Once the supplies are laid out, I gather the volunteers. Aside from the handful of people working on the roof, the rest of us, including my parents, pick up brushes and begin painting.
Gavin and Callie join us to make it less obvious when they catch stolen moments between them. I glance over at my parents to see if they notice, but they don’t. In fact, they’re so focused on painting that they don’t seem to notice anything around them. You’d think it’s a race by the way they’ve taken over the whole front right side of the building.
News articles and interviews often heralded my parents for their work ethic, but I never understood it. To me work was the reason for their absence from my life, and for years I resented them for it. Having a front-row seat to Mom and Dad taking this job—and every other job they’ve done in Blaire—so seriously, I’m starting to see what others do. Still, the botched family game night is making it impossible to fully let go of the resentment. Can there be such a thing as too much of a quality as highly regarded as work ethic? It seems like Dad has been reliant on himself for too long to notice any other way of doing things.
A splatter of paint on my face jerks me out of my thoughts. “What was that for?” I say to Brennan when I realize he flicked his brush at me.
“We’ll never get this done at this rate,” he says playfully.
“I’mthe one slowing us down?” I dab my finger into my tray and flick it at him.
He winces, wiping the paint off his eyelid. “Bold move.” He grins mischievously before swiping his brush on my arm.
I gasp, then flick my brush back at him. We do this back and forth a few times, and the moment is like something out of a Hallmark movie, which, I’m not going to lie, is, like, a really cute look for me.
“Okay, now we’re really not going to make any progress if we keep this up,” I say. As fun as this is, there’s a nagging sensation creeping over me to stop fooling around, which is odd. I can’t remember the last time I preferredmanual laborto anything else.
“Truce?” He peers up at me.
“Truce,” I say. Then quietly, under my breath, I add, “For now.”
With the brush in his hand, he smirks mid-stroke. I resist the urge to flick him again with the paintbrush, and we both somehow manage to get back to work.
It isn’t until we finish for the day that I realize I haven’t taken a break and I’m completely parched. Right as I’m about to look for my water bottle, Brennan hands it to me. Okay, now that’s weird. Is he a psychic?
“How’d you…”
“Looked like you could use it,” he says, again reading my mind. “We’ve worked up a sweat.”
I self-consciously wipe my brow. It’s true. I haven’t worked this hard since my last F45 cardio session. The water feels cool and refreshing. And so does Brennan’s attentiveness. Suddenly, I’m reminded of what Callie said. Could Brennan really be interested in me?
“We make a pretty good team,” Brennan says, staring at the progress we made today.
I’m starting to think we do too.
In fact, if Brennanisinterested in me and Iamready for a long-term relationship, there’s no reason why we can’t be more than just a good team.
Chapter 30
Mom is busier than ever getting her kimchi ready for the farmer’s market. When Callie’s mom heard we had wiped the convenience store clean of their supply of mason jars and still needed more, she offered the ones that were left over from her honey. So while Gavin goes to get them, Mom gets started on yet another batch.
“Wanna come with me?” Gavin asks me on his way out.
He knows I’m always down to hang out with Callie. But between Gavin’s job at the cafe and Callie’s internship, I know they don’t get to spend a lot of time together, so I make up an excuse. “I’ll stay here to help Mom,” I say.
After Gavin leaves I join Mom in the kitchen. She’s hovering over the big bowl, filled to the brim with cabbages and a kimchi paste concoction. With her pink rubber gloves on, she slathers the mixture around, making sure each piece of cabbage is coated with the red peppery goodness.
“Can you get the jar of chopped garlic in the fridge?” She motions behind me. By now she knows my help in the kitchen is best limited to noncooking tasks.
I rummage through the fridge that somehow became packed overnight. “I can’t find it.”
“It’s behind the kimchi,” Mom says.
Which one?There are more jars than shelf space. After playing Tetris with the jars, I finally find the container of chopped garlic. She instructs me to put a healthy amount into the vat, and she continues mixing it together.
“I didn’t realize there were so many different kinds of kimchi,” I say, putting the jar back in the fridge.
“There are over a hundred types,” she says, popping a piece of cabbage covered in kimchi paste in my mouth.
