8. Trevor
8
TREVOR
M uch to my surprise, I have to admit that whatever Kayla’s got simmering in that pot smells pretty good. I’m sitting at the table, watching her bustle around my kitchen like she owns the place. She looks right at home here. In fact, I come dangerously close to fantasizing about having her here all the time. Would she think I was creepy for telling her I think she’s definitely wife material? She might run for the hills and I wouldn’t blame her based on the tenure of our acquaintance.
She doesn’t seem to expect anything at all from me as she adds things to the pot confidently, talking all the while. Sometimes I can’t even tell if she’s talking to me or herself.
Finally, she clunks a bowl down in front of me with a flourish. “Voila. Chicken noodle soup with veggies.”
She slides into the chair across from me with her own food and extends her spoon in my direction. “Bon appetite!”
I clink my spoon with hers and take my first bite of soup. “Wow.” I take another bite and another. “This is really good.”
Kayla looks pleased with herself. “Thank you very much. Although now you are truly out of food. I think the only thing I didn’t use was the instant oatmeal.”
“Wow.” I can’t help repeating myself, awestruck by the sorcery obviously required to make a flavorful meal out of the meager ingredients I had on hand. It makes me wonder what she could do with a fully stocked pantry.
I’m hungrier than I realized, and it doesn’t take long for me to finish the first bowl plus a generous refill. I’m contemplating a third serving when she plunks a lid on the pot and slides it into the fridge. “You can have the leftovers tonight, which means you won’t have to get groceries until at least tomorrow.”
“Good thinking.” It’s probably for the best that I don’t eat myself into a food coma since we still have work to do. And now I have something to look forward to at dinner time.
“Alrighty, I’ll just get this cleaned up and we can go paint.”
I jump up from the table and intercept her on the way to the sink. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Relax.”
She’s staring at me like I grew an extra nose while I was talking. “I’d rather help.”
“Seriously,” I say. “I’ll clean up.” When I try to take her soup bowl, she clamps down tightly, pulling the dish into her body. I tug a little harder. What is her problem? Why is she being so stubborn about this?
“Seriously,” she mimics me. “I don’t mind helping.”
“Fine.” I let go of the bowl. The sudden release sends her staggering back a step. “You clear the table while I wash.”
“Fine.” She leans around me to set her bowl in the sink, bringing her so close that I get a whiff of a subtle citrusy scent. Her shampoo, maybe? Whatever it is, I like it enough that I barely have the presence of mind to keep from leaning forward and inhaling deeply. I might not have many social skills, but even I know better than to sniff a woman .
She pulls back without a glance at me and begins gathering the dishes scattered across the counter and table while I run some water in the sink and begin washing. It only takes her a few minutes, and the next thing I know, we’re elbow to elbow as she begins drying the clean dishes I’m setting in the drying rack on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that. They’ll dry just fine on the rack.”
“I’m sure they will, but I’d just as well help a few of them along while I’m waiting on you to finish washing.” She reaches up to put away a stack of plates in the cabinet. She’s so tiny she can barely reach, but I resist the urge to help her. I’m betting she wouldn’t take kindly to that.
“You should really get a dishwasher.”
“That’s number one on my list of kitchen remodel priorities.”
Five minutes later, we’re done. “Alright, let’s paint,” she says cheerfully before I even have my hands dry.
“Do I have time for a bathroom break first?”
“Oh, sure, of course. Sorry.” She bites her lip. “I get a little carried away sometimes. I’m what my mother likes to call ‘goal-oriented’. My sister calls it ‘bossy’.”
I have to smile at that. “It’s fine. I’ll just be a minute.”
As I wash my hands in the bathroom, I ponder what I’ve learned about Kayla so far this morning. She’s a good cook, a hard worker, and I get the impression that she doesn’t make a lot of time for rest. I wonder what she’s learned about me. Doesn’t have many words to say or much food to eat?
Out in the garage, she’s pulling paint supplies out of the bag. “We probably need to move this outside to keep from painting your floor,” she observes.
I press the button to lift the garage door. “We can take it right out there into the grass.”
I move to lift the fireplace and stumble, caught off balance when she grabs one side and lifts too .
