“Boom. Done.” I raised my hand and dropped the stain-soaked rag I held like it was a mic. It landed on the tarp beneath me with an uninspiredsplat.
My lower back twinged as I straightened from a crouch.I probably should have taken more breaks instead of spending the entire day doubled over like a pretzel, but I wanted the floors done so I could focus on getting the drywall up, and no one had ever described me as a patient person.
I dug my knuckles into the spasming muscle and examined my handiwork. Even to my biased eyes, it looked good. It wasn’t every day you came across 16-inch-wide, 150-year-old floorboards in that good of a condition, and it took me an embarrassing amount of time to find the right stain for them. Too light and they might blend into the room, unseen. Too dark, and I’d cover up all the good stuff. In the end, I opted for a medium-depth varnish that coated the wood in a golden glow and sank into the whorls and knots and other minutiae “imperfections”, bringing all that gorgeous detail out.
I left the sitting room and crossed the hall to the dining room, where I’d started staining at five a.m. The day had since bled intoafternoon, and the southern facing windows in the dining room bathed the floors in natural light. They looked well on their way to dry.
I pulled my cellphone out of my back pocket, ignored the Twitter notifications crowding the welcome screen, and pulled up my camera. I crouched down, back protesting, and took several shots before finding the right angle. I’d never been a fan of filters, but I used the built-in photo editing tool to darken the image to the point that the detail in the grain popped, then attached the finished picture to a group text with my parents and hit send.
I already knew how they’d respond. Dad would be effusively proud. Mom would love it. My eye for detail came from her. Whenever Dad was in a fix about paint choice or finishing touches, he’d ask Mom, and she always had the perfect solution.
My phone dinged with an incoming text.
I LOVE IT. I bet it looks even better in person. When can I come out to see it???
I sighed. Mom. She was getting pushy about visiting. Even though she’d promised me she’d try to respect my wishes and give me some space. I’d never been great at saying no to her, even less so since Zach died, and I was torn between being annoyed and feeling guilty.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What the hell did I say back to her?
While I hesitated, my phone began to rapid-fire chime.
Great job, Ben! It looks awesome. Perfect color to bring out all that character. Ignore your mother. Take your time.
Hani, don’t tell him to ignore me! Christmas is in three days. He shouldn’t spend it alone!
He asked for space, Klara, and we need to respect that.
Isolation isn’t good for humans.
Honey, theman has only been gone for a few months. It’s not like he’s lived in a shack on the Outer Hebrides for five years.
I read a study yesterday that said even a few months of hermit-like existence can be detrimental to mental health, and with the risk of CTE, Ben has to be more careful than most.
Gee, thanks, Mom.
Klara, Ben is still part of this text. Maybe we don’t talk about him like he isn’t here?
Oh, sorry, Ben! You know how I worry. Read the study.
She sent the link. It was one I’d already seen.
I’ve read it, I typed back.And I’m not a complete hermit. In case you’ve missed it, the three of us talk almost every day, and I still keep up with my friends back home. Please don’t worry about me. I’m doing okay. I’ve even made a few new friends out here.
The texts stopped. I waited for Mom’s third degree, but it didn’t come. Good. Hopefully I’d put off the threat of a visit for another few weeks by mentioning new friends, though “friends” was definitely an exaggeration. Jack didn’t know who I really was, and I’d just met Ella.
My phone rang. Dad was FaceTiming me, which he never did alone. Looked like I didn’t escape anything after all.
I hit accept.
My parents’ familiar faces filled the screen.
Mom leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Who are these friends?”
Well, hello to you too, Mom.
“Jack lives up the hill from me,” I told her. “He’s in his mid-60s and has no idea who I am. It’s kind of a nice change.”
“He isn’t one of those hillbilly rednecks, is he?” she asked.
