Sweet (True Believers #2)(13)
Author: Erin McCarthy

I decided I needed to do something to say thanks. There wasn’t a lot I could offer him that he would accept. If I offered money, he would say no. He was too proud for that. If I offered him payment in beer, he might say yes, but that was a guy gift. I wanted to do something that was girly, that he would remember had come from me. And okay, maybe it was just a compulsion to improve the grossness of the house, but I wanted to de-gross it. Or at least one room. The living room looked a little overwhelming since there was no way I could replace the dirty furniture or the carpet. But a peek under the corner of the carpet showed hardwood floors under there. The kitchen seemed easier to tackle. It basically just needed some paint and accessories. A nice masculine update. Fresh paint alone would kill some of the smoke smell.

The kitchen table was an old oak rectangle, and I had noticed on day one that at some point, the boys had started writing on it with a Sharpie. There were random notes to each other like “Buy milk,” and brotherly slurs such as “Tyler sucks dick.” There were doodles of faces and animals, and there was even a recipe for cheesecake, written in Rory’s handwriting. I envied her for belonging here with them, a weird little camaraderie, and I envied them for having the freedom to write on a piece of furniture in permanent marker if they wanted to. Not that they hadn’t paid the price for it—I knew that. But there was something about their brotherhood that made me feel left out.

Made me want to put a big old “Jessica was here” across the room.

I texted my friend Robin, the only one of our girlfriends who was spending the summer in Cincy. Want to go to the hardware store with me?

Is that a new club?

I snorted. No. I mean for real hardware store. For paint and stuff.

Oh. Sure I guess.

An hour later we were strolling down the aisles of the hardware store, looking very out of place among the shuffling elderly couples and workmen dressed in grubby clothes eyeing us with naked curiosity. It might have been Robin’s skintight bright blue tube dress. It didn’t exactly scream home improvement. Personally I felt like I should be wearing steel-toed boots instead of flip-flops, but I was going to make the best of it. I just wanted paint samples for the kitchen and a brush to test them on the wall.

“So why are you doing this exactly?” Robin asked, her earrings jingling as she leaned over to pull a hot-pink paint chip card out of the shelf.

“I just want to do something nice for Riley since he’s letting me stay there.”

“You could have sex with him. It would be easier and more fun.”

I had no doubt of that. “It would also put me right on the edge of being a whore. Sex should never be as a favor or a thank-you. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“That’s a shame,” she teased, going for another paint chip. “Look, this one matches my nails. You’re picking all the boring colors.”

I was staying in the steel gray and blue-gray family, wanting to do something modern and chic and masculine without veering into man-cave territory. “It’s a house of four guys. I can’t do a lemon yellow kitchen.”

“I don’t see why not. Yellow is a happy color. Are you going to put this in your design portfolio?”

“I probably should.” I hadn’t thought about it, but it was the perfect before-and-after design on a dime. “But I’m not planning to spend more than like seventy-five bucks so I’m not sure how much impact it will have.”

“Think of it as a design challenge. Let me know if you want some art. I can do something for you.” Robin was also in the design school with me, though she was focusing on visual arts. Her love was painting, but she was being practical by getting a dual degree in graphic design and art.

Nothing about my double-major was practical unless you asked my mother. I was getting degrees in both Religious Studies and Interior Design. So basically I was majoring in Future Preacher’s Wife. Their vision for me was that after graduation, I could stencil Scripture passages on the wall of my husband’s dining room for fund-raising dinner parties. But agreeing to their course of study was the only way they had been willing to let me attend a state school instead of a private Christian college.

I did love design, both interior and fashion. But it made me feel guilty because it seemed so freaking frivolous. Kylie wanted to teach grade school. Rory wanted to be a doctor. And there was me, wanting to rid the world of shit-brown carpet and spandex. Not exactly life changing. Then again, in some cases it arguably could be.

“That would be awesome,” I told her. “Something with typography. Maybe food related . . . just like a big piece that says ‘EAT,’ or ‘YUM YUM,’ that sort of thing.”

“You want me to paint YUM YUM for the kitchen wall of the Mann brothers? Now that is singularly amazing.”

I laughed. That did seem a little creeper. “Maybe EAT is a safer bet.”

“Oh, hell no. Where is the fun in that? Just let me know what colors you want and I can do it in like an hour.”

“Cool. Okay, I’m going to get these samples and then we can go.”

***

The reaction when Riley came home was not what I was expecting. I had painted four squares on the blank kitchen wall and was studying them as they dried, trying to decide which I liked best. Frankly, any would be better than the yellowed and dingy white walls with dozens of scuffs and stains on them.

“What the f**k are you doing?” Riley asked me, by way of greeting.

He looked sweaty and hot and tired, his nose sunburned. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was about as filthy as the kitchen walls, his tool belt in his hand. I’d never seen myself as a girl who dug a man with power tools, but there was some kind of just automatic response my body was having to the belt and the work boots. It was like an animal instinct that I knew in a zombie apocalypse I would have a better chance of survival with Riley than a marketing major.

“I’m choosing a paint color. Which one do you like best?”

“They all look the same to me. But there is no way you’re painting this kitchen. It’s f**king pointless.” He dropped his belt on the table and went to the fridge, dried mud crumbling off his boots as he walked.

“Why? It’s a very cheap way to refresh a room.”

“Thanks, Martha Stewart, but I’m not spending a dime on this house. Another six months the bank will be kicking us out. It’s a waste of money.” He pulled a beer out and popped the tab.

“Oh, and you never waste money?” I asked, looking pointedly at the beer in his hand.