Chapter 13
Time is a wily little sucker.
Its warped perception is always lurking nearby, mocking expectations and making a fool of my plans.
Days I want to last a lifetime are gone in the blink of an eye while the ones I want to end stretch on for lifetimes.
It’s as if at any given moment, time could force a memory upon me from years ago like it happened yesterday before quickly ripping it away, stealing the details and leaving me with nothing more than a faded moment in time.
Seconds are moving agonizingly slowly today.
Tate usually gets here around noon when he comes over after practice, but it’s already pushing two when I check my phone to see if he’s called—he hasn’t—and look out the front window to see if his truck’s in my driveway—it’s not.
I know he said he’d be here to work on the bathroom today, but as the minutes turn into hours, I’m starting to think he’s not coming.
I don’t blame him.
You would think after one of the few decent night’s sleep that I’ve had in months, I’d be feeling rested and at ease today, but you’d be wrong.
I might’ve been too exhausted to think about what happened between me and Tate last night, but I woke up with enough energy to recount every single punch and agonize over every cringe-inducing detail from the track.
This also means that out of all the days he could’ve chosen, my uncle picked today to call me four times and send me two text messages.
Worse yet, when I opened my email to see if I had any updates about a chandelier from a vintage shop in Dallas, I discovered three new emails from him as well. He’s nothing if not persistent.
Thank god for the delete button and living in a home with more than enough to keep me distracted.
When I was a little girl, my grandma surprised me with a dollhouse for us to work on together. It was completely untouched and every surface was full of possibility. That’s what my house feels like.
I wasn’t expecting as much work as there is, but there’s something so exciting about having the opportunity to turn this space into one that is so uniquely me, nobody will ever be able to walk in and wonder who lives here.
Besides the full—unexpected—bathroom renovation, I have at least three projects in every room of the house.
I’m going for a cozy vintage maximalist vibe, and it’s as hard to find inspiration as you would think.
My Pinterest boards are filled with color and pattern, flowers and wallpaper replacing the white shiplap so many women my age love.
Wallpaper samples cover my coffee table, paint swatches decorate each wall, and every tab on my phone is dedicated to rugs, obscure wall art, and vintage stores with shipping options.
And that’s just inside my house.
I slide in the final shelf on the bookshelves I’ve spent all day assembling.
When I first bought this house, I thought the shed in the backyard would be the perfect place for crafting, but after settling in and seeing the way the sun filtered in through the window in the evenings, I knew it was where my books deserved to live.
A little library in my backyard where dreams are made while my imagination is fed.
The plush mint-and-coral rug is soft beneath my feet.
The air-conditioning unit attached to the wall hums its quiet song as it keeps the space cool and I fall onto the emerald velvet love seat I tucked against the far wall.
Small boxes filled with hundreds of pounds of books are stacked around the shed, begging to make their way to their new home inside my library.
The hanging plants I picked up in town are sprawled across the floor until I pick out their final destination.
Pieces of my vision are coming to life, and for the first time all day, Tate’s onyx eyes aren’t the first thing on my mind.
The power of books cannot be overstated.
I have big plans to rot on the love seat for the rest of the day, but when my stomach begins to growl, those plans change.
The banana bread I made yesterday is sitting next to the untouched jar of dog treats I made for Duke. I’m cutting my third piece of the day when the knock I’ve spent all day obsessing over finally comes.
“Luna?” Tate’s deep voice echoes through my house as he lets himself and Duke inside. “Are you here?”
I’m sure he knows the answer, considering my car is parked outside and the door was unlocked, but I don’t have time to respond before Duke barrels into the kitchen and gives away my location with his excited barks.
“Geez, snitch!” I whisper-yell at my favorite furry friend, but he’s too cute for me to even pretend to be mad at him.
I grab the container of dog treats off the counter and give him one before dropping down to the ground so he can get all the pets he deserves.
Tate’s boots appear in my periphery, and I keep talking to Duke like he’s not there.
“I’m sorry, you’re not a snitch, are you?
