Chapter 7
Three days working on the house are all I need to know that home-reno influencer will never be a future career option for me.
Someone tell Joanna Gaines she’s safe from the competition.
I’m also considering dropping Theo Hargrave down to number two on my list of Top Five Nemeses and moving sandpaper into spot number one. Its horrible texture, the grinding sound it makes against the wall, the presumably toxic dust it releases into the air—I’m not a fan of any of it.
But at least the walls are patched, sanded, and primed, and the kitchen is much closer to ready for the appliances Mom and I ordered yesterday, which are due in early next week.
Thank god for those Mr. FixIt videos I found on YouTube or the room would probably look worse after I tried to prep it.
Turns out, I knew absolutely nothing about the proper way to paint a wall.
But Mr. FixIt and his thick Massachusetts accent (I was not surprised to discover in the comments that he’s local) walked me clearly and efficiently through the correct process.
Now it’s time for a break. A long, leisurely, dust-free break.
My phone dings with a text from Taylor as I’m setting down my equipment.
It’s a photo of her hand, holding up a taco through the uncovered roof of her Jeep, The Lion King–style.
Vividly colored strips of peppers and onions peek out the sides, nestled around what looks like perfectly cooked flank steak. My stomach growls with envy.
I respond with a picture of me covered in dust and a crying emoji.
Taylor sends a sad face back.
Taylor: I wish I could mail you tacos.
Amity: They would be soup by the time they arrived.
Taylor: Taco soup’s a thing, isn’t it?
Amity:
Taylor: Then get someone to tell you where the good tacos are so we can have a virtual taco tasting.
I stare at her message, a roughly edged rock forming at my center.
Talking to people—even random strangers—is so natural to Taylor that she forgets what a task it is for me.
When I turned seventeen, my mom started making me call to schedule my own appointments for the doctor and dentist and with my hair stylist, and it would literally take me days to prepare a script, practice it in my head, and psych myself up enough to do it.
I can’t just wander into town and ask the first person I see for taco recommendations.
I barely survived talking to Theo on Monday, and he’s a trespassing ghost-believer.
That might make him even weirder than me.
Amity: I found the good bagels and doughnuts. Does that count?
It had been clear from the first bite that everything at Carbs with Holes was made fresh in-house.
The brioche doughnuts were pillowy and perfectly glazed and frosted.
And the bagel…oh my god…the bagel. Chewy on the outside and delicately soft in the middle.
I might need to start a savings account just for my trips there every day.
Taylor: Doing the Lord’s work.
I laugh as I swipe closed the chat, but my smile melts away a second later. Sitting below my texts with Taylor is the unanswered message I sent my father earlier.
I hit his number before I can talk myself out of it. Shouldn’t he want to talk to me, since I live on the other side of the country now?
The ringing on his end feels extra loud, like a Bluetooth speaker pressed to my ear. He picks up on the seventh ring. “Amity? Is everything all right?”
The muscles in my shoulders snake together. “Hey, Dad. Yeah. You just never answered my text, so I thought I’d give you a call…”
“Oh. Right…Well, it’s pretty early here. I’m at work.”
Huh. Time zones. I forgot about those. “Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure how much I mean it.
“I was going to call you later—”
“Okay. We can just talk then.”
I hear a chair creak in the background, like he just sat down. “No. It’s fine. Let’s do this now.”
Do this. Like I’m a chore. A scheduled appointment. “How are you?” I ask through gritted teeth. Already I am regretting this.
There are some clacking noises, like he’s typing. “You know. Busy.”
“Lots of houses to sell…” Including ours. Which is what upended my whole life in the first place. Not that he cares.
“Exactly,” he replies. His voice is faraway, like he’s only half focused on our conversation.
Silence stretches between us. I pick at the hem of my tank top to pass the time. After more than a full minute ticks by, I finally say, “I’m fine too.”
“Good. It sounds like you made it there okay.”
“Yup.”
“The drive okay?”
“We didn’t get in any accidents.”
He replies with a hmph. “The new place okay?”
I shrug even though he can’t see it. “It’s a work in progress.”
Then it hits me. My father is pretty handy with stuff.
Maybe he has some advice for fixing up the house.
