“You’re learning. Try again. Slower this time, and keep steady pressure.”
I attempt it again. This time, I overcorrect, and barely anything comes out.
“Here,” Wyatt says, stepping behind me. “Like this.”
He puts his hands over mine on the caulk gun, guiding my movements. His chest is pressed against my back, and I can feel the warmth of him and smell a combination of cologne, coffee, and some other scent that is just Wyatt.
“Steady pressure,” he murmurs, his voice close to my ear. “Move at a consistent speed. There you go. You’ve got it.”
The caulk comes out in a perfect bead this time, smooth and even.
But I’m not paying a bit of attention to the caulk, because I’m acutely aware of every point at which his body is touching mine. His hands over mine, his breath on my neck, the solid presence of him behind me. This is very, very bad.
“See?” he says. “You’re a natural.”
He steps back, and I feel the loss immediately. I clear my throat, trying to focus on the window instead of the way my heart is racing.
“Okay. I can do this.”
“I know you can.”
We work side by side for the next hour, caulking windows. I do get better as I go, though I still make a mess more often than not. At one point, I get caulk in my hair, and Wyatt has to help me get it out with a rag and mineral spirits.
“How did you even do that?” he asks, carefully working caulk out of a strand of my hair. “The window is three feet away from your head.”
“I guess I’m just really unique.”
“Well, that’s one word for it.”
He’s smiling, and his fingers are gentle in my hair, and I think maybe unique isn’t the worst thing someone could call me.
By noon, we’ve made real progress. The windows are done. The storage area is looking more organized, thanks to Presley’s expertise. And a group of people I don’t even know are cleaning the kitchen, which didn’t really need to be done, but I’m thankful for it nonetheless.
Someone shouts that lunch is ready, and we all migrate outside, where a spread of food has materialized on folding tables. Casseroles and fried chicken and potato salad and biscuits and sweet tea, and about seventeen different kinds of dessert.
“Is there a potluck rule in Copper Creek that I don’t know about?” I ask Dolly, taking in the abundance of food.
“Honey, in the South, we don’t do anything without food. It’s basically a law.”
I fill a plate and find a spot on the ground, sitting cross-legged in the grass like I haven’t done since I was a child. Wyatt settles beside me, close enough that our shoulders are touching.
“You did good today,” he says.
“I got caulk everywhere and almost fell off a chair trying to clean a top shelf.”
“Well, you tried. That’s what matters.”
Across the way, Boone is telling a story that has everyone laughing. Presley is sitting with two other women her age, animated and happy. Dolly is moving through the groups like a queen holding court, making sure everyone has enough food and drink, and whatever else they need. I guess she really is a server at heart.
And I’m sitting in the grass in my jeans that now have paint on them, eating potato salad with a plastic fork, surrounded by people I didn’t even know a month ago.
And I feel something I’m not sure I’ve ever felt before.
I feel like I belong.
For the first time in my life, I don’t care which side the fork is on. It’s plastic anyway, so my mother definitely wouldn’t approve.
“Can I ask you something?” a woman named Carol says, sitting down near us. I recognize her from the bar. She comes in on Fridays with her husband.
