“I’m sure.” Though, as I trot off down the hallway, I’m secretly hoping step one for cooking a ham is: stick your head in the oven.
2YOU BETTER NOT CRYPATRICK
Disappointing my husband feels like grounds for inking my name on the Naughty List.
Quinn leaves my office with reassuring words. But I’ve made a mess of our night. I know that.
Probably could’ve gotten this bathroom nonsense done at the office today. But lately, I’ve been blocked. Creatively. Emotionally. Motivationally. So, all-nighter it is.
I pick up my pencil again. But I keep making mistakes. Erasing wrong lines and incorrect notes. The smudge marks grow larger and larger as my nimble fingers become tired. But I push through.
I sip the hot chocolate Quinn brought me. The tickling notes of peppermint from the added candy cane are perfection. Quinn is the most thoughtful man in the world.
Sometimes, I wish he could see that my care comes out differently.
Ever since I was young, I sought approval everywhere I went.
When I was in elementary school, I won a grade-wide contest to draw our dream house.
We had recently read a picture book about a kid who moves towns. He thinks up this fantastical house he could be moving to. Of course, when he gets there, it’s just a regular old house. He’s disappointed. His parents have to remind him that the memories they make in the house matter more than the house itself.
A sweet sentiment, sure. But my mind couldn’t shake the wayhe imagined a ski slope on the roof and an aquarium in the basement. Plus, it didn’t help that my parents showed me the movieRichie Richstarring Macaulay Culkin—you know, theHome Alonekid—immediately after. It sent my imagination into a tizzy.
I ended up designing this futuristic smart house. All the teachers agreed it deserved the prize. My parents were vocally proud for once. And all the kids in school wanted me to design one specifically to their tastes. I was happy to do it, so I spent recesses drawing for the pleasure of my peers.
Words, I’ve never been great at. But drawing came naturally.
It wasn’t until Spencer Haven—the class bully—asked me to make a house for him that I realized how much approval equated to success in my mind. When he asked for a drawing, he gave me little guidance. So I designed what I thought he’d like and when I gave it to him, he told me it was “trash.”
I tried again.
“Garbage.”
And again.
“Not even close.”
To the point that I finally drew him a hundred different sketches over a weekend, brought them to school on Monday, and dropped them all on his desk.
“Here!” I shouted. “There has to be one in the bunch that suits you.”
I got detention for making a mess. But Spencer never bothered me again.
In a way, it prepared me for the brutal feedback I got in architecture school and the disapproval from my parents over my career choices. So maybe I should send Spencer my thanks on Facebook one day. Wouldn’t that be a laugh?
Through the wall, I hear Quinn struggling to start the shower.
Gurgle. Gurgle. Creak. Bang.
I really need to get someone over here to check on these pipes. Add it to my barely touched to-do list.
Quinn’s muffled plea makes it through the paper-thin wall. “Come on, please work!”
I go to stand then—
Slosh.Running water, finally. I let out a relieved sigh.
I’m hit with a fleeting thought. I should join Quinn in the shower as a sexy surprise. Watch as rivulets of water and soap slide down his freckly arms. Help him shampoo his curly, dark brown hair, which is long on the top and short on the sides. Kiss my way across his stubbly, deeply dimpled chin.
