14. Lizzy
I don’tpurposely stare out the window, but when I do? I see neighbor boys walking out of their front doors, stepping down the porch, and heading for the sidewalk.
On foot.
“Where is he going?” I mutter as Brodie gets to the sidewalk and hangs a right—which is the opposite direction of campus and the direction to the small city center shopping district that’s not too far down the street.
Not that I’ve ever walked there, and not that that is his destination, but still.
That’s the direction he’s headed.
Huh.
I only hesitate a few moments before snatching up a hoodie hanging on the back of a kitchen barstool, sliding into a pair of worn-in sneakers, and bolting out the door.
This is me, following a guy down the road.
“Hey. Neighbor.” My voice cracks as I call out to him, not that he’s gotten very far, but he’s far enough down the block that I have to raise it. Then say it again because he does not hear me. “Hey! Neighbor!”
Brodie halts on the sidewalk, faltering but not turning around. He probably thinks the random shouting is meant for someone else.
He continues walking.
This is ridiculous.
“Go home, Lizzy,” I tell myself. Go home now and leave the poor guy alone.
Ugh.
I stop, ready to turn my body back to the house, glancing over my shoulder at the same time Brodie happens to glance over his.
“Lizzy?”
He’s facing me now, hands stuffed in his pockets, and even from here, I can see the white earbuds in his ears.
He pulls one out so he can give me his full attention. “What are you doing?”
Do not tell him you saw him out the window and came outside to catch up to him to go wherever he was going.Because you’re curious and bored. And because it’s driving you nuts that he’s an enigma.
“Oh hey.” I act like I literally just noticed him. “I was bored, so I thought I’d see what you were up to.”
Goddammit, Lizzy.
I want to face-palm myself or slap a hand over my mouth, but it”s too late. Here we are.
“Where are you off to?” I ask a question that the answer is none of my business.
“Hardware store.”
Hardware store? My eyes go wide. “For what?”
He shrugs. “Someone clogged the toilet, and we need to snake it.”
Snake it? “I have no idea what that means.”
He begins trudging along, hands still in his pockets, large frame encompassing most of the sidewalk.
Brodie looks down at me as we walk, and I hug myself when the wind picks up.
“Do you, uh—also have to grab something from the hardware store?”
I shake my head. “No. Actually, I’ve never been to one, so I have no idea what’s inside one.”
He stops on the sidewalk and faces me. “What do you mean you’ve never been inside one?”
Why does he look so shocked? “I have no idea! I just never…have. What is a hardware store?” Judging by the name, it sounds like it’s full of hard things, but I have no idea what that means either. “Obviously, it has toilet supplies?”
He walks a few feet, then tips his head back and laughs. “Yeah, they have toilet supplies there.”
I hurry to catch up because his strides seem to be twice as long as mine. “And what else?”
Brodie shrugs. “I don’t know, lawn mowers? Rakes? Nuts and bolts.”
“Huh.” I cock my head toward him, walking briskly to keep up. “I guess I’ll find out when we get there.”
We walk.
And walk.
And walk a few more blocks.
“How did I not realize it was this far?”
“How often do you come this way?” he asks, looking both ways before we cross yet another street.
“Not often,” I admit. “Are we almost there?”
He glances over at me, then points at the small strip center ahead of us. “See that red awning? That’s the hardware store.”
“Ahh,” I breathe.
I first notice the lawn mowers parked outside, lined up against the curb. Push mowers, riding mowers, and a few mowers that look like tiny John Deere tractors. Several snowblowers.
Gas grills.
When Brodie pushes through the front entrance, the scent of fresh lumber—mixed with the sharp tang of metal—assaults my delicate senses, the ones used to perfume and fruity soap or candles that smell like cookies.
My eyes dart this way and that, overwhelmed by row upon row of tools and equipment and random household do-it-yourself supplies lining the aisles.
“Okay. So this is basically like a mini Home Depot.”
Brodie nods. “Exactly.”
He seems right at home, strolling confidently through the maze of hardware supplies.
“’Sup, Brodie,” the teenager behind the check-out counter calls out to him as he hangs a right at the aisle of bathroom faucets, showerheads, and all sorts of…other stuff.
“Uh. How often are you here?” I tease, trailing him.
“Not that often,” he grunts, looking uncomfortable. “He probably recognizes me from hockey.”
Good point.
I hadn’t thought of that.
“Oh! Look at these!” I find a set of massive scissors and hold them up—with two hands because they weigh a ton—snapping them in his direction. “What are these for? Ribbon cutting ceremonies?”
He laughs. “Those are hedge trimmers.”