“Whoops,” she says. “You okay?”
“I’m good.”
“Good, let’s try again. I’ve got this side. On three.”
She counts us off and I lift my assigned side obediently, walking backward and trying not to rush. Kayla huffs and puffs as she shuffles along with her side and I’m torn. Should I protect her pride and let her keep helping or should I reveal to her that I could move it more easily on my own?
Given how defensive she was about helping in the kitchen, I decide to stay quiet.
“Phew.” Kayla blows out a breath when we finally set the fireplace down in the grass beside the driveway. “This thing is heavier than it looks.”
It lists to the side on the uneven ground when she lets go and I lift it before she can grab it again, repositioning it a couple feet away on a smoother patch of yard.
When I look up, her mouth is in a perfect O. She clamps it closed and blinks.
“Well. I guess you had that handled just fine on your own.”
I shrug. “I appreciated your help.”
“Hmm.” She eyes me. “I’ll bring out the paint.” She returns quickly with the bag of supplies we purchased Tuesday. I pop open the little can and grab a stirring stick to mix up the brown color with. The temperature has warmed some since this morning and even with a cool breeze, it’s pretty comfortable here in the sun. I breathe deeply, glad for a chance to get outside for a few minutes.
“So, I’ve been thinking about how to teach you to talk to people and it got me wondering.” Kayla sinks onto the ground across from me and fingers the bristles of the paintbrush she’s holding. “Why is it so important to you? What are you hoping to get out of it?”
My eyes jump up to meet hers and my brain starts spinning a million miles an hour. I avert my gaze to the paint I’m stirring as I debate how honest to be. I decide to lay it all out.
“I’ve been realizing I’m…” I swallow. “I’ve been a little lonely. I want to be more comfortable spending time with friends. And…I want to find a wife.”
She stares at me. “You really aren’t like most guys. You realize that, right?”
I blush. “Hopefully you can help fix me.”
“I didn’t mean it to sound like you need fixing. You don’t.” She lays her hand on my arm, pausing my stirring and making me look at her again. “I think it’s great that you know what you want and you’re taking steps to get you there. You clearly aren’t afraid of hard work or commitment. I’m surprised some lucky girl hasn’t already snatched you up.”
I blush again, this time with pleasure. “It hasn’t turned out to be that easy. In order to get a wife, you have to start with a girlfriend, which starts with dates, which starts with talking to people, which is where I stall out.”
She pulls her hand away and I miss her warm touch on my arm. “And that’s where I come in. What is it about interacting with people that trips you up?”
I consider her question, trying to pinpoint one or two things that are the most intimidating. “I think the biggest thing is not knowing what to say. What if I say the wrong thing? It seems easier to not say anything at all.”
“Okay, I get that. I actually think it would be better if more people took a page out of your playbook.”
This surprises me. “What do you mean?”
“So many people talk without really saying anything. I’m definitely guilty of doing that sometimes. Most of us would be better off listening more, like you. You’re a pretty good listener.”
Her compliment warms me.
“But there are two parts to listening,” Kayla continues as I pour some of the paint into a pan so we can get to it easier. I grab a brush and dip it in.
“First, you have the part where you hear what people are saying. You’ve got that part down.” She smooths a swatch of brown down one side of the fireplace. “Then you have the part where you respond so that people know you’re understanding. People want to know you’re paying attention to them.”
I nod. That makes sense. I think sometimes people assume that because I’m not responding I don’t care about what they are saying. I mean, I guess sometimes I really don’t care, like last week when I tried to order a cheeseburger and the waitress launched into a five-minute explanation about the fact that they didn’t have any cheese because of a misunderstanding with their supplier. In that instance, I really just wanted to change my order and move on. But most of the time, I do care.
“Here’s a trick I use when I’m not sure what to say next: just keep asking questions. People love to talk about themselves.” Kayla grins. “Sometimes you can have a twenty-minute conversation with someone and only say like ten words because they do all the talking for you.”
That sounds perfect. Almost too good to be true.
“Do you want to practice?”
