Chapter 22
Olive Green Confessions
Andrew
Morning light spills through the expansive windows of Vince's beach house where I've found myself after our run, agreeing to help paint his walls.
We rarely spend time together outside our morning runs and lunches, so the prospect of a shared activity sends a quiet thrill through me.
True to his word, we haven't discussed what was said at dinner.
I'm not ready yet.
The wounds from last night still feel raw, throbbing with every memory of Ted's accusations and Sam's final, devastating words.
I'm still recovering, trying to piece together the fragments of a friendship I nearly shattered.
I want to put it all behind us, to erase the humiliation that still burns in my cheeks whenever I think of Vince defending me in that restaurant.
But mostly, I don't want to lose his friendship—the easy mornings, the shared jokes, the way he looks at me like I actually matter.
The thought of that disappearing terrifies me more than any confrontation.
So I'll paint these walls with a smile, pretend everything is fine, and hope that time will somehow mend what I've broken.
The house itself is tiny, but the location is incredible. The location is nearly right on the beach. The sound of waves crashing against the shore provides a constant, soothing backdrop.
It feels a little surreal, being here before ever seeing where Vince actually lives. Vince mentions that he doesn't use the place much anymore. They'd bought it for Kaitlynn, but it has mostly sat unused since. A lot of repairs have been done.
He's chosen olive green for the walls, a bold choice I hadn't expected.
When he dramatically pries open the cans, I brace myself for one of those countless shades of white: eggshell, vanilla, lace.
But this? It works. The large windows and bright rooms balance the rich color beautifully.
Once the furniture is updated, the house will look modern and polished.
We aren't just tackling one room; we're painting two.
Vince knows I have to leave later for my classes downtown, but we've already managed to finish the first room and have moved on to the second.
Vince insists on doing the edges first, which means we start with brushes for the top and bottom of the walls before grabbing the rollers for the middle.
I'm currently relegated to the baseboards because of a small incident earlier.
I'd been painting near the ceiling on a ladder when I knocked over a can of paint. It wasn't a lot, and the floor is protected with its plastic cover, but Vince still banishes me to ground-level duty, clearly unimpressed.
Music from Vince's record collection plays softly in the background, filling the space with song.
We've talked nonstop the first couple of hours, but now the rhythm of painting has pulled us into a companionable silence. My hand starts cramping from the repetitive motion, so I pause to rub my palm, glancing up at Vince perched on the ladder.
He's chuckling to himself.
"What's funny?" I ask.
"This green," he says, gesturing to the wall. "It reminds me of the color your face turned when Ted outed you at dinner."
I freeze, my brush mid-stroke, paint pooling under the bristles.
"Wow," I mutter, dragging the brush back and forth to even out the streak I'd left in my shock. "You're the worst."
"You're the one who has a big ol' crush on me," he teases, laughing to himself. "I'm not sure what that says about you."
"You know what? You're right," I shoot back, glaring at the wall. "I do have terrible taste in men."
Vince's deep, genuine laugh fills the room, and despite my best efforts, I smile.
"You're the one who volunteered to help," he says, still amused. "You willingly subjected yourself to me for the next five hours."
I roll my eyes. "Only because you need help, and you're my best friend."
The words slip out before I can stop them. I keep my eyes glued to the wall, my brush moving in precise strokes, hoping he hasn't noticed.
He does.
From the corner of my eye, I see him look down from the ladder. "I know I promised not to bring any of it up," he says with a grin, "but Andy, how are we not supposed to talk about this? We talk about everything."
Except Ted.
Vince climbs down, setting his paint can on the floor before sitting between me and the ladder. "You're mine, too."
I frown, still focused on the wall. "Your what, too?"
"My best friend."
His words hang in the air, and I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for a reaction. I stay stubborn, brushing paint along the edge of the wall.
"I don't believe you," I say finally, my voice quiet.
Vince laughs, leaning back to look at the unfinished walls. "You're right," he says with mock seriousness. "I'm only saying that because I need your help finishing this room."
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to hold back a smile. "You're seriously the worst."
