Chapter 12
SADIE
I sit tall while my fingers press gently on the piano keys, the sheet music in front of me unnecessary to play “How Great Thou Art.” I’ve been practicing piano three times a week since I was eight, and when our church needed a pianist, I volunteered to fill in temporarily . . . four years ago.
My eyes slide over into my peripheral vision to view the congregation.
The piano sits up on stage, so I can practically see everyone.
Little girls in their Sunday dresses, young boys adjusting their ties, and parents placing their hands on shoulders to stop any fidgeting.
But today, my attention catches on two men standing opposite each other across the center aisle as they sing along to the hymn. Grant. Milo.
My finger slips on a key, but I quickly cover it up, adding to the melody.
Once I finish playing today’s hymns, I slip quietly down the stairs to the second pew on the right to join my parents. My mom pats my knee and says, “Beautiful playing, Sadie.”
I turn toward her and nod with a well-practiced smile, then I turn the other way, using the opportunity to confirm that both men are sitting about seven pews behind me.
After Pastor Jeff finishes his sermon and a final prayer is given, I hurry to the piano to collect my music.
“Still playing piano, I see—or should I say hear?” Milo’s voice is as hopeful as the last tune I played.
I nod without turning around. “The church needed a pianist.”
“I thought Patty played.”
I turn around, hugging the sheet music to my chest. “She does, but she fell ill a few years back and I filled in.”
“And she’s still sick?” His eyebrow quirks.
“Well, no, but she was relieved someone else took over,” I say.
“Isn’t Patty retired?”
“Yes,” I say, somewhat irritated at how he can pick up on my complacency when he’s only been back for two weeks.
“Seems she might have a little more time—”
“I like playing.” I cut him off with the lie—one I’ve been using long before Milo asked the question.
He nods, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay. Well, you do play beautifully.”
I glance around him. At everyone hugging one another and laughing. At the way the light changes colors through the stained-glass windows. At . . . Grant. Grant, who is walking up behind Milo.
“Milo,” Grant says, extending his hand.
Milo shakes it heartily. “Grant. Happy Sunday.”
“Happy Sunday,” Grant replies before his focus turns to me. “Do you like pepperoni?”
It’s such a small question. What do I like?
It feels good to be asked.
I bite my lower lip. “Like . . . in general?”
“For pizza,” he clarifies. “I was going to bring pizza over for lunch before we get started.”
My eyes flit up to Milo’s face. Milo, who is standing between us. Milo, who seems to wince before he blinks and grins. “I love pepperoni pizza,” he volunteers. “And what are we starting?”
Grant looks at Milo. “Sadie and I are painting some walls.”
My lungs forget which one is exhale.
Both men look at me. I crumple the paper more tightly against my chest, suddenly aware of how visible I am. “Yeah. Grant is going to help me paint a few rooms in my house.”
Milo rocks back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. “That’s a big project.”
“It is,” Grant says. “Which is why we need pizza. So, pepperoni?”
“Yeah, pepperoni is—” I’m about to say fine, but I hate pepperoni. I always eat it because everyone else seems to like it, but Grant asked me if I like pepperoni. “Actually, I really hate pepperoni.”
Grant grins. “Okay, so what do you like?”
“You won’t like it,” I say, smiling back.
“Try me,” Grant says.
“Mushroom and pineapple.”
Grant’s brows rise. “Interesting combo.”
“Extra mushrooms,” Milo murmurs, almost to himself. “Right?”
Something in my chest tightens before I can stop it. I nod, looking down. “Yeah, extra mushrooms.”
“I’m willing to give it a shot,” Grant says. “I’ll bring it over. See you around one?”
I look up at Grant. “I’ll be there.”
“Good to see you, Milo,” Grant says as he leaves.
“Yeah, same,” Milo replies.
I start to step around Milo when he gently wraps his hand around my arm, causing friction between my cardigan and skin. “Hey,” he says softly.
I freeze, and he lets go of my arm. “Are you happy, Sadie?” he asks.
I swallow. I used to think I was, at least, a little happy. Lately, I’m not so sure. Choices, made by me and others, have created a life that I don’t feel like myself in.
I look up at him and decide to choose honesty. “I don’t know, Milo.”
“How long have you been visiting Joe?” he asks.
