“Do you want company?” I don’t think about it before I offer, but fuck it. I want to spend more time with her. The weekend was excruciating without seeing her, and she’s closed on Tuesdays, so I won’t have another excuse. Painting? I can paint.
“Don’t you have to work?
Yes. “The beauty of being a business owner. I don’t have to follow rules.”
“Why would you spend your free morning painting a stranger’s house?”
Stabbing the knife and twisting it deeper, I see. “Ouch.” I cover my chest with my hands. “I thought we were friends.”
She sucks in a breath, panic immediately covering her features, and when she usually turns different shades of red, this time, it’s the opposite.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” I offer.
She lets out a shaky breath. “We are friends. Sorry, that came out all wrong. I can paint on my own, though.”
“I know you can, but I’m not asking to help because you can’t. I’m asking because I want to.”
The tension between us thickens, and all sounds suddenly become muffled. There’s nothing else in this moment but her and me.
I can’t breathe.
“If you’re sure, I’ll take the offer,” she replies, obliterating the silence.
I nod. “I am. Let me grab some coffee to go first and meet you there?”
“Sure! Ellie is a queen at making coffee, too. She’ll take good care of you. See you in a bit.”
She leaves, taking all my new favorites along with her. There’s not a prettier blue than Natalie’s eyes, or a more beautiful red than her hair. My favorite sound is her voice now,and her scent, like fresh days and sweet cookies, is one I’m trying to bottle.
I order my coffee, but it’s all wrong, starting with my having to choose what kind, not having whatever it is Natalie adds to it. Her secret ingredient.
I drive in silence to her home, organizing my thoughts and figuring out what this feeling is in my chest when I’m around her. I can’t turn a blind eye to the comments my friends made last week. The insinuation I like her doesn’t seem quite as impossible now. It feels as though they might be right.
I’m so fucked. I want so much more than to be her friend, but I don’t know how to bridge that gap.
I turn left from Cypress Street onto a gravel road, leading to a small driveway with an olive green house at the back. All colors are beautiful, but green was made for her.
I park under the oak tree covered in moss and take note of the previously broken wooden swing that now moves gently with the wind. The endless possibilities of what her girls do playing out here invade my mental space, and I catch myself smiling fondly at the thought of how I could fit in. Daydreaming, of course, because I can’t even get Natalie to call me a friend, let alone think of anything else. I don’t deserve her either. There's too much going on.
I keep walking, taking the space in on this humid, gloomy day in the middle of summer. Almost like a mirage, Natalie stands on her porch with a pitcher of lemonade and a shy smile on her face. A shirt frames her body under loose overalls covered in paint, a white bandana over her wavy, sunset hair.
“You know you don’t have to make me lemonade every time I come here.”
“It’s the least I can do. Something tells me if I offered to pay, you’d say no.”
“You’d be correct.” I hop over the four steps on her freshly fixed porch. “Nice porch.” I wink, grabbing the glass of lemonade and drinking it immediately.
“Do you add the secret ingredient to this too?”
Natalie shrugs nonchalantly, stepping into her house. I don’t follow, instead I look at her, dumbfounded like a fifteen-year-old boy with their first crush for the first time.
“Are you coming, or are you going to stand there, staring into the abyss?”
Oh. Sassy.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The inside of her home is nothing like I expected. Her store is whimsical, with green, pink, orange, and gold accents everywhere, from flower prints in the bathroom and behind the shelves to sheer pink curtains covering areas. Dark wooden shelves match the coffee bar and the cash register, all in perfect harmony.
