Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
A couple days later, I was laying in bed, tossing and turning, my brain racing like it had been every night for weeks. No matter what I did to distract myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything I’d done to train wreck my life. Laying there, staring up at the ceiling, the realization came to me like a vision from the divine. It was like I finally figured out the answer to the unsolvable algebra equation I had been wrestling with for eternity.
You see, I had spent all my waking hours for weeks fixing and re-fixing Aunt Catherine’s house. Rearranging the furniture, testing out fresh scents on the candles, switching out tchotchkes and knickknacks. But there was always this gnawing feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Something out of place. Something that didn’t quite belong. Finally, I knew exactly what it was I did wrong.
I had remodeled Aunt Catherine’s house in all the latest styles and trends. Black furniture. Pendant lighting. Painting all the walls greige. But that wasn’t Aunt Catherine’s house. I was trying to force it to be something it wasn’t.
Maybe if I stopped trying to bend the Universe to my will …
Maybe if I stopped trying to force things to be what they’re not …
Maybe if I just chilled the hell out …
Not even waiting for the sun to come up, I grabbed the leftover paint supplies from the shed and went straight to work. I kept at it all day until my hands ached and my knees throbbed. And my stomach threatened to eat itself if I didn’t take a break for dinner, especially since I had worked through breakfast and lunch.
Strolling through Fresh Foods, heading toward the single serve frozen dinner aisle, I noticed a BOGO deal on arthritis cream. I went with the extra strength for my sore muscles and joints, then remembered I needed toilet paper and tampons, too. Maneuvering past a pyramid of boxed noodles, I had to yank my cart to a halt. Out of nowhere, some idiot swerved his cart right in front of me. I almost plowed right into him. When I looked up, about to give the reckless cart owner an earful, I realized the reckless cart owner was Gary.
“Hey Mary,” said Kyle, arms cradling an extra large box of Goldfish.
“Hey Kyle.” My eyes flicked to his father, standing, staring right in front of me. “Hey Gary.”
“Mary.” Gary’s head never moved.
Once I picked my jaw off the floor, I looked over at the contents of Gary’s cart. Noodles. Frozen chicken breasts. A loaf of bread and sauce. “Chicken Parm?” I asked.
Gary nodded. Then his eyes passed over the extra strength arthritis medicine, extra strength toilet paper, and extra strength carton of tampons in my cart. To his credit, he didn’t run away from me screaming.
For what seemed like forever, we stood there in the middle of the aisle staring at each other like two awkward teenagers at a school dance. Looking for a distraction, I noticed something else in Gary’s cart. A six-pack of SourPaw glistened like an oasis in the desert. Drips of condensation dribbled down the bottles.
Speaking of six packs, Gary wore his Yale T-shirt again, the one that showcased the lines of his body as if it were made of invisible cloth. The now familiar scent of his mint and jasper cologne brought back a flood of memories and feelings. Once again, my brain went rogue. Those kinds of thoughts and feelings were only going to make things worse.
“Sorry, I’ll get out of your way.” I moved my cart to the left, just as Gary moved his cart to the right, so we ended up blocking each other again.
“Sorry,” said Gary. This time, he moved left, and I moved right, ending with the same result.
We both pulled our carts back and continued the staring showdown.
“Why do you wear that shirt, anyway?” I asked. “You didn’t go to Yale.” Gary looked down at his shirt, then back up at me. “Did you?”
“Just for undergraduate,” said Gary. “I got my masters in architecture at Harvard.” It was one more truck load of salt rubbed into the gaping wound that was my life. All that time I thought Jack was Mr. Perfect, but the truth was, Mr. Perfect had been staring me in the face all along.
Not that where Gary went to school really made any difference. It was the fact that he went to an Ivy League school and never even mentioned it. Whereas someone like Jack bragged about everything, all the time, every chance he got.
It was also another example of how smart Gary was, and how hard he worked to get where he was in life. It was also another example of how I was so focused on what I thought was important, the things that were on the outside, that I completely neglected what really mattered.
Speaking of what was on the outside, Gary’s polished presence made me acutely aware of my own sorry state. My hair looked like my head got electrocuted. My pale blotchy face was devoid of any makeup, and I wore the same baggy sweat pants I’d had on for days. If my bad behavior and poor decisions didn’t drive Gary away, my B.O. would for sure.
The uncomfortable silence was mounting. I don’t think either of us had any clue what to do or say next.
Luckily, Kyle did. “Can Mary eat dinner with us?”
At first, I thought the voice came from the heavens. A good samaritan angel, taking pity on the damned and the wretched. Then I realized the voice was Kyle’s. Then I realized Gary hadn’t immediately said no and sentenced Kyle to twelve years of time-out for even suggesting it.
Sparing Gary from having to tell Kyle no, I said, “I’d love to Kyle, but I can’t. I have to get back home to finish painting.”
