Chapter 18
Wood Work
Holly
Iroll out of bed and shuffle across the carpet to the bathroom. Might as well try to look like I’m not a troll from a cave. I did commit to leaving my cavern and emerging into the real world today.
Wow, I definitely read too many romantic fantasy books this weekend in between my movie binges.
The shower washes away some of my anxiety and bleh feelings from the past few days.
I brush my hair and put on a layer of mascara.
The small efforts and a fresh pair of sweats from my closet give me the strength to end my self-appointed exile—the exile has already taken its toll on my brand new, shiny like the fake diamond on my finger relationship.
It’s Monday, and I haven’t seen Mateo since we got home on Friday night. How could I avoid my husband for two whole days? Great question.
It took lots of late-night snack breaks and sneaking around to make sure he wasn’t in the kitchen when I wanted food.
How was I supposed to face my husband after freaking out over a kiss that I was much too invested in?
It was our first kiss, and I couldn’t even handle the emotional fallout from that experience.
No way am I going to be able to handle being married to him, not with the confusing cocktail of emotions swirling inside of me.
So I avoided him and I spent the weekend binging Jane Austen movie adaptations, reading fantasy romances, working overtime as usual, and eating unhealthy amounts of baked goods.
Luckily, I had restocked my hidden drawers of snacks and my classily disguised mini-fridge a few days before the wedding.
Although, I didn’t include anything that didn’t have chocolate.
I think I need to eat a vegetable.
Alex's and Reina’s texts were the final push I needed to emerge from my hole of emotional and vegetable avoidance.
Being a hermit, watching movies, eating baked goods, and avoiding everyone and anyone was what I did when my parents left for another trip or said something hurtful.
I’d do everything I could to hide from the real world and real feelings.
I’ve seen therapists over the years, and I’ve met with Dr. Ward since Alex came home from Bolt a year and a half ago. He's helped me come up with better coping mechanisms and to fight the cognitive distortions created by my parents' unhealthy relationship habits.
Using the correct terms makes it a mouthful even in my own head, but I don’t want to discredit what they’re doing, nor forget I’m fighting against an actual illness, even if it’s a mental one.
I need to schedule another appointment with Dr. Ward. Having a surprise kiss you didn’t hate, realizing your introverted self married an extrovert, and realizing you now have a family again—even if they’re technically in-laws—is triggering for me.
Who knew?
I slide across the hardwood floor from my room to the kitchen in fuzzy socks. I keep the air conditioning low enough to wear fuzzy socks all year long just for this reason: they make hardwood floors more fun.
The fridge door opens and cool air washes over me, chilling my still damp hair. I instinctively search the produce drawer as my mind wraps around how I reverted to my teenage habits this past weekend.
A bag of baby carrots catches my eye. I grab them, a bottle of ranch, and a bowl. I hop onto a bar stool at the kitchen island and rip open the bag.
I dip my chosen carrot and munch on it as I review the weekend with a critical eye.
It was childish to hide away and avoid Mateo, but old habits die hard no matter how much money you spend on therapy.
This whole marriage fiasco was a lie and a hasty decision on my part, and now I’m paying the price of overwhelming guilt and self-loathing after marrying my brother’s best friend.
I crunch a carrot, running through ideas of how to break the ice I created between Mateo and me over the last forty-eight hours of avoidance.
The ice cracks as the door to the garage opens and Mateo walks in.
“Holly!” His smile is bright, and it lights a candle of warmth in my chest. I can’t remember the last time someone, other than my brother, was excited to see me. I scan his face—there isn’t an ounce of annoyance or frustration showing in his expression.
Not everyone is like my parents, I remind myself.
“Hi, Mateo,” I mumble as I hunch over my bowl and shove another carrot in my mouth. “Sowy fur aoidn’ oo.”
“Come again?” Mateo says, a smirk on his face.
I cover my eyes with my hands as I finish chewing. If I can’t see him, it’ll make the apology easier, right? “I’m sorry for avoiding you, Mateo.”
He chuckles. “You’re forgiven. It was a crazy day, and I can understand needing processing time. Next time can you text me so I can know you’re alive?”
I drop my hands, but can’t quite make eye contact with him yet. I stir a carrot around in the bowl of ranch as I fish around for words. “You could say that again,” I mutter.
Okay, time to be brave. I straighten and look straight into Mateo’s eyes. “Yes, I’ll text you next time, assuming there will be a next time.”
It takes a moment to realize he looks different now that he’s close to me. His hair is a lighter color. All of him looks lighter than I’ve seen, and he has a weird line around his eyes and mouth where his skin is normal-looking. “What’s all over you? How did you get so dirty?”
“Oh, this?” he asks as he pulls his shirt away from his chest, showering dust onto the floor.
“This is sawdust. Also, I’m loving these hardwood floors.
Makes cleaning up after myself so much easier.
” He rubs the sides of his beard, turning his hair from a light tan back to its normal dark brown color.
I stare at the dust-covered floor. I wonder if my robot vacuum will be able to handle sawdust.
Mateo braces his hands on the counter in front of me and smiles wide. “Do you want to come see my woodworking setup in the garage?”
I can’t say no. He’s like a happy puppy wanting to show off his new chew toy. His hair is a mess of curls and dust, and I have a random urge to ruffle his hair and scratch behind his ear.
No, no scratching your husband’s head, Holly. That’s just weird.
“Okay.” I drop the carrot that's in my hand and follow Mateo out to the garage. I haven’t been in here since Friday, but I’m pretty sure these tools were not here before.
It’s like Home Depot threw up in my garage.
My Lexus and Mateo’s truck are closest to the door, and then it’s like a full-on wood shop in the space where a third car could fit.
