What am I doing here?
What amIdoing here?
WhatamI doing here?
“I—” I start, then I remember, and before I can think better of it, words fall from my lips. “Do you want to help me pick out paint?”
“Paint?” The confusion on her face deepens, leaking into her voice now.
“For my guest room. And maybe a couple of others, so I don’t have to bug you next time.”
“You want me to help you pick out paint colors for your house?”
“You said you liked to watch those shows, and while I don’t need my place to look like it was from one of those shows or amagazine or anything, I would like it to be…nice. And I went to the store to buy paint today, and did you know there are a billion colors of blue?” Her lips tip at the edges, her arms cross over her chest, and once again, I fight everything in me to stay looking straight ahead.
Eyes up, Sinclaire. Be a gentleman. Be a goddamnhuman.
“I did,” she says.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t, so imagine my surprise when I tried to find one, but there’s at least a thousand just for light blue, and they all kind of looked the same to me, so I wasn’t sure what I should go with. I don’t really want to repaint it if I don’t have to, and you said you saw those shows, so I thought maybe…” My words trail off, and I look at her face. That’s when I realize that she’s entertained by this. By me.
This was a terrible idea.
“This was stupid,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m an adult. I can pick out paint colors–”
“No, no!” she says as I step back, arms uncrossing and one reaching out to grab my forearm, bare beneath a T-shirt I threw on this morning. Her touch is warm and soft, something new I desperately have to fight not to catalogue for later. “Don’t go. I would love to help you.” My eyes move from where she’s touching me to her eyes, brown again, something that, for some reason, brings me a spark of joy.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m bored. Nat’s working, and Hallie and Jesse are packing to head to Seaside Point for the week. Adam and Wren are going away, and I’m kind of…” She shakes her head. “I have nothing to do.”
“Will you help me pick it out?” She nods.
“Under one condition,” she says, and I sigh. I should have known there would be a catch. “You have to let me help you paint.”
“So we just dump the paint in here and start going at it?” she asks, staring at the can, then the tray on the floor at her feet, and I can’t help but smile.
We spent an hour at the hardware store, picking up three gallons of paint and more supplies than I probably needed, but watching Willa in the store was so thoroughly entertaining that I couldn’t resist adding the things she pointed out.
“They used this for edging on one show!” she said, showing a foam edger that Iknowmy dad would absolutely have said was a piece of overpriced bullshit that no one actually needs.
I added it to the cart.
“Did you see this?” she asked excitedly. “It starts out pink, then turns white when it’s dry! How smart is that?” I had enough spackle and had patched most of the holes already, but I instantly tried to think of where in the house she could try it out. I added the biggest tub and a palette knife to the cart.
“For keeping your feet clean! It’s like you’re a surgeon!” she said, showing me the little booties that go over your shoes. I’d laughed and thrown them in, for some reason eager to see her in the ugly things.
It took three trips to bring all of the new gadgets and tools into the house and twenty minutes to settle in, and now we’re in the guest room I had already primed, ready to fulfill her apparent life-long dream of painting a room.
“Basically,” I say, grabbing a paint key and gently opening it before reaching for a stirring stick.
“Oh my god, can I do that?” she asks, wide eyes on the wooden stick in my hand.
“Sure.” I hand it off, feeling that familiar fire when her fingers graze mine as she grabs it. I watch with fascination as she looks over the stick before dipping it into the can. Too quickly, she stirs the paint, a wave cresting the edge and dripping down the side in a moment.
“Oh, shit!” she says, letting go of the stick, then staring wide-eyed at the drip. I shake my head, reach for a rag, and wipe the side clean.
“You’ve gotta go slower,” I instruct, taking her hand in mine and moving it to the stick, showing her how to hold it. “Like this.” Then I slowly stir the goo into the can. “Scrape the bottom and keep going until it’s totally mixed.”