I set them down, feeling my face go flush. “Oh.”
Duh.
Deciding I should probably keep my hands to myself and stop touching things, I follow him—behaving myself—as he leads the way, pointing out various items with an expert knowledge that both impress and intimidate me. Things like “Blah blah blah drywall anchors” and “Blah blah blah lawn fertilizer,” none of which I give two shits about.
As we pass by the paint section, I literally cannot resist reaching out to touch the colorful array of cans lining the shelves, plink, plink, plink, one can at a time, all along the row as he walks with purpose.
I let him go on without me ’cause, “Oh my god, this paint!” Fan after fan of sample colors reel me in as if I were a fish on a line. My fingers immediately gravitate toward the paint chips.
They have every color under the sun!
Hardware stores are so fun!
My eyes scan the rainbow of hues before landing on a shade of soft pink that immediately captures my attention; a delicate pink, a perfect reflection of my personality that would be amazing painted on my bedroom walls.
“I love this color,” I breathe out, loving the hue. ”Brodie, look at this color,” I exclaim, holding up the paint chip for him to see, waving it high above the aisle so he can see my arm. ”Isn”t it so beautiful?”
He studies it for a moment before turning to me with a grin. ”I like it. It”s cute.”
Cute, just like you, I imagine him saying as I stare down at the color in my hand, a blush creeping up my cheeks even though he didn’t say the words. I only imagined them.
But still. “You think it’s a cute color?” I tease. “Then I think I”m going to get a gallon of it.”
“You’re going to buy paint?” Brodie appears out of nowhere, following my voice, already shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to paint any walls in your place. I know we aren’t.”
Not allowed to paint my bedroom walls? That is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard of. It’s my bedroom. That I live in, so of course I should be able to paint it any color I want.
“Boo! Hiss!” I frown, jutting out my hip. “Like how much trouble are we talking about getting into here?”
“A lot, probably. Like you would probably lose your security deposit.”
Shit.
Our security deposit was around twelve-hundred dollars, and I know we’re all planning on getting that cash back at the end of the semester.
“Okay but…” My sentence trails off. “What if I don’t say anything and repaint before we move out?”
He shrugs. “Or you can just use this paint chip as a bookmark.”
Blah.
“I don’t want to use this as a bookmark. I want to paint my walls!” Suddenly impassioned, I grab a gallon jug of paint down from the shelf and head toward the paint counter with it. “I won’t say anything if you don’t say anything.”
“So now I have to keep your secrets? Damn, Lizzy.” Brodie laughs as the guy behind the counter uses a small bottle opener-looking kind of tool to pry the top off, then setting to work adding color to the white base.
“You don’t have to keep my secrets.” I smile at him, fluttering my lashes. “But if you want to help me paint my room, you can.”
“Help paint your room?” He blinks. “No one wants to paint a bedroom. Literally no one.”
“Just one wall? As an accent?”
I hear him muttering to himself as I wander off again, this time to the landscape department, running my finger over a metal dragonfly lawn ornament. It’s been spray-painted to a glossy shine, with rhinestones in bright pink, yellow, and blue on its wings.
I flick one of the wings, causing it to twirl.
“Cute.”
Watching him over the aisles, I observe him as he scans the shelves. I can see his inner cogs turning and the debate in his eyes as he decides over this and that, leaning forward to take a tool off a rack. Staring at it. Putting it back.
He does this several times, never noticing me noticing him, and I feel like a creep for gawking at him.
It’s like I said before. There isn’t really anything that stands out about Brodie. On the quiet side and unassuming, he tends to be more observant than part of the fray. He reads. Does homework. Studies.
He’s focused on his sport, and unlike his teammates, he doesn’t seem to make sex a priority. Nor dating.
Maybe because he’s shy?
He doesn’t strike me as insecure, but then again, I don’t know him all that well.
He really is pretty cute.
I don’t know why I wrote him off when I saw him standing on his porch the other night, but the more I spend time with him, the more adorable I find him—even though he is unwittingly oblivious. I can hardly believe the guy hasn’t flirted with me once.
Not even once, not even a little.
It’s seriously blowing my mind.
Not that I’m like, a beauty queen or anything, but I get by just fine thankyouverymuch. I get hit on at the bars all the time, and sometimes in class, so the fact that Brodie has barely noticed my boobs or my butt or my flirtatious smile is making me study him even further.
And he is completely unaware.
Fine.
I grab a few paint brushes—I’m going to need them since I have zero painting essentials at my house—some blue tape so I can trim the ceiling and floorboards, and take those to the counter to pay once my paint is done being shook and shaken within an inch of its life.
