I rip the letter into shreds and throw it in the trash. Going forward, I need to go through the mail before Gran does. No matter what.
I pass Carter throughout the day, but we barely speak to one another. He’s respecting my job, which I appreciate more than he realizes.
Once I’m off the clock, I stare at the seashell wallpaper in the second-floor hallway that’s mocked me since I returned. It’s peeling at every corner, yellowed from decades of humidity. It’s dated, and I’ve been meaning to strip it for two weeks, but there’s always something else that takes precedence.
Tonight, my brain won’t quiet down, so I eat a microwave meal, then grab the steamer from the supply closet. I haul it upstairs with a scraper and a trash bag.
The hallway has four doors on one side and three on the other. At the end, there is a shared balcony with loungers.
I plug the steamer into the wall and wait for it to heat while I test a corner with the scraper. The wallpaper is stubborn and comes off in small strips that curl and tear. Glue residue stays on the plaster, which is more than what I bargained for. I push the steamer against the wall until the adhesive softens, then scrape downward in long strokes. The paste coats my forearms and gets under my nails.
I’m two panels in and sweating when footsteps come down from the third floor. Carter rounds the landing in a T-shirt and shorts, barefoot, and stops when he sees me surrounded by strips of wallpaper and a trash bag half full of scraps.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“What does it look like?”
“Like you’re renovating at ten o’clock at night.”
“Bravo.” I push the steamer against the next section.
He stands there for a second, then grabs the second scraper that’s off to the side. It’s not as wide, so it takes twice as long.
“I’ve got this,” I say without looking at him.
He doesn’t answer. He picks a panel on the opposite wall and gets to work. The first strip tears like confetti because he’s pulling instead of pushing with the tool.
“Hold the steamer flat for thirty seconds, then push the scraper at an angle. Not straight on.” I demonstrate on my side, and a long strip peels away clean. “Like this.”
He adjusts and tries again. The next strip comes off in one piece, and he holds it up like he just caught a large bass.
“Don’t look at me for approval. Put it in the bag and do it again.”
Carter laughs. “You’re so bossy.”
“You don’t mind it,” I say.
“I don’t.”
We work together as the steamer hisses between us.
“Thanks for helping. I told myself I wasn’t going to sleep until this was done. I might get more than four hours tonight.”
He grins over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
We fall back into a rhythm. He figures out the angle and pressure on his own. His side is rougher than mine, but the wallpaper is coming off, and that’s all that matters. I can clean it up before painting.
“Can I ask you something?” I pull a long strip from the wall.
“Sure.”
“Do you work for Coastal Heritage Holdings?” I keep my eyes on the plaster.
“No.”
“That’s the answer someone who’s spying for them would say.”
He laughs. “I promise.”