No, you’re not, you’re just the best boy! ”
“Oh, I see how it is,” Tate says. “So when Duke sneaks up on you, it’s not a big deal, but when I do it? Uppercut to the jaw.”
I knew I landed a few good punches, but thanks to the adrenaline, I had no idea where any of them landed. I’m not sure if you can die from embarrassment or not, but if you can? RIP me because I’m not sure I’ll ever recover.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Although, to be fair, it was a hook, not an uppercut.
” I tear my gaze away from Duke, preparing to beg Tate for his forgiveness until I catch a glimpse of the look on his stupid, hot face.
“Wait…are you…” I narrow my eyes to make sure my mind’s not playing tricks on me. “Are you laughing?”
“I’m sorry,” he says through so much laughter that I can hardly understand him. “Are you breaking down the semantics of the punches you threw?”
“Details matter!” I push off the ground and try my hardest to cling to my anger, but it’s so hard not to be distracted. I didn’t think he was capable of producing this much laughter. “And you shouldn’t laugh. I’ve spent all morning feeling awful about last night.”
It’s hard not to get lost in the awe of how much younger he looks with his eyes creased gently in the corners and his white teeth on display between his full, lush lips.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, but this time it sounds like he means it…at least a little bit. “But you shouldn’t feel bad about what happened. Your reaction was fine. It was the being out there in the first place that was iffy.”
“I know, I know.” I roll my eyes, but the effectiveness is lost behind my smile. “Call you if I want to go running late at night again. Be safe. Blah blah blah.”
“I’m so relieved my message of blah blah blah stuck with you.”
His body is still shaking with laughter, and my hands itch at my sides to reach out and touch him, to know what he feels like when I’m not accidentally trying to fight him.
“It did.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Maybe you should consider picking up a side hustle as a motivational speaker.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that one.” He shakes his head, and a shadow chases away the last bits of laughter from his face. “Between football, your house, and the other jobs I have around town, my hands are pretty full.”
It was nice to see this other side of him. I was able to forget that he came here out of professional obligation, not pleasure.
“Of course, my bathroom is quite the project on its own,” I say, belatedly noticing the boxes he brought into my kitchen. “I can’t imagine how much you have on your plate.”
His schedule is packed with football alone. The fact that he’s able to squeeze in all the work my house needs is a minor miracle.
“Your bathroom is a lot, but if it’s okay with you, I was thinking I could work on something else today.”
There are endless repair options here, but the bathroom is the only thing I brought Tate in to do.
My eyebrows furrow. “You were?”
He nods. “I went to pick up a few things for the bathroom, but they’re on back order for a few days.
I figured we could work on your laundry room while we wait.
” He shifts back and forth on his feet and looks down to Duke.
“If that’s something you’re even interested in.
I don’t even know if you’ll like the stuff I grabbed. ”
He knows I’ll like it. Unfortunately for him, he’s been an unwilling participant to all the design choices I’ve made thus far.
The look of shock and horror on his face when I asked him to help me choose between the strawberry print and the vintage floral tiles for my kitchen backsplash will live in my head forever.
He might not understand me, but he knows me.
At least when it comes to my interior design taste.
I thought moving to a small town would be different; I just never could’ve known how different it would really be.
No matter how hard he tries to deny it, Tate’s a Celestial-bred boy through and through.
I’m sure the grumpy mask he wears tricks some people, but I’ve witnessed Tate’s generosity more times than I can count.
Helping out his neighbors has probably been ingrained in him since the moment he entered this world.
I’m unsure of how to respond to such a kind gesture, and it takes me a moment to come up with something to say. “This is so nice of you, Tate, but I know how busy you are. I can’t ask you to do this.”
“You’re not asking,” he says. “I’m offering.”
I spent so much of my life during the last few years putting what I needed aside for my mom that I don’t even know how to respond.
I know I’m not special, Tate would do this for anyone, but that knowledge doesn’t stop my heart from slamming against my rib cage or the butterflies from wreaking havoc on my stomach.
“I know you are, but—”