“Uh…sure.” Suddenly I feel nervous again. At some point during our time together I had relaxed and started feeling comfortable around Kayla. Now I’m in the spotlight and my stomach flutters with butterflies again. Not the romantic, tickly, excited kind of butterflies. These are actually more like big black bats with fangs flapping around looking for their next victim.
“Just start out with an easy question and then keep it going. Let’s see how long you can keep me talking. Don’t worry if it feels awkward at first, we’re just practicing.”
“Okay…um…” My brain feels frozen. What should I ask? Afte r a painfully long moment, a corner of my consciousness thaws and spits out a question.
“Are you from around here?” I keep painting without looking at her. The feel of the brush in my hand and the smell of the paint gives me something to focus on, something to keep me grounded.
“Oh, that’s a good question,” she says approvingly. “I’m originally from the Memphis area, but I’ve lived here in Nashville for about five and a half years now. My mom and dad and my sister and her family still live there. And some aunts, uncles, and cousins too.”
“Why did you come to Nashville?”
“I wanted to go to college somewhere with a little distance from home. I picked Middle Tennessee State University because it’s pretty well-known and it’s public so with in-state tuition it was affordable. I figured I could find a job in Nashville after I graduated if I didn’t want to go back to Memphis. Which is what I did, obviously.”
“You must like it here,” I respond, then immediately second-guess myself. That wasn’t a question. I’m already messing up the assignment.
“I do.” Much to my relief, she keeps going. “I’ve made some good friends here. Nashville feels like home to me now.”
Her expression is soft and thoughtful as she talks. I have so many more questions for her, but I don’t want to overstep any boundaries. At the same time, she did expressly instruct me to keep asking. Her invitation emboldens me.
“Why did you want to leave home?”
Kayla blows out a breath, her paintbrush growing still, and watches a leaf float to the ground from the maple in my yard. Most of the leaves have already fallen in a thick carpet beneath it, but a few stragglers still hang on, fluttering stubbornly at the end of bare limbs.
“I think I was just ready for a chance to be my own person. My sister, Renee, was a hard act to follow. I always felt like I was kind of living in her shadow. Teachers, coaches, family members – everyone was constantly comparing us. I don’t think any of them meant it in a bad way but I really wanted to go somewhere far enough from home that people would know me as Kayla, not as Renee’s little sister.”
“Did it work?” I hope the answer is yes. I hope she got everything she wanted by moving here to Nashville. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I’m kind of hoping there’s still a Trevor-shaped hole in her life, but other than that I hope she’s content.
“I think so.” She smiles and resumes painting. “I love my job, my hobbies, all the things I get to be involved in, and the people I do them with. Most of the people I hang out with don’t even know I have a sister.”
“I’m honored to be one of the lucky few,” I joke. “What all do you do outside of work?”
“Well, there’s the book club. I think I mentioned that last weekend.” She starts ticking activities off on her fingers as she counts. “I’m a mentor to a couple of middle school girls through a local community outreach program. I’m friends with the director of the library closest to my house and she lets me do story time for kids every other week. I’m also on the regular volunteer schedule at the animal shelter. That’s where I’m headed after this. On Sundays, I’m on the rotation for teaching children’s church.”
I can feel my eyes bulging. “Wow, that’s a lot. Do you ever sleep?”
Kayla tips her head back and laughs. “You sound like my best friend. She gave me a hard time for volunteering to direct this play.”
“We need to hurry and finish this up.” I speed up the strokes of my brush in an exaggerated way. “Sounds like you have places to go and people to see. ”
She laughs again, then checks her watch. “You’re not all the way wrong. I do need to go in about half an hour.”
We finish the rest of the painting in comfortable silence, just in time for her to leave.
“You go ahead and wash up in the kitchen so you won’t be late,” I offer. “I’ll put this stuff away.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
I watch her walk inside out of the corner of my eye as I seal up the paint can and gather the brushes. I run some water in the paint pan and leave the brushes to soak in the garage. I’ll finish rinsing them out later.
Kayla is drying her hands when I step inside the kitchen.
“Thanks again for your help. Same time next week?”
“Sounds good.”
“Be ready for more talking practice next week.”
“I will.” At least as much as I can be.