Page 63 of What I Like About You

I pick up one of the rolls of blue paint tape and toss it to Nash.

It bounces off the floor a few feet away. Fail.

Nash’s eyes are on the tape. “So you invited me over to throw things at me. Got it.”

“I didn’t—”

He turns his back to me and starts taping before I can finish my sentence. I can’t stand the awkwardness, so I pull up Spotify. We spend half ofHamilton’s first act taping the room—becauseHamiltonis universal.

Once the room is sufficiently taped, we dip our roller brushes into lavender and start painting.

Time to permanently delete orange from my life.

Except, the orange isn’t completely disappearing under the lavender.

“Are we doing something wrong?” I ask. “I think we’re doing something wrong.”

“Seriously?” Nash asks, annoyed.

“Is that your new favorite word or something?”

If Nash is going to be passive-aggressive to me, I can give it back. I don’t know why he’s here if he’s not even going to give me a chance to apologize. We step back from the wall and assess the work we’ve done so far. Something isdefinitelywrong.

This isn’t the lily lavender I was promised on the swatch.

“Primer,” Nash says after a beat. “Duh. We didn’t prime first.”

“That’s important?” I ask.

“When the new color is lighter …” Nash walks over to the corner of my room where the second, unopened paint can is. He picks it up and brings it over and it’s actually not paint at all. It’s primer. “Of course, it’s been right here the whole time.”

“I thought they were both paint,” I admit.

Nash scrunches his eyebrows. “You thought you needed two cans of paint for one room?”

“I haven’t exactly done this before,” I say.

“Clearly,” Nash says, opening the can of primer.

I want to note that Nash didn’t exactly point this out before we started either, but instead I stand beside Nash and try to roll primer in sync with him—though his reach extends much higher than mine ever will. I jump to try to make up the difference. If I look ridiculous, he doesn’t laugh. My thoughts swirl trying to figure out how to bring up Rosh Hashanah, how to say I’m sorry. I’m not prepared to interact with this version of Nash.

“I get that you’re still mad at me,” I say. “I get it and I deserve it. But I don’t get why you’re here.”

“I’m not sure either, tbh,” Nash says, and even though we’re tense, a part of mediesbecause he says text-speak out loud too. “I mean, to be honest.”

“Got it,” I say.

His exhale almost sounds like a laugh. “Sorry—bad habit from the blog. My friends give me so much shit for it.”

“AF is my weakness,” I admit.

“Well, don’t say it in front of Molly. You’ll never live it down.”

“Noted.”

I prime walls with Nash and for a moment we are okay.

I don’t know what to say next, so I start rapping along with “Satisfied” and Nash smiles his real, one-dimpled smile. I don’t know if he’s laughing at me or with me, but honestly, I don’t care.

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