Samantha
SAMANTHA
I t is. It is that bad. Before we entered the house, Chandler even seemed a little nervous. Upon entry, I’m met with an odd musty stench, and I’m not sure what it is, but it isn’t pleasant. Mildew or death. I’m not sure which.
“Jesus Christ," Chandler says from behind me.
There’s a couch with some clothes that I’m not sure are clean or dirty. Books and newspapers are stacked on the floor next to the fireplace. Anyone with common sense would know that's a fire waiting to happen.
I take in more of the space, walking further into the house, and from the living room, I can see a dining room table in the other room full of mail, more newspapers and some flower pots stacked on top of them. They’re tilting to the side, ready to fall at any moment. The place is messy and cluttered, but underneath all of the mess, I can see the potential this place has. The floors are made of dark wood, and there are bookshelves surrounding the fireplace, much more grand than the one I have in my home. This one has crown molding and is filled to the brim. The fireplace looks worn and needs cleaning .
This used to be Chandler’s home, and knowing him, I don’t think he grew up like this. I can understand it to an extent. My childhood was spent running away with my Mother to new opportunities: a new job, a new house, a new boyfriend she had, a fresh start every few months. But some people feel stuck and hold on to anything that they can. I feel an ache in my chest at the thought. This is something I’ll never have, a childhood home to come back to, a cluttered mess or not. I’d give anything to be able to walk into a house I grew up in and bring out all of its warm charms. I have a thought, something that Chandler may disagree with, but I feel it in my gut.
I turn to him and say, "I’d like to help you.”
“What?” His forehead creases. “I'm not going to ask you to help me.”
“You didn't ask, I offered.”
He sighs, and I'm feeling a little miffed that he doesn't want my help, even if I did expect it.
“Sam, please don’t. I really don’t want you involved in my weird family shit.”
“Well, what else am I going to do while you help your sister with the house tomorrow?”
“I never said I would.”
"Well, we are. Trust me, I like doing this stuff."
He looks confused again. "What do you know about fixing up a house?"
“Fixing?” I ask with a laugh. “No, not fixing. I enjoy designing new spaces, and there's so much potential in here,” I say, running my hand over the cool stone of the fireplace.
“Yeah, but it's my family shit, and I don't want you involved.”
“I wouldn't be, and we all have family shit.”
“You don’t. ”
I look back at him. “You have to have a family to have shit.”
He frowns, and asks, “What about your mom?”
“Mom is in Mexico, and I haven’t talked to her in months.”
My gut is in knots at the thought, but Mom and I don’t have much to talk about unless it involves me quitting my corporate job and living with her to sip margaritas on the beach. She never liked the fact that I didn’t try something more artistic. Even when I told her I wanted to be an interior designer, she said I should consider being a ‘real artist.’
“That's still family shit, Sam," he points out, but his voice is gentle.
“Either way, all I’d be doing is helping you clean up this place.”
“I know." He looks at me curiously. “Why do you want to help, anyway? This really isn’t your problem.”
“Never said it was.”
“You’re so stubborn.”
“Takes one to know one," I say.
“Well,” he says, averting his eyes from me. “Thanks.”
He runs a hand over his face as he scans the room. "I can't believe how bad this place has gotten. It wasn't always like this."
“What was it like?”
“Not like this.” He shakes his head. I frown.
He sounds defeated, almost a little sad, but he doesn't elaborate. I fight the urge to ask again, to pull more out of him, but I don’t.
“Well, we should get going. We can come back tomorrow to work on this,” he says.
"Okay, yeah. Sure.”
Outside, Chandler gets in the driver's seat as I slide into the passenger seat. I think about ways we can really change the space. The rug in the living room needs to be replaced, and the chair in the corner needs a deep clean, too. Maybe I can convince Chandler to go to the thrift store with me tomorrow.
A rearing sound breaks me from my thoughts, and when I look at Chandler, he seems puzzled. He turns the key again, and the scar sputters again, but the car doesn't start.
"What's wrong with it?” I ask.
"I don't know," he says and tries it again. The car is mocking us at this point.
"Fuck!" Chandler leans back in his seat, and I try to figure out how long it would take us to walk back to the hotel. At least 2 hours, if not longer. Not in these shoes.
"It won't start? Can't you fix it?” I ask, my voice frantic.
"Oh, sure! Let me just go pull all of the car parts out of the garage and see which one will work."
I can't tell if he's joking because there very well may be a ton of car parts in the garage.
"Really?"
"No, Sam! And the stores are all closed until tomorrow."
Shit. He's right!
"Don't we have a roadside assistance thing?"
He shakes his head. “They didn't give me anything."
"They always give you that information!”
"Well, do you have it?"
"No," I say.
"Well, then, I guess we're stuck here until tomorrow."
There is no way we are staying here until tomorrow. I have no clothes, no toothbrush, no makeup, and no more patience!
"Chandler, we can't stay here tonight."
"Why not?”
"Because Ken paid for the hotel. What are we going to tell him? "
I bite the inside of my cheek, weighing Ken's possible reaction. Would he even be upset? It's always hard to tell with him.
"I'll send him a message about it now. I'm sure it'll be fine," he says.
"Chandler, all of our work stuff is at the hotel."
"I know."
"And our clothes."
"I know, Sam. It'll be fine. We'll be able to get back tomorrow, but it's already midnight, and it's not like we don't have a place to sleep."
Of fucking course, this would happen! We walk back into the house, and Chandler turns on the air conditioning, which also doesn't work. Oh, good, we get to spend the night in a sauna. Looks like I'm sleeping naked tonight. Naked. I'd be alone in the house with Chandler naked. Desire surges through me, and I push it down.
"Please, tell me this place has a guest room," I plead.
“No, there is, but I haven’t been up there yet, so I’m not really sure if it’s safe to sleep there. We can go check.” I follow him up the stairs to the second floor. The top three stairs creek and cry when we step over them, and I shudder from the unbearable sound.
“Sorry, I’m not sure when he had those fixed last," Chandler says, then he leads me down the hallway. He shows me the restroom and then points to the shut door across from it. “That’s my room," he says and opens the door, flipping on the light to show the room stuffed full of boxes. “Or it used to be," he corrects, sounding defeated. “Apparently, now it’s used as storage for," he looks inside of one of the boxes and scrunches his nose. “Gramp's potpourri stuff. Damnit.”
“Potpourri?” I ask.
Chandler shrugs. “My grandma used to make it and sell it. I thought he got rid of it, but I guess not.” He turns out the light and shuts the door. “And this," he says and opens the door adjacent to his bedroom. “Is the guest room.”
I walk into the bedroom anxiously, not sure what’s behind the door, but it looks fine, almost cozy. There’s a double bed with a flower-stitched quilt, beige curtains hung above the windows, with a small dresser and a desk. “Wow, this is cute," I say.
“Is that your nice way of saying that the room is dated?” He asks, teasing.
I look back at him and roll my eyes. “No, I mean, it’s cute in here.”
“I don’t think he ever came up here very much," Chandler says. He’s lingering in the doorway, and I feel his eyes on me as I set my purse on top of the desk. I dare to look back at him, and his eyes have me pinned. My heart races and my head swirls with the memory of the slip-up in the pool earlier. His hands on my hips, the feeling of his broad shoulders, his muscles taut and smooth under my hands. I swallow the lump of desire I feel building up and try to cap it. But he has that same look in his eyes, and I feel every excuse I’ve made not to sleep with him unraveling thread by thread. Chandler Randall wants me. And there’s no more denying that I want him to.