Brodie stands behind me, looking at my stuff. “You sure you want to do this?”
No. “Yes. I love pink.”
Which is true.
I do love pink. I just never thought I would want to paint my room this color.
“After my near-death experience, I’ve had a new lease on life.”
His brows go up as he moves forward, setting his toilet snake on the counter, as soon as my hand goes out to collect my change.
“What near-death experience?”
“Uh, the one with the squirrel?” How soon they forget. “He could have maimed me.”
“Maimed you? I’m the one who had to go in that room—without any professional gear, mind you—to find that little son of a bitch.”
Maybe so, but, “He came through my wall when I was minding my own business. He could have attacked me then.”
“He could have attacked me when I went in to look for him.”
“You are being so dramatic,” I say as we both take our stuff and head toward the exit, the kid behind the counter looking on with the widest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“I’m being dramatic!” Brodie exclaims theatrically, pushing the door before I can and holding it open so I can walk through first. “You literally just called your experience near-death. There is nothing more dramatic than that.”
“Hmph.” I let out a pfft sound, thoroughly enjoying this back-and-forth banter.
And we don’t stop, giving one another a hard time the entire walk back to our respective houses. Brodie walks me to the door instead of stopping at the lot line between his house and mine, neither of us is aware of it until we’re standing awkwardly.
As if we were on an awkward first date.
“Oh shit,” he says. “I didn’t realize…” He glances back at his house, gesturing toward it.
I lift my paint cans. Brodie offered to carry the gallon can on the way back, but I refused, insisting that I could manage just fine on my own. Women’s lib and all that…
“That was fun. We should do it again sometime,” I tell him with a laugh. “The hardware store is fun!”
“No freaking way. You’ll end up wanting to put a ceiling fan in your room next, and I’m no electrician.”
“No, but I bet you could still figure it out.”
Later, when I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom, all I can do is stare at the paint I just had to have, wondering if one gallon will be enough. I also don’t have all the necessary supplies, like a paint pan or drop cloth, but like, it’ll be fine. How hard can it be?
The gallon sits not-so-innocently on my desk, its label promising a transformation with just a few brushstrokes. But as I look at it, uncertainty gnaws at me.
I bite my lip.
The color, that perfect shade of pink that would have been more perfect for a young girl and not a full-ass adult, had seemed like the perfect choice when I was with Brodie—and flirting with him, and trying to pull a DIY project out of my ass that he could help me with.
Plus, it’s supposed to brighten up the space.
Ugh. Why did I buy this crap? No one has time for this, and Brodie didn’t exactly act thrilled at the prospect of helping me, and part of me only bought the stupid gallon of paint so I would have an excuse to get him back over here.
HOW HORRIBLE IS THAT?
Basic Jedi Girl Tricks 101, that’s what that is.
I don’t actually want to paint.
In fact, I hate painting. Loathe it.
Relief washes over me when my phone pings, a text notification giving me something else to focus on.
Sully: Saw you just got back from the hardware store with bae. How’d it go? Are you engaged yet?
He’s become something of an ally since our mess of a date. Not optimistic that Brodie would be interested, but willing to be the kind of wingman a guy can be when he’s fallen into the friend zone.
Me: Shut up, you’re not funny.
Sully: I’m being serious. I’m shocked that he would invite you along.
Me: Er, he didn’t. I saw him out the window and like an IDIOT went chasing down the road after him.
Sully: You did not.
Me: Unfortunately, yes. Yes, I did.
Sully: Why do no chicks chase ME down the road?
Me: Probably because you call them chicks??
Sully: That could be a valid argument.
Me: Thanks. I try.
Sully: So no sparks were flying?
Me: I wouldn’t say so, no. No sparks. But I did buy a gallon of paint and am soon going to have a pink wall!!! So there is that.
Sully: Need any help? Wink, wink
Me: Er, no. I think I have it covered.
Sully: By covered, do you mean Brodie is going to help you the same way he captured that squirrel for you?
Me: Shut UP, Sully! Ugh, WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS.
Sully: I’m just sayin’… The guy is good at a lot of things, but household DIY may not be one of them.
Me: He’s fixing your toilet, isn’t he?
Sully: No, Charlie is. The only thing Brod had to do was go get the tools, Charlie drew the other straw.
Me: Oh.
Sully: Anyway. If there’s anything I can do lmk.
Me: k. Thanks. I’ll remember that, but like—he’s just not that interested…
Tossing my phone onto the bed, I sigh, running a hand through my hair in frustration.
Then.
I do what any girl in my situation would do:
Throw myself on the bed and scream into my pillow.