Page 54 of Silver Linings
“Safety first.” His eyes glitter with amusement. What is this, psychological warfare?
He hands me back the electric sander after he removes the broken pieces from the two built-ins we’re focusing on today.
Grabbing his own, he looks at me. “If you could go to any place, real or fictional, where would it be?”
And just like that, the tension I was feeling is broken, and he puts me completely at ease, yet again.
The two weeks leading up to book club passes in a blur of eighty grit sandpaper, paint rollers, and a never-ending round of twenty questions.
Hendrix has shown up every day, ten minutes early, coffee and tools in hand.
I don’t know what I thought would happen. Maybe for him to decide this project wasn’t worth it? ThatIwasn’t worth it if he wasn’t getting something more out of it? Isn’t that what I’ve come to expect after twenty years of lived experience?
There were a few years after Dad died and Mom left that I was still too young to fully grasp the magnitude of what I had endured. I just knew the world was duller and my parents were gone. Then, I met Kena, and he never backed down from my quiet demeanor. He was larger than life to me, even then. Every time I saw him, he chipped away at my grief until he could finally seemeunderneath the wreckage, and he pulled me out.
For a long time after that, I didn’t care to give anyone else the time of day. It was better to keep my circle small. But along with growing up comes hormones and recklessness, and I foundmyself letting down my guard again when I was in high school with a boy.
Jeremy Rollins was perfect—at least I thought so at the time. He was attractive, cocky, and he could play guitar. Basically, an early 00s wet dream. Everyone wanted him, but he wantedme. It made me feel special for the first time in a long time, and I got swept up in that rush. Being wanted when you spent the most formative years of your life feeling the opposite, felt akin to winning the lottery. I couldn’t believe it was happening to me—that this person waschoosing me. Every word out of his mouth was honey, and I found myself opening up to him. He repaid me a few weeks later by sticking his tongue down Melanie Virochec’s throat at a party. When I asked him why, he said,“You were fun for a minute but I need someone less complicated, less damaged.”
It just served to confirm what I already knew—it’s easier to keep things casual. No one wants the messy bits, keep it fun. That fail-safe has worked for me my whole life since.
Until now.
“What’s your death row meal?”
I smile. Hendrix took the twenty questions game I started on our first night and turned it into two hundred. The queries vary from completely ridiculous to borderline philosophical.
Yesterday, he asked me what my favorite midnight snack was (pizza rolls), and immediately after, he asked me what song I thought best described me (‘The Bolter’ by Taylor Swift). Then, to my mortification, he played the song,out loud, with me right next to him. When it finished, he put his phone back in his pocket, said “I like it”, and then resumed his project like nothing was out of the ordinary.
I like it.What does that even mean?Does he like the song or me?
“You’re going to laugh.”
“That seems likely, knowing you.”
I smack him with the towel I carry around to wipe up stray paint drops, but he ducks away, chuckling.
“I’d start with a fat stack of pancakes that have been waterlogged with syrup.” He grimaces at my lack of restraint when it comes to sugar. “Don’t judge! Then, I’d get a pizza from this place on Bleeker. It has pancetta, three different cheeses, and a spicy peach jam on it.” I pause to look at him, but he just urges me to continue, knowing I’m not finished yet. “For dessert, I’d have a funnel cake and wash it all down with a cold brew.”
“I’m concerned for your arteries.” He runs his hands down his face in exasperation.
“What’s yours then?”
He thinks on it for a while. “Steak and fries.”
“God, that’s—I need to corrupt you asap if you’re to survive the mean streets of New York.”
I look over at him, and he’s already looking at me with a glazed look lining his stunning eyes. The sun’s just setting, and the light is streaming in through the front bay windows, gilding his features in a halo of golden light.
“Corrupt me then.” His voice sounds husky, and my body flushes, suddenly remembering the feel of his stubble-lined mouth grazing my neck, scratching and creating the most delicious friction while he worked me into a frenzy.
I cough and resume painting the shelf in front of me. “What’s Seattle like?”
There’s a long, pregnant pause before he answers. “Beautiful. The city is nestled between Lake Washington and Elliot Bay, so it’s three-sixty views everywhere. And you’re near some of the best trails for hiking, with the most stunning mountains you’ll ever see. It’s pretty incredible.” Admiration and sorrow war for dominance in his tone.
“Why’d you leave?” I hesitate to ask, sensing there’s a story here he might not want to tell.
“Needed some fresh air.” He paints his shelf in vertical strokes, the ink on his tattooed forearms coming alive with each movement.
