“Caleb, the paint,” Arden calls out just as the can slips out of my hands and careens down to the ground in what feels like slow motion—right onto my foot. I buckle over in pain just as a spray of white paint flies up from the can, straight up my nose, all over my face, and into my hair—completely drenching me from head all the way down to what I assume is going to be a broken toe.
“Mother ...ffffffff,” I gasp, holding back my curse word as I dance around on one foot.
But thanks to the paint slathered all over the floor, hopping on one foot turns into me slipping and flying up in the air as if I stepped on a banana peel.
I land with a resoundingoof.
“Oh my God,” Nola says.
“What on earth are you doing?” Arden asks, walking up to me.
“Are you okay?” Nola asks.
“Fine,” I grumble as I sit up and clutch my back. Yup, that’s going to hurt for a long time, but not as much as my pride.
Because what a spectacle. Here I am, sitting on my butt in a giant puddle of spilled paint, covered in said spilled paint, looking like the most incompetent hardware-store owner ever. All in front of Nola.
But not just Nola—all in front of Ho Ho No.
Better yet, Ho Ho No-la.
How did I not see it? How did I not connect the dots?
“Do you, uh, do you need help?” Nola asks.
“No,” I snap as I try to stand, the nearly empty can still pouring onto the floor. I grip my forehead and let out a deep breath. “I just need a minute.”
Arden steps in. “Nola, dear, why don’t you finish up whatever you need to do in town, and I’ll deliver the paint in an hour.”
“Okay, yeah, that works. Thank you.” She pauses. I can feel her wanting to say something else, but instead, she takes off, the bell above the door ringing her departure.
Once she’s gone, I lie back down in the paint, press my hand to my stomach, and look up at Arden. “She’s the one I’ve been writing to.”
He smiles awkwardly. “Afraid so.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have written her back?” he asks.
“Probably not.”
“And why not, exactly? Is it because you want nothing to do with her? Or is it because you still very much love her, regret the way you treated her, and want nothing more than to be with her again?”
“I think you already know the answer to that,” I say while I attempt to get up, my body feeling like molasses from the thick paint coating me.
“Okay, so if you regret the way you treated her, why don’t you try to fix it?”
“Because you saw how we interacted.” I gesture toward the paint. “It’s a lost cause.”
“Well, for one, you didn’t take the conversation in a positive direction. There was a lot of hostility in your voice and your actions.”
“Because I’m frustrated,” I say as I stand.
“Frustrated with who, precisely?”
I push paint off my shirt and onto the floor. There is no saving this outfit. Straight to the trash it will go. Thankfully, I have a shower and spare clothes in the back of the shop.
“I asked you a question,” Arden pushes.
