Chapter Sixteen
Cay
Icracked the windows open in my bedroom and sniffed the air. My apartment didn’t stink like smoke anymore. The fresh coat of paint had dried months ago, so I’d finally ordered a new mattress, and now I was looking at the thing, still in its plastic wrap, and imagining Beck sprawled on it.
I’d make the bed first, put my favorite sheets so we could fuck them up in the best possible way.
The sea foam green on the walls had the salt of my tears in it as I’d painted right after the last breakup. It was probably better than the comic-themed wallpaper I had nearly bought. When the man at the counter who was roughly my age had told me he’d gotten the same for his son, I put the rolls away. I’d been dumped too many timesto give anyone one more reason, fun design or not. I bet Beck wouldn’t mind that wallpaper, though…
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I grinned. Was Beck reading my mind and calling me?
Nope.
“Dad?” I said into the phone.
“I’m on my way to your place!” Dad’s voice was half-drowned by the noise of the busy highway.
“What happened?” My heart stuck in my throat. “Is Mom okay?”
“Your mother told me you still haven’t finished painting the living room. What’s up with that? So I’m coming over to help.”
“You scared me!” I heaved a sigh of relief. “I thought it was something serious.”
“If you don’t take this renovation seriously, you’ll never finish it. It’s been months—Watch where you’re going!”
“Careful there.” I stifled a laugh.
“I don’t know how you drive in the city. The traffic is insane, and the drivers are crazy.”
“I got used to it. How far are you?”
“Nearly at your place. I’m dying for a coffee.”
“Noted. Black as night brew coming right up.” I made my way toward the kitchen to tidy it up and prepare the nectar of the gods.
“Do you have all the paint, or do you want me to pick something up?”
“Everything is here, Dad, thanks.”
I pulled out two sets of old clothes and donned ratty sweats and a T-shirt that wasn’t even good enough for sleeping in anymore. By the time I made coffee and toast for Dad and myself, the doorbell rang. I let Dad in, and we spent no more than ten minutes catching up and eating before he was up and inspecting the living room, clicking his tongue at my paint job and sipping his coffee.
“It’s not bad, except you only have the primer and no color on it.” He wiggled his Freddie Mercury-esque mustache, placing his hands on his hips. He’d already changed into battered clothes, and so had I, ready to tackle the task that had been so daunting. Him being my height and only slightly bigger build with the addition of a beer-belly made it easy for him to fit my looser workout clothes.
“Thanks, I guess?” I reached for the pot of the eggshell paint.
“Son, I don’t want to question your stylistic choices, but why did you pick such a bland color?” He nodded at the pot in my hands, raking a hand through his black hair streaked with gray at the temples.
I shrugged. “Figured it’s a mature shade.”
“What’s that, then?”
I didn’t have to look. I knew he pointed at the blue paint I’d bought on a whim after the Comic-Con. It had reminded me of Beck’s Superman costume.
“It would make the room too dark and—” I looked at the pot in question and sighed.
“And make it feel like your apartment.” Dad crossed his arms.
“Yeah.”