“My dad can help you paint.”
“You’ve been painting?” Gary’s face transformed from a look of horror to concern. “What were you painting? And why?”
My poker face must have been broken because I could tell that he could tell something was wrong immediately. The look of concern on his face grew more concerning. “What exactly did you do?”
“Funny thing,” I said. “And you probably know this already, since you’re a professional painter and all, but did you know that when you attempt to paint a wall red, after putting on a coat of not quite dry white primer, your wall ends up pink?”
“You didn’t.” Gary looked at me like I had just defaced the ceiling of the Sistine chapel.
I shrugged. “I sort of did. But don’t worry, I’m fixing it.”
“Fixing it how? And what wall were you painting red?”
“Long story,” I said.
Gary looked around the grocery store. Down the aisle, an old lady individually inspected the nutrition label on every brand of canned prunes. In the other direction, a bored stock boy affixed price tags to jars of apple sauce while jamming out to whatever he was listening to through his headphones. Gary said, “We’ve got time.”
“You can help Mary fix her paint, right, Dad?” Kyle looked up at his father. Gary looked over at me. I looked over at the woman with the prunes, who had since moved on to analyzing raisin boxes. I figured maybe if I just ignored the situation, eventually everyone else would just go away.
But that’s not what happened.
“We can make dinner at your house, Mary,” said Kyle. “And then while dad fixes your paint, I can play with Purrfect.”
Gary and I looked at each other again, each of us waiting for the other one to shut Kyle down. Clearly, it was a bad idea. Spending any more time together would only end up hurting us both.
It had taken me weeks to convince myself that Gary and I were permanently over. Weeks for me to process that any meaningful chance for us to be together was long gone. But now that he was there, standing right in front of me, all the old thoughts and feelings returned. And not just the old thoughts and feelings. New thoughts, new feelings too. Thoughts and feelings I had been able to conveniently deny and push back deep into my subconscious, burying them, never to see the light of day. Until that moment. In that grocery store. Pushing a cart full of extra strength toilet paper and extra strength tampons. God damn it Universe. Damn you to hell!
“Why were you repainting the wall red?” Gary asked again.
I dropped my eyes back on my cart in order to avoid eye contact. “Actually, I sort of realized that you may have, possibly, theoretically, been right about all the greige. It was a little … much. In fact, Aunt Catherine’s house kind of looked like a mausoleum. I figured the red would play nicely off the reflection of the sunset in the Gustave Caillebott painting.
Gary nodded, but not in an ‘I told you so’ kind of way. It was more of a ‘I knew you’d get there eventually’ kind of nod.
“My open house is Saturday, and I wanted everything to be perfect.”
“You should have called me,” said Gary.
“I did call you. A lot.”
“Fair.”
“You didn’t see any of my texts?” I asked.
Gary shook his head. “Probably because I blocked you.”
“Fair.”
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“Hmm.” I rubbed my chin as a picture of Aunt Catherine’s dining room formed in my head. “I’d have to say … bad.”
“How bad?”
“On a scale of one to ten? Four hundred and seventy-two. But at least now the wall matches the little pink roses on the wallpaper in the kitchen.”
A semblance of a smile appeared on Gary’s face. But it disappeared quickly.
“Mary, I need you to tell me something. Honestly. No more lies.”
I braced myself for whatever Gary was about to ask. “No more lies. I promise.”
“What exactly did you want with Jack?”
I stared down into my cart, trying to figure out the best way to respond. I decided on the truth. “You want an honest answer? I’m not even sure.”
Gary cocked an eyebrow, like he didn’t quite believe me.
“It was never about him. At least not him, specifically. I think it was more the idea of him. Jack Thompson always had that effect on me. Me and a lot of other girls. Remember what Janet said that night at the brewery?” Gary nodded. “I think it was the idea that someone like that might be interested in someone like me.”
Gary nodded, seeming to understand, or at least pretending to. “And now?”
“Now? I’m done with Jack Thompson for good. If he makes Janet happy, then I wish them the best. It’s time for me to move on.” I continued to look Gary right in the eye, and he never flinched. “That is, move on and repaint my dining room wall before the open house.”
“You said the open house is Saturday?”
I nodded.
“This Saturday?”
I nodded again.
“Today’s Friday,” Gary pointed out.
“I know.”
“Come on Dad, we should help.” Kyle looked up at both of us, waiting for the two adults to arrive at the same conclusion he had about ten minutes ago.
Gary stared into my eyes, as if he was trying to read my thoughts. Luckily he couldn’t because what I was thinking in that moment was that I really, really wanted to grab the SourPaw out of Gary’s cart and guzzle all six bottles.
“I guess we better get moving then,” said Gary.
At first, I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. Did Gary just say he would help me? “You really don’t mind helping me? After everything I’ve done?”
