised even him. It wasn't entirely a lie. He did hate the body he'd inherited, the weakness it represented. But there was something else, something he wasn't ready to examine too closely. A strange, secondhand anger on behalf of the soul that had occupied this body before him.
A boy who had been systematically broken by the very people who should have protected him.
Evelyn's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Oh, Leo."
He stepped back, uncomfortable with her emotion. "Don't make a big deal out of it. I'm just cleaning my room, not curing cancer."
But his deflection didn't diminish her smile. "Well, at this point, I'd settle for seeing your floor."
He snorted, genuinely amused. "You and me both."
Arms full of cleaning supplies, he headed back toward the hellhole that was his room. Evelyn called after him.
"Leo? If you need anything else, just ask. I'll be around."
He turned, catching her watching him with an expression he couldn't quite define.
"Thanks," he said.
Back in the bedroom, Leo surveyed the disaster zone with fresh determination. Seven years of neglect had turned this space into a monument to self-loathing.
Empty food containers created their own geography. The stench of unwashed clothes and stale sweat.
The sheets on the bed were stiff with... he didn't want to think about it.
This isn't a bedroom. It's a tomb. The old Leo was already dead.
He opened the first trash bag with a snap that sounded like a starting pistol. Where to begin? Everywhere. All of it had to go.
As he bent to scoop up the first armful of garbage, he caught sight of himself in the black TV screen. His reflection was distorted, but clear enough to show the round face, the multiple chins, the heavy arms.
"Don't worry, fat boy," he muttered to his reflection. "This is just the first round. By the time I'm done with you, your own mother wouldn't recognize you."
He paused, reconsidering.
"Scratch that. By the time I'm done, Evelyn definitely will."