Chapter 45
FORTY-FIVE
Love is whenever I see you.
“I’ll do the cutting in,” Gil said, hands on his hips.
It was a Sunday afternoon at the end of May, although the weather was overcast and humid and thunderclouds loomed in the distance. Gil had come home early from his weekend trip to beat the storms and right as I was dragging everything out of the bathroom to paint.
I mimicked his stance. “I said I would do it. I like doing it.”
“Nobody likes cutting in. It’s tedious.”
I picked up a paintbrush and climbed up the ladder. “Then I guess I like tedious. You’re my friend and you might be the most tedious thing in my life right now.”
His eyes narrowed. “Fine. You do it.”
Shaking my head, I watched him stomp off, probably to work on taking wallpaper off some wall in this house.
Lately, he’d spent a lot of time removing wallpaper.
It was like an obsession with him—aggressive wallpaper removal.
I had no idea what that wallpaper had ever done to him, but he was taking no prisoners, that was for sure.
The tension between us had ratcheted up considerably since my date with Abe.
It was like a secret switch had been thrown.
If I were in a room, Gil left it. I brushed passed him in the hallway, he practically climbed the wall to get away from me.
He’d stopped eating dinner with us, although he had no problem eating the leftovers.
When he was at the café, he hid in the office, but he always made time to talk with Teddy or Malcolm when they were around. He hung out with Oliver.
But he stayed far away from me.
Maybe it was better this way. Getting closer would only make these jumbled-up feelings inside me grow.
I kept reminding myself we had different goals.
Opposing goals. One of us would win and one of us would lose.
We only had a little over nine weeks left of our six months.
After that, who knew what would happen. A wave of anxiety tore through me, and I pushed it down.
My arm started to get sore after finishing the second wall, so I climbed down and took a break, sitting on the closed toilet and texting my mother. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. In the kitchen, I got out the ingredients for a turkey and cheese sandwich.
“Mommy,” Oliver called from somewhere in the house.
“What?” I yelled.
“I need you.”
“Coming.” With one last look of longing at my half-made sandwich, I went to search for him. He was in his bedroom, which resembled a disaster zone.
“I’m trying to build a fort,” he said. “I need help.”
I huffed. “I need this room clean.”
“Now?”
“How about get your dirty clothes together so I can wash them. Then I’ll help you.” After we got the dirty clothes settled, I spent the next twenty minutes rigging up a fort with every bed sheet we owned.
“This is awesome,” Oliver said, diving under the sheet canopy. “Thanks, Mom.”
With his dirty clothes basket in hand, I headed to the laundry room, briefly deterred by a kitten—we were calling them Salt and Pepper for now—who felt personally offended by my shoelaces.
After getting the washer going, I discovered the towels I’d washed the day before in the dryer and carried the pile of them into the living room where I started to fold them.
I’d gotten through half of them when I saw the mailman pull into the driveway.
I grabbed the birthday card I’d meant to mail to a cousin and ran out to meet him.
We chatted for a bit about the weather—all Texans, I’ve learned, complained about the weather—and he mentioned something about the grass looking a bit thirsty.
After he left, I got the hose out and gave the yard a good soak. I needed to add GET A SPRINKLER to my notes. By the time I was through, I was sticky with sweat and dying for ice water.
Also, I was kind of hungry.
In the kitchen, I found a turkey sandwich, made just the way I liked it, with mayo on both sides, cheese and tomato, on a plate on the counter. Huh. Had I made this? I did remember starting to make it, at least.
In the living room, all the towels were folded and neatly stacked.
In the laundry room, Oliver’s clothes had been moved to the dryer.
In the bathroom, I found Gil balanced on the ladder doing all the tedious work I’d said I would do.
“I’m sorry.” I hovered in the doorway. “I don’t know what happened.”
“I know what happened,” he said. “You got distracted.”
I winced, shame bubbling up. Sunny would be disappointed that was my first reaction. “I’m sorry. Some days, I can’t seem to focus on one thing no matter how hard I try.”
Up on the ladder, he’d put down the paintbrush and hopped down. A smudge of the off-white paint was on his cheekbone. My fingers itched to wipe it off. “It’s fine.”
I pointed at the wall. “I really am sorry for not being done yet.”
“I give up,” he muttered as he wrapped a hand around my arm. “Your brain has been built to see the world differently. It’s not your fault. It wasn’t your fault as a kid. It’s not your fault now.”
“Even if it isn’t my fault, it usually leads to other people cleaning up my mess.
Look at what happened just now. You made the sandwich.
You folded the towels. You’re finishing the painting when I said I would do it.
I meant to do it. I’ll still do it.” I pulled my arm from his hand and stared at the wall over his shoulder.
My eyes stung and that only frustrated me more.
“It creates a whole lot of extra work for everyone else.”
“Do you think I’m annoyed at you?” he asked.
“Yes!” I shouted. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
“I’ll tell you why.” He took a step toward me, and I shuffled back. “My brain likes the way your brain thinks.”
My eyes widened.
“I don’t mind cleaning up after you, or closing a cabinet you left open, or putting your clothes in the dryer after you’ve washed them three times because you keep forgetting to put them in the dryer.
What does that say about my brain?” Another step forward, “My brain likes the way you take care of Oliver, how you seem to know my moods and don’t mind them, how you put others before yourself every time. It really likes your pork chops, too.”
“They’re really good pork chops,” I whispered.
“Yes, they are and they aren’t even close to the best thing about you.”
The back of my thighs bumped against the edge of the sink. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Mostly…mostly my brain likes you. Even the things I don’t understand—I like those things, too. I like you. A lot. And it’s about to drive me crazy pretending I don’t.”
He slid a hand around to the back of my neck, leaving a trail of heat wherever he touched me. He pressed his forehead to mine. “My brain wants to kiss you.”
“You said it was a bad idea,” I whispered.
“It probably still is.” The tip of his nose skated down the side of my face in a featherlight touch. I shivered. “It definitely still is.”
“I want you to kiss me.” I licked my bottom lip. “But I’m worried about what happens after.”
He pulled back to look at me, his expression steady, patient, as though waiting for me to make the next move. This is going to hurt later, I thought, right before I fisted his t-shirt and kissed him.
To be honest, I’d been dreaming about kissing him for weeks now. My imagination was pretty good but nothing like the real thing.
And he wasn’t even wearing the toolbelt.
Gil took over the kiss almost immediately, hauling me against him, one hand sliding into my hair and the other settling low on my back.
I was surrounded by him, and it felt so good.
The tension I’d been holding onto for weeks melted as his kiss became more insistent, deeper.
My heart thrummed against my ribs. Fire heated my blood, warming me from the inside out.
My hands tangled in his hair and tugged.
He broke the kiss long enough for me to take a breath before he was kissing me again; I returned it with an edge of desperation, the knowing that this wasn’t a new beginning.
It was a beginning to an end. All my bad decisions came down to this one moment, this one kiss, this one man.
Because the other thing about this kiss, it was the first time I’d been kissed by someone who wanted all the parts of me, good and bad.
He wanted me. Just me. Only me .
And I know it sounds clichéd and so romance-novel-y but looking back, it was the exact moment I made the best worst decision of my life: I fell in love with Gilbert Dalton.