Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
Arden
I’m fixated on my bedroom door. I fucking hate that door. You’d think it would be higher quality given what I pay in rent, but no. It’s not the fixation that makes sense, but it’s my reality. But that door, that fucking door. It makes me think about love in a way that’s irrational. The only real similarity between the words is that they are both four letters. But it’s as if the grains on the wood form memories I try to forget, and some I already have. Maybe it’s not irrational. What’s more symbolic of love than the door you’re able to walk out or worse the one that you can’t.
Will takes a seat next to me on the bed and his eyes fixate on the same spot mine are glued. I wonder if he can see what I see. How could he? For people like him, doors look like opportunities. He doesn’t read the knots the same way I do.
"What are we looking at?" he asks.
"Different things.”
"Show me yours then," he says.
"You’ve seen mine," I elbow him, but he catches my arm, catches my face, catches a kiss. The way his eyes scan my face are looking for what I’m not saying.
"What is it?" I don’t even know if I have the words to really explain.
"I just really hate that boring fucking wood door." His eyes narrow in a way that he knows I’m not being completely honest. But I can feel him in a way that doesn’t feel forced. He slips his hand into his squeezes twice.
"Call the restaurant and tell them we’re going to be late."
"Where are we going?"
"We’re taking care of that door" he says matter of factly, as he pulls out his phone searching for something.
"What time do you close?" I hear him asking the person on the other line as he checks his watch. "Okay, we’re about ten minutes away… I’d really appreciate it, promise we’ll be in and out."
Will grabs my hand, checks for some cash in his wallet, and smiles as he pulls me out the door and down the street. We’re hurrying somewhere I have no idea. Not until he turns down one of the side streets and stops in front of a hardware store. The sign of the door says closed, but he doesn’t seem to care, knocking loudly enough to get the attendant from the back.
He cracks the door open and points to the clock. Four minutes past nine. As if to say ‘just missed it.’
"Hang on, before you rightly shut this door in our faces, so you can go home after what was undoubtedly a long hard day," he says, "what will it take for you to grab us a gallon of paint and two brushes? That's all, I can pay cash. We don’t even have to come in."
The man looks annoyed. Our outfits definitely don’t scream we’re about to embark on some home-improvement projects . And maybe takes pity on us for whatever reason would cause us to turn up here, at nine-o-four on a Saturday night.
His pause gives Will the opening he’s looking for, grabbing his wallet.
"Listen, I’ve got…" His hands fiddle with the cash trying to count it out frantically. "I’ve got two-hundred and… ninety… two hundred and ninety eight dollars, for a gallon of paint and two brushes."
"And that plant!" I add in quickly. Through the crack in the door, I can see there’s a small rack of small potted herbs that feels like it needs a home with ‘ the Photosynthesizers’ , the name of the miscellaneous plant band I keep scattered across my apartment.
“One gallon of paint, two brushes, and this…" Will reaches past the man and grabs it, “basil."
"Wait here," the man says, returning just moments later with a large bag and canister of paint, the bright marigold marked on the lid indicates what’s in the can.
"Someone didn’t pick this up." He does a sweep to see if anyone is around, before extending his hand, like we are completing some illegal transaction.
"What do you say, are you a fan of yellow?" Will asks looking to me for confirmation.
"More than I ever imagined."
Will empties his wallet of the cash, even hands over a Coffee Haus gift card as an extra thank you for the coveralls and primer he included. He carries our supplies past brick buildings that have seen two centuries of similar night wanderers, though probably fewer carrying the same marigold paint. The streetlights catch on the wear-smoothed cobblestones peeking through modern pavement, little reminders that this city has layers upon layers of stories beneath our feet, no different than us. As the air has that specific Cambridge weight to it, where academia hangs in there like invisible ivy, even when you're no longer tangled in it.
"I can't believe you just spent almost three hundred dollars on paint and this plant," I say, cradling the small plastic potted basil.
"Worth it," he says matter of factly as he runs the thick pad of his thumb across the leaf. "I can't believe you're worried about the paint when you've got a history of premeditated plant murder to answer for." He bumps my shoulder playfully and wraps his around me to pull us closer. "Should we talk about the recent incident ?"
"I’m not a plant murderer" I say. "That was succulent-suicide. Prictor knew what he was doing when he jumped off my desk."
"Sounds more like first degree horticide."
" Ifff anythinggg , it's more like second degree plantslaughter."
"Right, and I suppose the peace lily just happened to develop an anxiety disorder?" Who hasn’t?
"Listen." I shift the basil to hold it a little more securely. "Some plants just can't handle the pressure of living up to their names. That peace lily had war in its heart."
"You know what this means, right? We're going to have to name this one something with low expectations." Will laughs, the sound echoing off the brownstones on our walk.
"Barry the Basil, who's probably questioning his life choices right now?"
"Speaking of questionable choices, are you ready to commit a crime against your security deposit?" he asks as we reach my door. But walking into this space of mine feels ever so slightly different when walking through the door with him.
"Alright, first thing's first. Barry needs a home that isn't your hands, preferably somewhere high enough that he can't make an escape attempt." He reaches for the small basil in my grip and places him on the kitchen counter, well away from any edges, as he begins to unpack the rest of the supplies.
"Now he can watch us destroy my rental in comfort."
"He can watch us do a lot more than that,” he says through a kiss, “the little voyeur.”
The color hits the wood like liquid sunshine, transforming the door I've spent too many nights staring at into something new. Something that doesn't hold the weight of memories that never existed here.
We finish the first coat, and while we wait for it to dry, Will sits on the floor with his back against the wall, pulling me down to sit between his legs. The paint fumes probably aren't helping our already questionable decision making skills, but there's something perfect about this moment. The way his arms wrap around me, the way the yellow door seems to glow in the apartment lights.
"You know," he says, his chin resting on my shoulder, "I think this is the first time I've committed property damage in the name of love."
Love . He used the word so casually. As he brushes the hair back from my eyes, and buries a kiss to grow as my head lulls back across his chest. There’s music playing in the background, a version of ‘Lay Lady Lay’ I haven’t heard, as he hums it into my hair. His breaths are smoother than the coats of paint, and my body follows his with each rise and fall like they’ve come to for the last weeks.
We sat there as the paint dried, something notably, mockably, known for being painfully dull. And yet, I have no interest in moving.
The second coat goes on smoother than the first, and with each stroke, the yellow warms my bedroom. And with each stroke, I tell him why. Reasons I’ve barely admitted to anyone, especially not myself. But the same reason I unexpectedly feel a pit in my stomach when my back hits a door, or why I sometimes find my fingernails scratching into wood grain just to feel the density of it.
By the time we finish, it's late, our dinner reservation replaced by a delivered pizza. We’re covered in various shades of yellow and white, and my boring old door has transformed into something that looks like it belongs in a story about new beginnings rather than old endings.
"So," he says, cleaning off his brush, "do you still hate it?"
"No," I say, reaching for his paint stained hand. "I think I might actually love it."