“I don’t… everything?” I gestured at the insanity of the house around us. “I plan on working through boxes… can you just get me an estimate of everything that needs to be fixed?”
The assessment that was supposed to happen yesterday never did. The flooding took priority.
“Surface value or more?”
“I need the house to pass an inspection, Maverick,” I said. “I need to be able to sell it.”
I had no doubt the property would sell. I just didn’t want to jump through hoops to do it. It was smarter to fix up the house first than to try to sell it as is. Truthfully, I didn’t know how much damage my mother had done to the house—something I needed to figure out, no matter how much I didn’twantto know.
“All right,” he replied. “I might have to move boxes around. Is that all right?”
“You can throw them out for all I fucking care.” So far, the only valuable things I’d found had been damaged by the flooding in the basement. I had no intention of repurposing or reselling everything. Whatever got it out of the house the fastest took priority.
“Whatever you want,” Maverick said.
That was a tall order to fill, considering the circumstances, but I kept my mouth shut. Some things didn’t need to be shared with him.Most things, in fact.
About an hour after Maverick arrived, Dave showed up, and the dumpster was delivered. We worked for hours and straight into the early afternoon. I dragged out box after box until I was covered in sweat and my muscles screamed at me for a break. Only after Dave gave me a full estimate on repairs needed—thankfully, it wasn’t a huge issue—and Maverick left for lunch, did I stop.
I collapsed on the front steps, sagging against the rail with a heavy sigh. Progress was progress, but fuck. I’d spent hours lugging boxes all over the place, and it felt like I hadn’t made a dent. It left me frustrated and angry.
It didn’t help that Vivienne was blowing up my phone. I stopped reading after her fifth text. I just couldn’t do it. Her passive-aggressive nature over my absence was more than I could handle.
And God forbid if she found out I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring.I’d taken it off to keep it from getting damaged while working on the kitchen. I’d had every intention of putting it back on within a few hours, but then Maverick showed up. I couldn’t explain my marriage to him. I didn’t want to explain how miserable I was to him—not when he seemed so at peace with the world. It was easier to hide that part of my life than put it on display for him to pick apart and judge.
When his truck pulled back into my drive and he hopped out, I sat up and tried not to look so pathetically worn out. However, his expression told me that he wasn’t buying it. I watched as he put on his tool belt and grabbed a bag from the front seat.
“When was the last time you ate?” Maverick asked as he walked toward me.
“Does coffee count?” I replied. Admittedly, I wasn’t the best at taking care of myself overall. Continuous anxiety made my stomach nauseous or cramp. Food hadn’t been my friend in a long time. I lived on over-the-counter stomach medicine, throwing it back like shots, just to survive.
“My sponsor says it doesn’t,” he said. My gaze flicked in his direction at the mention of a sponsor. He added, “A.A.”
So he was sober.Good for him.
“Here.” Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a sandwich and handed it to me. The irony of the moment wasn’t lost on me. It seemed like forever ago that I’d been trying to feed him. “Eat.”
“I’m not taking your lunch,” I replied and tried to hand it back to him.
“And that’s why I have two.” He produced another sandwich and sat down with me. He put a considerable amount of distance between us—I wasn’t sure if that was for his sake or mine. I just stared at him while he got comfortable with his legs stretched out. He looked so damn relaxed.I envied it.I had no idea how to be that relaxed.
He unwrapped his sandwich, and I followed suit, taking out the simple turkey and cheese sandwich. I picked at it while his gaze sat heavy on me. The scrutiny only made my heart pound harder.
“You know,” Maverick began quietly, and I welcomed the distraction of his voice, “it might just be smarter to tear the house down and start over.”
“Yeah, probably,” I muttered.
“But you’re not going to, are you?”
“No.”Not a chance.
“What are you clinging to, Harley?”
“I don’t…”I didn’t have an answer for that. I didn’t know how to explain all the conflicting feelings I had about this place, or why I was so driven to fix it. “I just don’t want to tear it down, okay?”
“That’s fine,” he said, his tone casual. “It’s your house.”
We fell into a silence thick with discomfort and awkwardness. Or maybe it was just me. Maybe only I felt uncomfortable by this thing brewing between us.
