Chapter 25 Matt
Ineeded wood stain.
Dad's porch railing was rotting in places, and I'd promised to fix it this weekend. Something to do with my hands that had a clear beginning and end.
The hardware store was quiet for a Saturday afternoon. Just a couple of old-timers by the register talking about the weather, a woman browsing light fixtures. I grabbed a cart and headed toward the back where they kept the exterior finishes.
I turned the corner into the paint aisle.
And there they were.
Elena and Caleb Wright, standing together in front of the paint display, samples spread across the counter between them. They looked comfortable, like this was just their Saturday now.
All three of us froze.
"Matt," Elena said, her voice coming out slightly higher than normal.
"Hey." My hand tightened on the cart handle.
Caleb looked between us, then back at me. "Hey."
The silence stretched out, thick and awkward. Somewhere in the store, a radio was playing country music too quietly to make out the words.
Elena was holding paint samples, grays and soft whites. She'd always liked light colors.
Caleb stood beside her, close but not touching. Jeans and a flannel shirt, standing there like he had all the time in the world. He had that calm, watchful look people got when they were sizing up whether a situation was about to go sideways.
I should say something. Anything.
"I'm just..." I gestured vaguely toward the stain section. "Getting some things for my dad's porch."
"Oh," Elena said. "That's good. That's—yeah."
More silence.
I moved past them, grabbed a can of water-based exterior stain from the shelf, and turned to go.
"That one's not great."
I stopped and looked at Caleb.
"For exterior," he said. "Especially old wood. It'll peel in six months."
Elena stayed where she was, still holding the paint samples.
Caleb walked over and picked up a different can.
Oil-based, about fifteen dollars more. "This is what you want.
That one sits on the surface. Looks good for a year, maybe two, then it starts to go.
This penetrates deeper, lasts longer." He shrugged.
"You'll still need to redo it eventually, but not every summer. "
I stared at the can he was holding. Elena's boyfriend was giving me advice about wood stain, like we were normal people having a normal conversation.
"I've used both," he added. "Learned the hard way."
"Okay." I put my can back on the shelf and took the one he offered. "Thanks."
"Two coats. Maybe three if the wood's really weathered."
"Right."
Elena had moved closer, still clutching the paint samples. She was looking at Caleb like she was seeing something new.
"We should probably..." she started.
"Yeah," I said quickly. "I've got to get going."
"Okay."
"Good luck with the porch," Caleb said.
I nodded and pushed my cart past them without looking back. Made it to the next aisle before I had to stop and breathe.
Caleb Wright had just helped me pick wood stain. Like it was nothing. Like I wasn't the guy who'd destroyed Elena's life. Like we were just two people in a hardware store on a Saturday afternoon.
I grabbed a brush and some rags and headed for the checkout.
Mom was in the living room when I walked in, sitting in her chair by the window. The afternoon light caught the dust motes floating between her and the glass. She was still in her housecoat, a cup of tea gone cold on the side table.
"Oh good, you're here," she said, looking up. "I wanted to ask you something."
I set the bag down in the hallway. "Yeah?"
"Do you think ivory or white? For the wedding dress." She smoothed her hands over her lap like she was picturing fabric there. "My mother says ivory's more flattering, but I keep thinking white."
Somewhere in her head, it was 1983 and she had her whole life ahead of her.
"Mom..."
"I'm just so nervous." She laughed, that bright sound I remembered from childhood. "Isn't that silly? I love him. I know I do. But what if I mess it up somehow?"
I sat down on the couch across from her. "You won't mess it up."
"How do you know?" She looked at me, and for a second I thought maybe she'd come back, maybe she'd recognize me. But then: "Everyone says marriage is hard. That you have to work at it."
"Yeah. That's true."
"Bill's so patient with me. Even when I get anxious about things." She smiled at the photo. "I don't want to take that for granted, you know? I want to be someone he can count on."
I couldn't speak.
"He makes me laugh," she said, still looking out the window. "Even when I'm being ridiculous. I forgot my shoes at the church the other day—can you imagine? And he just smiled and said we'd go back for them." She laughed softly. "I want to remember that. When things get hard. That he's kind."
"That's..." I swallowed. "That's a good thing to remember."
She looked up at me. "I just want to be good to him. That's not so hard, is it?"
"No," I said. "That's not hard."
But I knew it was. I knew exactly how hard it was.
The front door opened and Dad came in from the garage. He saw Mom in her chair, saw me on the couch, and something passed across his face—that flicker of pain he tried so hard to hide.
"Carol?" he said gently. "What are you two talking about?"
"The wedding," she said. "I was just asking about the dress. Whether I should..." She stopped, confused, looking at Dad, then at me. "I was..."
"White," Dad said, crossing to her chair. He crouched beside her and touched her hand. "You wore white. You looked beautiful."
"Did I?" She covered his hand with hers.
"You did."
He looked at me over her head, and I stood up.
"I'm going to go work on the porch," I said.
Dad nodded. "Dinner in an hour."
I went outside. The porch railing was rough under my hands, the wood gray and weathered from decades of winters. I opened the can of stain—the one Caleb had picked—and started brushing it on.
He was right. It soaked into the wood, filling the grain, protecting it from the inside out.
I painted until my arms ached and the sun started going down.
Caleb had been right about the stain. Right about a lot of things, probably. How to show up. How to be patient. How to just be good to someone.
I dipped the brush again and kept going.