“Couldn’t afford coke, and sniffing glue would have freaked Adrian out,” Tom said, expression deceptively mild. His jaw worked.
“You can’t live your life without freaking Adrian out. He’s the most reactionary artist I know,” Rose said, backpedaling with all her might.
“That’s what I keep telling him.” Tom let her off the hook with a knowing twist of his mouth and took a step back. She felt like she’d been the one smoking unfiltered Marlboro reds when he moved away. Tom’s force of personality was giving her a contact high.
“Anyway, I quit smoking cigarettes three months ago. Just have the lighter out of habit,” he said.
He went to ignite the pilot light with his cheap Bic lighter, leaving it on the floor by the water heater. Then he straightened and looked at her with patient, steady expectation.
He’d tried to talk to her. About the things they both wanted. She was afraid she’d been unfair to him.
“Tom, I—if I haven’t said it yet, thank you,” Rose said. “AndI’m sorry if I’ve acted less than grateful about everything. I’m glad you came.”
His face gentled. “Don’t worry about it. I know this is a lot for you. Not just me, but the big construction project. I’m sorry Seth wouldn’t help.”
“Yeah. But I’m going to try to stop…stop thinking I ought to know how this goes. Stop making any assumptions about you, really. You obviously know how to handle your own life. I think this is going to be good for me, actually. I need to learn how to let go of…a lot of stuff. Every time I’ve tried to make a big plan and force everyone else to go along with it, I’ve fallen flat on my face. I need to stop.”
Tom frowned. “Well, I’m not sure if that’s the primary lesson, actually—”
“No, I mean, I think working with you will go a long way toward helping us figure out a way to…you know. Meet where we are now. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come to bail me out,” she said. “I’m sorry for getting on your case today.”
Tom had been nothing but kind and helpful. She needed to stop judging him based on who he’d been to her a decade ago. This was a man who was actually living up to his promises—one who’d dropped everything, volunteered to take over a big dirty job, and lodged her in a cute little pink cottage. He was doing this his own way and doing it better than her.
“So,” Rose said, shoving her tote bag full of binders and folders into the corner. “You’re in charge. We’re going to do this your way. What’s first?”
Tom rubbed his jaw, scratching his cologne-model five-o’clock shadow. He looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the inn. He wet his lips, shifting his weight.
“Yeah, why don’t you just relax here for a while? I’m going to fill a few bags of trash at the inn, check on the bee situation, and, um, make a few phone calls.”
Rose winced. She’d thought she’d just given him an opening to talk. But of course he hadn’t spoken to his boyfriend all day, and no matter how confident a man like Boyd might be in his relationship with Tom, and how little a threat Rose might pose to it, he probably wanted to hear from Tom.
“Of course,” she said, pushing her knees together.
Tom took two steps toward the door, hesitated, then came back to where Rose sat on the couch.
Her expression must have been wary, because he telegraphed his motions as he reached out to brush one careful thumb along her cheek. The gentle, reassuring touch felt better than it had any right to. As if he could read her thoughts, he sighed, his own expression troubled.
“I should have done this years ago,” he said.
“Done what?” Rose asked.
“Anything,” he said with a little half shrug, like he hadn’t really been speaking for her benefit.
•••
Tom paced the entryway of the inn, feet scuffing some remaining debris. He’d filled the existing dumpster; he needed to find out how to order a new one. He’d opened abunch of windows to let the trash smell and the bees out, but snow was in the forecast for the next day; he needed to go through and shut them.
He was panicking.
Tom knit his fingers on top of his head, mind flitting from necessary task to necessary task like a bug trapped in a porch light. He groped for focus.
“Fortunate Son.” “Alice’s Restaurant.” “WAP.” Three songs about cleaning up.
He knew a lot of songs, but he didn’t think he knew enough to keep him on mission long enough to fix this place up. Things would slip through his fingers, he’d lose track of time, he’d get overwhelmed, and then there’d come some neck-snapping moment of reckoning. Like the time he’d absentmindedly buzzed a pleasant middle-aged lady into the lobby of Adrian’s apartment building, only to discover that she was there to serve him with divorce papers.
How are you going to handle this one, Tomek?
With jittery hands he pulled out his phone and called the first responsible, available adult he could think of.
