Chapter 13
SADIE
I take the list out of my nightstand drawer, unfolding it so I can mark off Paint the walls in my house.
I’m not sure how we managed to finish in only three days, but the man could win a trophy if speed-painting were a sport.
I’ve seen viral videos of men painting a wall within a few minutes, but I’d never seen it done in real life.
He moved furniture, expertly taped off trim, and rolled paint onto walls more quickly than I can decide for myself—which might not really be saying much.
I study my list . . .
Try Something You’ve Never Done
Speed on a back road.
Order dessert first.
Quit something you’re “good” at.
Go somewhere without a plan.
Wear something just because I like it.
Climb the water tower.
Watch an R-rated movie.
Get a tattoo.
Kiss a stranger.
Paint the walls in my house.
I smile at the line through the words, but Quit something you’re “good” at stares back at me so hard it might as well be in bold. I fold the list back up, tucking it back in my drawer.
The kitchen is now blue, the living room green, the bathroom purple, my office pink, and my bedroom orange.
It still smells strongly of paint, but more importantly—it doesn’t completely feel like someone else’s house anymore. I’m not sure it really feels like mine, but it’s at least something new.
I hear my phone ding on the kitchen counter. I walk to it and open the text message.
Sophie
So, Grant . . .
Emma
Grant? What about Grant?
Sophie
Sadie is dating Grant.
Emma
Sadie, is that true? Are you dating Grant?
Sophie
It’s about time you put yourself out there, or at least your lips. How long has it been since you’ve kissed someone?
I haven’t kissed anyone but Milo. There was one time in college my roommate invited me on a double date.
We went to the movies. His name was Ryder, and he radiated with excessive cologne—the kind that sticks to your lungs like seeping sap.
He leaned in and I turned so his lips grazed my cheek.
I just couldn’t bring myself to kiss lips that belonged to someone who didn’t really know me for more than a first impression—which is why Kiss a stranger is on my list.
I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve only ever kissed one man. A man who hasn’t been mine for almost ten years. That’s got to be some kind of award-winning level of sad, at least according to Sophie.
Sadie
I’m not dating Grant.
Sophie
Then why was he at your house?
Sadie
How do you know he was at my house?
Emma
Sophie
Katie.
Sadie
Katie?
Sophie
Meyers. She lives two houses down from you and was in my class.
Of course.
Sadie
Does she not have anything better to do?
Sophie
Not in comparison to you, apparently.
Sadie
He was here to help me paint.
Sophie
Paint what? You?
I shake my head.
Sadie
My walls.
Sophie
Paint your walls. That sounds like code.
Sadie
Soph, not everything between a man and a woman must be . . . romantic.
Sophie
But it’s a lot more fun when it is.
Emma
What room did you paint?
Sadie
All of them.
Emma
ALL?
Sadie
It was time for a change.
Sophie
Grant is a change.
Sadie
He was just helping me.
Sophie
Katie said he was looking good. Backward hat. White T-shirt. Jeans.
Emma
Sadie
You’re impossible.
Sophie
Bet Milo is jealous.
Sadie
Milo is fine.
Sophie
That too.
Sadie
I changed my walls. Not my life. I’m going to go shower the paint off. Love you both.
I take a deep breath and then exhale loudly out my mouth.
I glance back at my phone.
Sophie
Love you.
Emma
Love you and I’m glad you painted your walls. Those white ones were never you.
Sophie
That’s what I’m trying to say.
I start to walk toward the bathroom when there’s a knock at my front door. I close my eyes, wishing I was already standing underneath warm water and completely oblivious to whoever is standing on my front porch.
I could pretend I already was.
They knock again. Louder.
I sigh and then turn around, walking to the front door. I open it and find Patty standing there with paper in her hands.
“Hi, Patty.”
“Sadie, dear, I’ve been working on my budget trying to figure out if I can adjust some things to book a cruise. Think you could help me out?”
Patty extends the stack of papers to me.
My hands twitch forward before I can stop them. Muscle memory.
Of course I can. Of course I’ll help. Of course I’ll take this inside, spread it across my kitchen counter, and lose another evening without realizing I ever had a choice.
But I’m so tired. Weary, even.
