Chapter Twenty-Three
Riley
Iwason my hands and knees in a narrow bedroom at my Berkeley Street project when Magnolia found me this morning. It seemed I was clocking a lot of time in thisposition.
"No one could ever accuse you of taking the easy route," she mused. She was leaning against the bedroom door frame, her arms folded over her chest and her dark pink wellies crossed at herankles.
Paintbrush in hand, I nodded once. "I'm blending the original pieces," I said, pointing at the old hardwood floors, "with the newpieces."
"I can see that," she replied, tipping her chin toward the semi-circle of stains surrounding me. "I just don't understand why you aren't snatching pieces from a closet, or someplace where a uniformly stained floor isn'trequired."
I wrapped my brushes in a length of oil cloth and covered each can before reaching for my notebook and gaining my feet. An open can of anything was an invitation for me to knockitover.
"Because this house had a lot of fucked-to-shit flooring, and I've already snatched everything I can," I said. "But thank you for questioning my methods before nine in the morning, Gigi. It really affirms my choicesinlife."
"Anything I can do to help," she said with a bigsmile.
"How are you? I never see you anymore," I said, lightly whacking Magnolia's arm with mynotebook.
"I know, I know," Magnolia said. "This place is gorgeous. It was a wreck when you started, but I can't believe the transformation. Justgorgeous."
"Thanks," I said, lifting my shoulders in a shrug. "Shannon wants to get it listed and under contract before the baby comes, so I've beenhustling."
She pushed away from the door frame and crossed the room. She studied the window casing, and paused to snap a photo of the fine millwork. It reminded me of the images hiding on my phone, the ones that were too hot for anything but complete privacy. There was something humbling about Alex trusting me enough to capture thesemoments.
Something Iloved.
Shaking off those thoughts, I turned my attention back to Magnolia. "I take it you're watching football with someone else these days," I said. "What's going on with this Penthouse Peter character? You know, I can't decide if I like that name. Penthouse Peter. It seems to suggest he's a staff writer atPenthouse, and I don't love that idea. What about Peter Brady? Talk about some middle child syndrome. Of course, there is Peter the pumpkin-eater, but I don't know that story well enough to commit to the nickname. There was something about him not being able to keep his wife, right?" I scratched my chin, trying to recall the details. "Or maybe we go with Peter Parker. Yeah. That's probably the least offensiveoption."
She shot me an unimpressed look. "Peterisfine."
"Fine? That's not a resounding vote of confidence, Gigi," I said. "I'll remind you, Spider-Man wasn't always on the side of justice. He made some questionable choices. Also, he was a fuckingcreeper."
She shook her head and gave medon't start with thathands. "Peter is doing well. Work on his property is finished, and he's"—she paused, looking around the room as if the words she wanted would materialize—"he's got a lot on his platerightnow."
"A lot on his plate," Irepeated.
"Yes. He's going through a difficult time," she replied, her tone turning defensive. "I can't expect much from him at the moment, and that's okay. We all have rough patches, and we deserve some people who stick by us during thosetimes."
There it was. The Magnolia Santillian Guide to EnablingAssholes.
"I'm gonna say this gently," I started, hoping I didn't botch everything. "You're too damn nice. You're good to people, and people are dickheads. Given that I gave up beating the shit out of dickheads as part of my New Year's resolutions, I can't kick this dude's ass if thingsgobad."
It didn't seem necessary to add that Gigi couldn't tell a douchebag from adonut.
She regarded me before replying. "What else did you resolve togiveup?"
Decisions made in alleys; they never worked outfavorably.
Sex on pool tables; felt burn isnojoke.
Whiskey; everything aboutwhiskey.
"That's pretty much it," I said, smiling to myself as I realized I was on the road to making good on all of those resolutions, whiskey aside. Assuming Peter with the Personal Issues didn't fuck everything up, ofcourse.
"Peter isn't a dickhead," she said. "He's a really good guy. You'd like him if you got toknowhim."
I wanted to believe her more thananything.