"You keep saying that, but here you are," he says, smirking. "I could just call someone to do this for us, you know. Like I did with the other rooms downstairs."
My mouth falls open. "You already paid someone to paint the rest of the house? Why are we even doing this, like it's some sort of emergency?"
He grins. "Because I like spending time with you."
The way he says it sends a twinge of something through me.
His hand moves, and for a moment I think he's going to touch me. The air between us crackles with possibility, the space between his fingers and my arm feeling charged, electric. I watch, frozen, as his hand hovers just inches from my arm, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him.
Then he pulls back, his fingers curling into a fist before relaxing at his side. The moment passes, and I let out a breath. My heart pounds against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that feels too loud in the quiet room.
I turn back to the wall, my brush moving in quick, precise strokes as if I can paint over the moment, cover it with layers of olive green until it disappears completely.
"What book are you reading?" I ask awkwardly, hoping to steer us into safer waters.
He laughs, pulling his hand back. "Nice deflection, but that line's mine. You can't take it."
"Okay, fine," I say with a grin. "Tell me something I don't know about you."
Vince fidgets with his left ear, clearly wrestling with some internal debate. "Alright," he finally says, "but it's personal. Promise you won't talk about it again after this."
I laugh before I can stop myself, and from the sheepish look on his face, he knows exactly why. "That's rich. Coming from the guy who just broke the same promise to me."
I reach out and give his shoulder a playful shove. He laughs too, running his fingers through his hair in that nervous way he does sometimes. The way he looks at me then, like I'm the only person in the room, sends butterflies tumbling through my stomach.
"That comment about the paint just kind of slipped out," he says. "It was supposed to stay in my head. Don't be mad. I'm sorry."
It's impossible to stay mad at Vince for long.
"My face really does feel like it turned this exact shade of green," I admit, glancing at the walls around us. "Thanks for that, by the way. I won't be able to unsee it every time I look at these rooms."
He laughs, and before I can react, he reaches out and gently brushes my hair out of my face.
His touch is barely there, a whisper against my skin.
His fingertips graze my forehead, his thumb tracing the delicate arch of my eyebrow.
I catch the smudge of olive green paint on his wrist, the color matching the walls that surround us, and the memory of his mock-serious scolding when I'd spilled earlier bubbles up inside me.
"I promised, so tell me," I say, trying to find something, anything, to distract myself from the curve of his smile.
I know I'm staring, probably with the world's most pathetic doe-eyed expression, but I can't help it.
Everything about him in this moment makes me want to kiss him, no matter how hard I try to kill the sparks.
Vince hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not sure you'll like me much after I tell you."
"How is that possible?" I ask, laughing softly. "There's no way it's worse than what happened to me at dinner."
But he doesn't laugh. He isn't smiling anymore.
"Hey," I say gently, putting down my paintbrush. "You know I'm not judging you, right? Whatever it is, it's okay."
He nods but still seems to struggle. "It's just something I don't like about myself. I don't really talk about it."
His vulnerability pulls at me, piquing my curiosity. "What is it?"
"I have a gambling addiction that got out of control for a while," he says finally.
"Oh." It isn't what I expected, given his hesitation, but it still surprises me. "What kind of gambling?"
"Cards. Poker, mostly."
I blink, taking it in. Learning about his marriage to Kaitlynn was one surprise, but now this? Vince carries more baggage than I realize. "When you say 'out of control,' what do you mean?"
"Around the time I first moved the family out here," he explains, "Kaitlynn was convinced I was cheating on her.
But it wasn't that. I swear, I wasn't. I'd never.
I was sneaking out to play poker. I couldn't stop.
I lost so much money, Andy. Years later, it still haunts me.
I think about what that money could've done for the kids.
It was selfish, and I'm embarrassed about it. "
"It wasn't selfish, Vince," I say, frowning. "You had a problem. That doesn't make you selfish. Did you tell her?"
"I kept it a secret for a long time," he admits. "I finally told her when I asked for the divorce, but by then, she didn't even care."
"What do you mean, she didn't care?"