I picture the shower again. Warm water. Steam. Shampoo and body wash that smells like vanilla and sandalwood.
I swallow.
“I can take a look at it,” I say slowly, choosing each word like I might say the wrong thing if I rush it. “But I’m actually heading to the shower right now. If you want to bring it by the office tomorrow, I’d be happy to help you then.”
The words hang between us. I hold my breath. Heat creeps up my neck.
Patty blinks, clearly recalibrating. “Tomorrow? I was hoping to book the cruise tonight. There’s a sale.”
“I—” I start to reach for the papers, then stop myself. My fingers hover in the air like they’re waiting for permission from a brain that has apparently stepped out for coffee.
This is the moment.
The moment where a new Sadie politely says no and goes to take her shower.
The moment where old Sadie folds like a fitted sheet, except I don’t know how to fold those.
“And the sale ends tonight?” I ask.
She nods enthusiastically. “It sure does, and I really can’t miss out on it. It’s practically half off, and you know how I have a fixed income.”
Of course she can’t miss it.
And somehow that will become my fault.
I glance behind me, back toward the living room that leads to the hall that leads to the bathroom, where I can practically feel the warm water already, steam filling the small room, vanilla and sandalwood rising into the air.
“I really should—”
Patty tilts the papers toward me.
My hand betrays me.
“Okay,” I concede.
There it is. Old Sadie, reporting for duty.
“Fantastic,” she says brightly as she hands over the papers. “I’ll be up for a couple more hours if you could walk them over so I can get the cruise booked.”
I nod.
Because apparently nodding is another habit I need to learn how to quit.
Then she bats her lashes, and her lips tug into a tight smile. “Oh, and what was Grant Williams doing over here the last three days?”
My pulse putters out.
“He was helping me paint,” I manage to say.
“Hm,” she murmurs before stepping closer to my front door and inhaling deeply as her nostrils flare, confirmation of paint fumes settling in her eyes. “So he was.”
Something akin to irritation starts my pulse back up. I raise a brow but keep my polite smile intact. “Anything else, Patty?”
“So, Milo Carter?” she asks.
I swallow. “What about Milo?”
“Does he know you’re doing things with Grant?”
“We’re not doing things, Patty. He helped me with a house project.”
“Whatever you say, sweetie. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
Truth be told, I’ve never had much trouble with Patty.
My record of public mistakes and mishaps is so short it barely qualifies as a paragraph.
In Dusty Hollow, I’m the girl who brings the correct casserole dish back to the church kitchen and alphabetizes the Bible study sign-up sheet.
If I were suddenly running around town having a scandal, I’m fairly certain the water tower would light up like a beacon.
And it’s really irritating that after years of me doing everything right, Patty is standing on my porch acting like she’s finally caught me doing something wrong.
I grit my teeth. “Well, I’m supposed to be doing your budget,” I say, forcing a tight smile, “but that’s hard to do when you keep auditing my personal life.”
My own eyes widen as the words leave my lips.
“Sadie Summers! You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” She places her hand over her heart.
I blink at her. “So are you calling yourself a fly?”
The look of shock on Patty’s face cues me in to the fact that I did, indeed, ask the question out loud.
“Why, I never! This is so unlike you. I’m going to have to talk to your mama.”
“I’m twenty-eight, Patty. Tattling to my mama hardly seems necessary.”
“It’s not tattling, young lady,” Patty says, lifting her chin. “It’s concern.”
She turns to leave but then pauses. “For the record, Grant Williams has always been the kind of man who stays. Just something to think about.”
My jaw drops. Of course Patty would worship staying like it’s the whole gospel. As if staying is the same as choosing.
“See you in a couple hours, sweetie. Thank you,” she says before continuing down the steps and across the street.
I close my door and lean my head against it, sighing.
The shower is still waiting.
My evening, however, is currently living in Patty McGee’s cruise budget.
I glance down at the stack of papers in my hands.
In my nightstand drawer is a list titled Try Something You’ve Never Done.
Apparently tonight’s item is Disappoint Yourself, although I think I’ve been doing that for a very long time.
I sigh before I go to my office to grab my calculator so I can spread these papers out on the kitchen counter and crunch some numbers.