Gary seemed to consider the question long and hard. A little longer and a littler harder than I was hoping for, if I’m being honest. Then his face got serious. I could tell he was sorting through whatever he was about to say. “Mary.”
“Yes?” I braced myself. When the silence lingered, I thought for sure that whatever was mending between us was about to spontaneously combust.
Gary took a deep breath, his eyes meeting mine. “If we’re going to do this, let’s just take it slow. No gimmicks. No games. Okay?”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath of my own. “Is this what starting over looks like?” I asked.
“I suppose we’re about to find out.”
Earlier in the day, I had been absolutely certain that any hope for Gary and me to repair our friendship was long gone. But now? There was a glimmer of a possibility that Gary and I could still make things work. A teeny tiny itty bitty thread of hope. I had been given a second chance. This time, I would not screw it up. Take that Universe. Take that.
* * *
As soon as I got back to Aunt Catherine’s house, I showered, I shaved, and I misted myself with enough perfume to mask any lingering effects of my negligent hygiene. Then I had to figure out what to wear. Something that looked nice, but not too nice in case I spilled paint all over it, which was a realistic if not probable possibility.
I decided on the red tank top I wore to the Family Fun Run. One, it was red, so if I splattered paint all over myself, there was less of a chance Gary would notice. And two, I was still pretty sure I had caught him checking out my cleavage the last time I wore it and I needed every advantage I could get.
As soon as I opened the front door, Gary’s jaw dropped. “Wow.”
“Wow?”
“You cleaned up.” I could tell he was trying very hard to keep his eyes in a neutral position.
“Purrfect!” Kyle spotted Purrfect from the front doorway, and Purrfect spotted Kyle spotting her from where she had been licking herself in the dining room. It was like an episode of a Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote cartoon as Purrfect jumped straight up in the air, all four paws flailing, and then took off down the hall. Kyle gleefully gave chase.
Once the chaos subsided, Gary and I resumed eye contact. “You look …” Words seemed to fail him. But all the other parts of his body seemed to work just fine.
I smiled. “Thanks.” I watched closely to see if he glanced down toward my red tank top, but the man had the discipline of a fuzzy-hatted Buckingham Palace guard.
Desperate for a distraction, Gary held up two large takeout bags of Thai food. His biceps looked like pork dumplings bulging out of his Yale shirt. “I figured I would skip the burning dinner part and just jump straight to take out. You like crab Rangoon?”
“I love crab Rangoon.”
“I also got spring rolls, fried wontons, and shrimp tempura. I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for, so I got one of everything.”
I made a mental note not to drool. “If we eat all of that, I’ll probably be in the mood for a trip to the E.R. to have my stomach pumped.”
Gary smiled as I stepped aside. “Don’t worry, we can pace ourselves. We’ve got all night.”
“All night? I thought you wanted to take things slow,” I teased.
Gary tripped over the front door jamb and his cheeks turned the same color as the dining room wall we were about to paint. Bright pink. Using the bags of food as a distraction, he asked, “Where did you want me to put these? I still have to go out to the van to bring in the paint.”
I pointed to the dining room table. “We’re eating there tonight.”
Gary frowned. “But the open house is tomorrow. You did all that work to get everything perfect.”
“I figured it would be a shame to let it all go to waste.” Gary was right. I did a lot of work to get everything perfect. The napkins were folded, the silverware polished, I even ironed the tablecloth. “We have to use it at least once.”
While Gary went to fetch the paint, I pulled a couple of SourPaws from the fridge. When Gary returned, he set the paint in the foyer and then joined me at the table.
“To new beginnings.” I held up my beer bottle.
“To fresh starts.” Gary clinked his beer bottle against mine.
* * *
Dinner was amazing, and it wasn’t just the food. We ate, we drank, we laughed. Kyle told me all about hitting a double during his last little league game. It was almost perfect.
Almost.
As Gary and I cleaned up and Kyle and Purrfect settled on the couch to watch television, Gary asked, “So, have you talked to Janet lately?”
I took my time scrubbing a plate. “No,” I answered, rinsing the plate under a steady stream of water. “She still won’t return my calls.” To be honest, Janet was a topic I preferred to avoid. “We should get busy painting. Otherwise, you’re going to be stuck here all night.”
“Doesn’t sound horrible.” Gary smiled. My heart practically beat right out of my chest.
Once we got going, Gary took over and did all the work. Since he was the expert, I was a happy to let him take charge. I helped where I could, handing him a fresh paint brush when he needed to cut in along the edges or holding the ladder for him when he had to reach the top of the wall.
It was well after midnight when Gary finally climbed down the ladder and stepped back to assess the result. I waited while his eyes swept over the wall. Floor to ceiling. Back and forth. “Not bad,” he said, nodding his head. “Not bad at all.”
“I think it looks great.” The greige was gone. The pink was gone. And yes, the red really popped.