It could give us something to talk about, before he starts asking about the weather and last night’s lottery numbers and whatever other stuff people talk about when they actually have nothing to say to each other.
“Any advice for me as I embark on my new journey to become a contractor?”
“Hire an actual one.”
The words are a punch to the gut. He’s not even trying to keep this call going. I should have let that text stay on read. “Thanks for the tip,” I mutter.
“Amity, I’m busy right now—”
“I’ll let you get back to work, then.” I hang up before he can say anything else.
Anger boils hot in my chest. I toss my phone on the counter and head toward the front of the house.
We’ve had a hundred conversations in my lifetime that were no different from this one, but I guess a part of me thought he might try a little harder since I wasn’t there anymore.
Tears burn at my eyes, but I blink them away.
I’m not crying over my father. I’m simply going to care as little as he does. Easy peasy.
I’m stomping more than walking, and my rough steps pull my mom’s attention from the baseboards she’s painting in the living room. “You okay?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’m fine. Dad’s just being…” She’ll give me that watch your language look for every word that pops into my head, so I settle for “Dad.”
Sighing, she sets her paintbrush across the top of the can and turns on her knees so she’s facing me fully. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” I start to walk away, but then words are pouring out of my mouth.
“Every text I’ve sent him has gotten an emoji or one-word reply, so I called him, and he was— Forget it.
” I flap a hand in the air like I can bat my words—and everything I’m feeling that I can’t seem to get out of my mouth—out of existence.
Mom gets that Oh, Honey face.
I drag my nails through my hair, yanking some strands out of my messy bun. “I just need a distraction.”
She grins and pulls a piece of paper from where she’s left it on her air mattress. It crinkles as she lays it in her lap.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“A distraction?” She holds up a flyer, and I immediately recognize it as Theo’s. “I found this in the car.”
Where I left it after I fled Carbs with Holes.
“We should go tomorrow. It might be a great way to meet some people. And learn about where we’re living.”
“Or to discover that they’re all superstitious wackos.”
She chuckles. “Or that.” Folding the paper carefully, she slides it into the pocket of her leggings. “Plus, it will be a good escape from the paint fumes.”
“Fine. But I cannot be held accountable for any mocking that I do.”
Mom laughs. “That’s a fair deal.”
I watch her turn back to the living room baseboards and pick up her paintbrush.
Why did I agree to that so fast?
I guess I am a little curious to see how deep this lore about the house goes. And how ridiculous it can get.
But there’s a part of me (one that is a little too big for my liking) that is eager to see Theo again.
To debunk all his ghost theories—obviously.
“What the hell?”
I rub at my eyes and then look at the kitchen wall again.
Last night, the coat of paint I applied before dinner had been even and smooth as silk. But now the butter-yellow color is streaky and bubbling, like the wall’s been crying.
I press a finger to a spot on the wall. The texture is tacky, as if it’s only half dry, even though I put this coat on over twelve hours ago. It was smooth to the touch when I went to bed.
Again: What the hell?
“Mom!” I call out, making my way toward the living room.
“Amity? What’s wrong?” She shoots up from the air mattress, scrubbing at her face. Dark circles ring her eyes like she barely slept. She wraps her blanket around her shoulders and shivers.
It’s only then that I realize the goose bumps popping up on my own arms.
A few minutes ago, I woke up with a dewy layer of sweat at my temples, the portable AC in the den losing its battle against the morning’s humidity. So why am I suddenly cold?
I rub my palms against my skin as I step deeper into the room. It’s the same here as everywhere else. The paint ruined.
“Look at this.” I flourish my hand toward the wall.
Mom feels around on the floor until she finds her glasses, then stands up. Her brow furrows when she peers at the spot I’m pointing to. “What happened?”
“Did you try to do another coat?” She was hinting last night that it needed one.
She shakes her head. “Of course not. You told me to let you do the painting since you watched those videos.”
I chew on my lip. “I must have needed to let the primer dry longer. It was pretty humid yesterday.” Even as I say it, though, I only half believe it.
I tested that coat of primer with my own hands.
It was dry. And I was so careful to make sure that I didn’t have too much paint on the roller.
“We’re going to have to sand and paint all over again.
” That means waiting even longer until this place actually starts to look livable.
Mom smiles cautiously. “It’s only one room.”