Tools of all different shapes and sizes line a peg board hanging on my garage wall that definitely wasn’t there last week.
Saws line the wall under the peg boards, and there are shelves with different lengths of wood stacked on top of each other against the other wall.
A large table in the middle of the floor has pieces of wood clamped together. At least I think they’re clamps.
The smell hits me next. It’s a smell I thought came from Mateo’s cologne, but probably is a part of him now.
It smells like a forest in here. Instantly, I’m transported back to the one and only time I took a hike.
I went with a group in college and we started hiking a mountain.
Then it rained. It smelled beautiful, but my wet hiking clothes, and especially my wet socks, were enough to keep me away from the activity since.
This whole setup is so out of my wheelhouse. I don’t even know what to ask about what. Luckily, Mateo’s in his element and starts explaining what everything is.
“Over here is where I have my table saw, then I have some of the small saws like a jigsaw over here for the decorative work.” Mateo points around at the different items, dusting off handles and tools here and there as he names them for me.
I eye the saws with their sharp blades. I have now identified the source of the loud noises this weekend. When Mateo said woodworking, I had thought he meant like whittling sticks or something.
I didn’t think he’d outfit my garage with all these shiny tools.
Mateo is talking, and everything he says goes over my head.
What I have been processing is just how happy he is in this moment.
He’s smiling—a genuine smile, not the fake one I’ve seen a few times before.
I remember watching him at Alex and Reina’s reception as he talked to the townspeople.
His smile did not look like this one. With this smile on his face, and the sawdust all over him, he looks really attractive—for a farm boy.
Mateo turns, catching me watching him. “What do you think?”
I look around at everything, trying to remember the names of the saws, but it’s all just a blank in my mind. I shrug my shoulders. “About what?”
His lips quirk, his cheek dimpling beneath his beard. “What do you think about the setup? Is it okay?”
My cheeks heat. Yup, he now knows I wasn’t paying attention, or looking at his woodworking tools.
“It looks great! How are you going to keep the dust from getting all over the cars though?”
Am I actually worried about the cars? No, but I feel like it’s a good deflection.
Mateo walks over to his pickup truck where I see a tarp hanging from the ceiling.
“I’ve got this tarp here that rolls over so it cuts this area off from the rest of the garage.
” I look up and notice he’s got a small white pipe running across the garage ceiling.
The tarp is hooked to what looks like shower rings.
He pulls it over, so it closes off half of the area, leaving the walkway back to the house still open.
Other than some of the space at the top, he’s essentially blocked off half the garage from getting covered in dust.
Huh, that’s actually really ingenious.
“Plus,”—he shrugs—“it’s not that hard to wash a car.”
“You mean take it to a car wash?”
“Fancy car washes ain't got nothing on me.” He brushes his nails against his shirt before blowing the pretend—but in his case, actual dust—off his fingers.
I look from him to his pickup and back. “You wash your truck by hand?”
He shrugs. “Of course. Just gotta get a hose out and spray it down, suds it up, and rinse. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”
My eyebrows take up residence in my hairline. “Yep. Never done that before. I just go to the car wash a few blocks down the hill.”
Mateo watches me for a second. “I’ll clean it the next time you want it washed.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’ll give me something else to do around here. Why not?”
What else does Mateo need to do? I already have a house cleaner who comes twice a week, and I try to keep up with the daily maintenance things like dishes and sweeping. Do I need to have more jobs for him? I thought he’d be fine doing this hobby job.
I nod as my chest starts to tighten, and I suck in air, reminding myself to breathe. I don’t want to play hostess and entertain Mateo while we’re married.
Wait, he just told me something he can do. I look over at my car. I can’t remember the last time I washed it, but it does need a good cleaning before I take it to the next gala.
When is the next gala?
I pull out my phone and check the calendar.
Tomorrow.
The summer of galas starts tomorrow.
My eyes lift from my phone screen as full-on panic sets in. I’ve got to get both of us ready for the masses by tomorrow. Mateo is standing in front of me, a thin layer of wood dust coating his skin and clothes. The idea of him showing up at one of the galas looking like this almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
People would freak, and it would be hilarious. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, I need to keep my job, so I’ll need to work on his look. I kind of don’t want to, though, because this man looks so happy and at home covered in wood dust. But he needs to wear a tuxedo tomorrow.
Does he even have a tuxedo?
We might be in trouble with a capital T.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and square my shoulders. Mateo spins a tool in his hand as our eyes meet. “I have an event tomorrow. Can you come with me?”
He puts the tool down. “Of course, mi vida. What do I need to wear?”
“Do you have a suit, or even better, a tuxedo?”
He smiles. “I have the suit from our wedding, which just so happens to be the suit I wore on the red carpet a few months ago.” He shrugs apologetically, as if he has an inkling that this is a problem.
Little does he know this isn’t a little problem, it’s a monumental problem. Between Alex’s promotional events and the summer of charity events that have been coordinated for my other clients, he’s going to need at least two new outfits each week for the next six weeks.
I clap my hands and straighten up. “Go shower and get dressed. We’re going shopping.”
Mateo stands there, which won’t do. We have places to be. I get behind him and gently push on his back. He laughs, and the sensation of feeling his laughter as my hands push on his back is one I dearly want to forget. It spikes a note of happiness within me.
We get to the kitchen and I keep nudging him, his resistance only half hearted as we move down the hallway. I finally let him go, and he turns around, walking backward to his bedroom door, where he stops and leans against it.
“We’ll rendezvous back in the kitchen in a half hour.”
Mateo winks. “It’s a date.” He slips into his room before I can protest.
Except I’m not protesting—because it really will be a date.
Our first date as a married couple. It’ll be good practice before tomorrow.
Nothing can really go wrong while shopping, right?