“Is it hot in here or is it just me?” Gary wiped the sweat off the back of his neck with a clean paint cloth. Reaching back, his exposed triceps rippled, triggering a similar response just below my abdomen.
“It’s not just you.” I fanned myself with an open palm. And it wasn’t just hot in Aunt Catherine’s house, it was suffocating. “Gus told me the duct work needs replaced. The circulation in here is the equivalent of a stagnant pool of mud.” Aunt Catherine’s air conditioner unit was ancient, so whenever the temperature got up there, it just couldn’t keep up.
“I can look at it later.” I thought to myself that Gary could look at whatever he wanted to.
Gary peeled off his painting overalls, leaving only the shorts and Yale T-shirt he had been wearing underneath. I tried not to stare, failing miserably.
“It’s going to be a little wet for a while,” Gary said. “But it should be completely dry in time for the open house.” I watched as a funny look settled on Gary’s face. “That reminds me.” His teeth pressed into his upper lip. “I got you something for your open house. Be right back.”
Gary went out to his van. When he came back, he had something large and rectangular wrapped in brown paper. There was even a red bow on it, the same color as the wall. “Open it.”
As soon as I ripped open the brown paper wrapping, all the air whooshed out of my lungs and my heart hit the pause button. It was Last Flight, the painting of the little blue bird. I didn’t even realize I was crying until Gary handed me his paint rag. I didn’t even care that it was sweat soaked.
“But Jack took this one,” I sputtered. “How did you …”
“I bought it back,” said Gary. “One of the nurses found it sitting in the back of a closet at his office. Still wrapped.”
Without thinking about it, I jumped into Gary’s arms for a hug. “Thank you Gary. Thank you so much.” It was the best present I ever received. Even better than the Barbie Dream House, my dad got me one year for Christmas.
Gary’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. I could feel the beat of his heart quicken as my body pressed against his. That time when I looked up into his eyes, he didn’t look away.
I’m not sure which one of us leaned in first, but as soon as his lips pressed against my lips, a wave of heat coursed through my entire body like hot lava flowing from a volcano. From my lips, down to my chest, then oozing down lower and lower until it consumed me entirely.
I could still feel his heartbeat, the pace getting faster and faster as I splayed my hands across his chest. His shoulders tensed, the muscles like granite boulders, baking all day in the sun.
If Aunt Catherine’s house was hot before, now it was on fire. I couldn’t breathe. My head was spinning. The entire middle part of my body between my upper thighs and my chest was on a rocket ship ride straight into the middle of the sun.
Before I lost what little was left of my spiraling self control, I pushed away from him. “We said we were going to take things slow,” I gasped. My heart sure wasn’t beating slow. Neither was all the blood pumping through my body, most of it still rushing down to all the parts below my waist. The only thing slow that was happening was the flow of oxygen into my lungs because I had stopped breathing.
“Slow?” He said it like he was repeating a word from a foreign language, a word he had never heard before and didn’t know the meaning. “Right. We should definitely take it slow.” His mouth was saying one thing, but his eyes were on a completely different page. Actually, a different book entirely.
“It’s late,” he said. “Now that the painting’s finished, I should finish cleaning up and go.”
“Yes,” I agreed. My voice was barely a whisper.
He didn’t move.
I didn’t move either. Once again, staring into his eyes was like getting sucked down into a whirlpool in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, lost, gone, and forgotten.
“You’re staring,” said Gary.
“So are you.”
“That’s because you have paint in your hair.” Gary smiled.
“Well, I’m staring because you have paint on your shirt.”
“I do?” Gary peered down at his torso. Which, coincidentally, I was peering at too.
“Right there on your shoulder.” I pointed at his hard, chiseled shoulder. Right next to his soft, kissable neck.
Was that my heart beating so loudly or did a platoon of road workers with jack hammers start reconstructing the entire Central Florida road system right outside the house?
Gary looked down at the paint on his shirt. “Oh oh, that’s going to stain. This is my favorite shirt.” It was my new favorite shirt, too. Ever. On anyone. “Is it okay if I soak this?”
You can soak anything you want. I didn’t say that part out loud. But I was definitely thinking about it at the top of my lungs. I needed to go soak my overheated head in the pool.
In one fluid motion, Gary reached back and pulled the Yale shirt up his back and over his head. “Sink okay?”
Yes, as a matter of fact. I was sinking. My mind, straight down to the gutter.
“Mary, you okay?”
“Me? I’m great.” I did my best not to look at the way his chest muscles rippled like a suit of bullet proof body armor, and the way his abdomen muscles paved a rock hard path down to his hips. I also tried not to notice the curls of hair on his chest, hair that looked so soft and fuzzy and rub-able that if I ran my hand through it, I would never want to use my hand for anything else ever again.
Well, almost anything.