“Oh. That makes sense,” she says, her voice a bit off as I let go and step away, needing the distance. We both watch the paint turn a uniform light blue before I tell her it’s good, pour a generous amount into the tray, and hand her a roller.
“Go to town,” I say.
“I am so excited!” she says in a squeal, and I shake my head.
Who the hell is excited aboutpainting?
Willa Stone, it seems.
“God, you’re bad at this,” I say with a laugh after a few moments, watching as Willa puts way too much paint on the roller then slaps it on the wall, paint splattering as she does. There’s so much paint on it that it starts to drip before she can start moving, and as she does, she barely covers a three-foot section.
“It’s my first time! I’m a virgin!” she says, then blushes at her choice of words. “I mean?—”
“Like this,” I say, unwilling to think about Willa being a virgin or anything related to that. Instead, I take the roller from her hands, being careful not to bruise her hands with mine. I remove some of the paint by spreading it on the tray, then make long, sure strokes on the wall. With a practiced ease, somethingthat came back quicker than I expected, I move the roller up, then down again cleanly, getting close but not touching the trim or the ceiling. When I hand the roller back to Willa, her eyes are wide. “You try.” She takes it, then slowly copies my moves, dipping the roller, then rolling it off on the tray. I give her a few tips as she moves, and she does a decent job on her second attempt.
“How do you know all of this stuff? You don’t even watch the shows,” she says as if that’s the main place to find out that information. “And you’re…Leo.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask with a laugh and a skeptical look in her direction as I start to unwrap a paintbrush to do the edging.
“It means you’re designer suits and expensive Italian loafers, not work boots and jeans, and knowing how to refinish cabinets.”
I shrug a shoulder,
“In Holly Ridge I am,” I say, then look over her. “Just like how in Holly Ridge, you let go of those crazy ponytails and your contacts.”
A blush moves down her chest, and I watch it creep along her skin, endeared by it before I force myself to look away. I need to stop it, put the professional wall back between us, and most importantly, remember it exists.
I need to remember it exists and why.
“My dad was a contractor,” I explain as I dip the brush into the paint and move to the corner where the roller won’t reach. “He built a business with his brother and did everything. Carpentry was his specialty, but he knew how to do it all. I worked for him during summers, so I also kind of learned to do it all.” There’s silence as I work, the blue spreading over the walls smoothly. When I go to dip my paintbrush again, I finally look at her to find she’s staring at me, taking me in as if seeing me for the first time.
“I never would have thought that.”
“I don’t really talk about it.”
“And your dad. Does he still have the business?”
An ache forms in my chest, though this time it doesn’t make me want to call the hospital. This time, it’s an all-too-familiar grief. I shake my head, eyes averted back to the wall as I spread the paint.
“The business still exists. My uncle and cousins run it. My dad…” My mouth goes dry, and I realize I haven’t really talked about this to anyone but doctors and my therapist. But for some reason, I continue spreading the paint. “My dad had a heart attack when I was twenty. He didn’t make it.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she says, eyes wide, her hand pausing as she rolls the paint off on the tray. “Leo?—”
“It’s fine, really. No need to apologize.” Her eyes go wider. “Not like in an ‘I’m glad my dad’s dead’ way, but in an ‘it happened a long time ago’ way.” She blinks as if that doesn’t make it better, and I guess, she’s right: it doesn’t. “I’m okay. Really.” A moment passes, a long one, before she speaks, and when she does, she seems to shock herself.
“I haven’t spoken to my mom in nine months,” she says. I blink at her.
“What?”
“Well, that’s not true. We’ve talked about getting her tickets to my concert, to the auction she’s hosting, and to a signed guitar. And we texted to confirm that I was going to her gala in October. And she insisted she talk to me when I turned down that TV docuseries.”
I roll my lips, remembering that. It was probably five or six months ago when Jackie called to ask for my opinion on a docuseries Catherine Stone had been approached to work on about the early life of Willa. Catherine was very excited, saying it would be a great opportunity for Willa, but it was clearlysomething to get herself some exposure, and, I’m sure, some money, even though she doesn’t need more.
The woman could live off her earnings from Willa’s childhood career for the rest of her life and still leave a healthy trust to donate to some museum that would put her name on a plaque, forever immortalizing her.
When she called, I told Jackie it felt cheap and wouldn’t benefit Willa’s current career in any way. It felt like the kind of choice someone who is fading away would make, not someone at the top of their career. Sure, her diehard fans would eat it up, but they’d eat it up in ten, fifteen, or twenty years just as much. To my surprise, Jackie agreed, and I didn’t hear about it again, but it doesn’t surprise me that Catherine wanted to try to convince Willa personally. Even Jackie complains about that woman and her ill intentions toward her daughter.
“She only ever wants to talk about my career or how it can help her,” she murmurs, eyes locked on the wall as she spreads more paint across it.
