“Well, I hope you have a spare paintbrush,” she says, walking inside.
“I do, but you don’t have to do this.”
“Chance Miller, give me a brush and point me to the paint.”
I’ve already taped off the trim and prepared the rooms. I figured it might take all day, but with August helping, it will get done quicker.
“Are you sure?” I ask again. “I mean, you do look the part.” I might have a weakness for women who like to pick out outfits based on the chore at hand.
“These are my painting pants,” she says, smirking.
August’s dark hair is in a short ponytail at the base of her neck. It’s the first time I’ve seen her hair up. Her bangs are all over the place, and she has loose strands of hair hanging down over her ears. Everything about her is perfect, even when it’s messy, and I love it.
“I picked up your favorite scones, too,” she adds in.
“Are you going for sainthood?” I ask her.
Last night could have gone in a remarkably different direction if either of us had been a tad bit weaker. The heat was turned all the way up, but when I dropped August off at her apartment, she told me I was welcome to come upstairs, and I painfully told her it was our first real date, and the night needed to be just that.
I don’t know what her intentions were after inviting me inside. She may have just wanted some company so she wouldn’t have to be alone, but I didn’t trust myself to go upstairs and fight off the urge to claim more of her.
“When I moved into my apartment, years ago, I was eager to paint every room, decorate in themes, and make the place my own. It turns out not all apartments allow tenants to paint, so I had to opt for simple decorations instead.”
“What you’re saying is, you just need to paint something?”
“Exactly,” she says with that smile—the one that’s weakening me to the bone.
I pry open the first can of paint and pour some into a small container and the rest into a tray for the roller. “Which one do you want?”
“I can do the edging,” she says.
“All right then.”
While we layer coats of paint on the wall, August becomes quiet, and I can’t figure out if she’s lost in thought or concentrating on what she’s doing.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” I ask her.
She places her brush down on the side of the canister and dips her fingers into her back pockets. “I had two drinks last night so I could fall asleep,” she admits.
Two drinks aren’t a big deal, but it’s making me wonder where August’s issue lies. I don’t think a person can become addicted to alcohol in a matter of a couple of weeks, but I suppose someone could get addicted to the relief it offers. t I assumed drinking would be easy for her to give up, but after what she’s been through, the pain obviously runs too deep.
“Was that the only way you could get to sleep?” I ask her.
Now, I feel guilty for not joining her upstairs.
She shrugs. “It was the easiest way.”
“I thought you cleaned all the alcohol out of your apartment yesterday?”
“I might have kept a bottle,” she admits.
“How can I help you with this? I don’t want you to fall deeper into a hole that you can’t find your way out of.”
“I’m not sure. I just felt like I needed to be honest with you.”
I place the paint roller down on the tray and hold my arms out to August.
She looks ashamed and guilty. It’s heartbreaking. “It seems to me like you need to find a new way to break this habit of yours.”