“Ever since I came back. Did he not tell you?” I tilt my head.
He shrugs. “He told me that he sees you, but you know Joe.”
“He doesn’t say much, and when he does, it’s usually painfully right,” I mutter, thinking about our conversation yesterday morning.
Milo nods. “He does light up when he talks about you.”
“Joe lights up?” I tease.
“Well, he looks as happy as a grumpy old man can look,” he amends with a grin.
I smile. “I’m pretty fond of him, too.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t do it for you,” I say, as I straighten my smile back out into a thin line.
“I know, but I’m still grateful.”
“Now, if you could convince him to get that new hip, that would be helpful,” I mutter.
“You and I both know he’s too stubborn for any convincing.” Milo laughs.
I look up at Milo and this moment feels warm, easy. I step back and adjust my cardigan. “I’ve got to go get ready to paint.”
I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down. “Yeah. Enjoy your mushrooms and paint fumes.”
“I will,” I say before I walk away.
About an hour later, I’m standing in front of my mirror, unsure of my reflection and what the girl within it is trying to tell me.
She seems in between.
Wearing frumpy jeans with holes in the knees and a Dusty Hollow High Volleyball T-shirt tucked in the front of them. She looks back at me, her brown eyes wide, before she tucks her hair behind her ears. I walk closer to her.
“What do you want, Sadie?” I ask.
Her lips tremble, but she seems uncertain if she should say it out loud. Then she sighs and disappears from the mirror as I walk into my living room.
I glance around, fully realizing what I’ve committed myself to. The walls seem as if they go on forever and . . .
I hate painting.
But I hate these white walls more.
I startle when there’s a knock at the front door.
I take a deep breath, walking through my small foyer, opening it to reveal Grant holding a large pizza box and wearing a wide grin that wrinkles his green eyes. “Mushrooms and pineapple,” he says.
I smile. “If you hate it, I have cereal.”
“What’s not to love about fungus and fruit?” he teases.
I step to the side and gesture for him to come in. He walks through toward the kitchen. “So, what room are we starting in?”
I close the door and follow. “I actually have no idea. I was hoping you might be able to suggest what’d be best.”
He sets the pizza down on the counter before he leans against it, crossing his arms. “What’s your favorite room?”
“My favorite room?”
Grant nods. “Usually painting becomes a little more exciting if you see the change in your favorite place. It also might tell a lot about a person.” He winks.
I glance around my house. Are people just supposed to know their favorite room? And do I even have one?
I know my dad’s is the living room, where he watches every football game possible. He doesn’t have a team; he truly just loves the sport. Although he was pretty fond of the New York Giants for a couple of years. He didn’t just watch football then. He felt it.
I did, too.
“What’s your favorite room?” I deflect, putting my hands on my hips.
“I actually love my greenhouse.”
“You have a greenhouse?”
He nods, opening the pizza box.
“What do you grow?”
I watch as he takes a slice, inspecting it before he takes a bite. His face contorts, adjusts, and then he swallows. “I grow roses in the summer and snapdragons in the winter. Both are my mom’s favorites.”
“So, what’s that say about you?”
He takes another bite, his eyes widening as he chews. “Well, it could mean I’m nurturing or optimistic. But I think it might just mean I love my mom.”
I laugh. “Probably not as much as she loves you.”
“Never.”
I open a cabinet, grabbing a box of Rice Krispies. “You can have this, you know.”
“This isn’t so bad.” He lifts the pizza in his hands slightly. “You just have to power through the strangeness of it.”
I grab a bowl and then open the fridge to retrieve the milk. “You don’t have to power through.”
“I’m trying something I’ve never done.”
The words cause me to pause. The flyer did come from the hardware store, somehow, almost magically in my bag.
“Like speeding down a back road?” I ask, the words more of a whisper, as I close the fridge.
“I suppose.”
“Or ordering dessert first?”
His dark brows scrunch together. “I do that all the time. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. Now my favorite room—” I walk through my house, inspecting each one.
The bathroom. The bedroom. My office where I often bring work home—definitely not my favorite. The living room. The kitchen.
I’m not sure I like any of them, and I wonder what that says about me.
I cross my arms. “Let’s start with the kitchen.”
Grant grins. “Heart of hospitality. I always knew you were one to serve others.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “That’s me.”