“Why are you yelling?” she groans and starts to roll over but somehow fails and falls back into the pillow.
I look around the room. This is clearly her parents’ bedroom and I don’t think she slept here so much as passed out here. She’s still wearing one slipper and there’s an empty chip bag on the floor and some paper. I grab the crap off the floor. “Winnie, you have to get up. I’ll go make some coffee for you. And you’ll probably want to grab a shower before everyone gets here. I’m going to have to turn off the water.”
She starts to roll over again. Her stomach is exposed stomach and I find myself running my tongue slowly across my lips. I feel my jeans start to get tighter and I know if I stay in the small room with her, which is taken up mostly by a bed, things will only get worse. So, I turn and leave the room, carrying her garbage to the kitchen. I’m flipping open the lid on the trash can when I hear her yell out my name in a voice choked with panic.
“Holden!”
It sounds like there is a herd of elephants coming at me and suddenly she’s banging into me and grabbing the crap in my hands. The look on her face is pure hysteria. The chip bag and Kleenex flutters to the floor and she’s standing there clutching the paper in her hands. “You almost threw it out!”
“Threw what out?” I ask because I can’t tell what she’s holding.
“Don’t touch anything, okay?” she says her voice shaky but also furious. And I glance down at the paper in her hands, which are shaking. I can only make out four words in neatly printed penmanship—My sweet Winona Skye. It’s a letter from someone. I’m guessing her dad or her ex.
“Not a thing,” she says hotly. “If you want to throw anything out, ask me first. I can’t believe you almost threw it out!”
She turns and storms from the room. I follow behind, confused as fuck. “Threw what out? Jesus, Winnie, talk to me.”
“Why?” she snaps back. “We’ve been doing just fine ignoring each other. Besides, I said everything you need to know. Do not throw anything out without asking me.”
She’s stomping up the stairs now and I can do nothing but stand at the bottom, rigid with frustration. This woman is making no sense and I don’t have the time or energy for this ridiculousness. “You can make your own damn coffee!”
“I don’t want coffee,” she calls back and then she’s stomping down the stairs, wrapped in a robe, holding a towel. She barges past me. “Now can you go wait somewhere else until I am done?”
“I’ll be on the porch,” I bark back.
Fifteen minutes later, my crew is pulling to the curb in their trucks and as I lead them into the house, I can hear her thumping around upstairs. Good, she’s out of the way.
We go about demoing for a good three hours and I don’t even try to be quiet. I fully expect her to leave the house to get away from the noise and dust so I’m not surprised, as we take a quick break and the guys head outside for a smoke, when I see her come downstairs. I can’t help but notice she’s not limping anymore, which is good.
I’m standing next to where the wall used to be between the kitchen and dining room. She stops and surveys the pile of drywall on the ground. Her eyes move from the pile to me. “Is there some bylaw that handymen don’t wear shirts in this state?”
I glance down at my bare chest. “Have you ever busted down drywall? You work up a sweat.”
“I haven’t,” she says, walking past me and into the bathroom. She leaves the door ajar and I watch her open the medicine cabinet and pull out a bottle of Advil. “But you know Jude sweats a lot during hockey and he wears a special shirt. Dri-Fit or dry weave or something. You should look into that.”
She palms two Advils.
I point to the drywall debris and try to ignore the fact that she has an aversion to seeing me shirtless and that it makes me a little disappointed. “You should really try breaking up some drywall. It’s great for anger management and you seem like you could use some.”
“I’m not angry.” She argues and downs the pills without water and then puts the bottle back in the medicine cabinet.
“That’s coming down later today too,” I say, nodding toward the medicine cabinet and I’m greeted with a slightly softer look of panic that I got earlier.
“Do not throw this out,” she says, pointing to the medicine cabinet. “My dad made it himself. He gave it to my mom when they first got married.”
“Okay,” I say. “I will make sure we keep it safe and sound. Now you want to tell me what was on that paper that I was going to throw out?”
“No.” She steps out of the bathroom as the guys come back in from their smoke break.
I pick up a chunk of drywall and hold it out as if to show her. “I’m going to toss this in the construction bin Mike hauled here this morning. Is that okay?”
She scrunches up her eyebrows and looks at me like I’m nuts. “Yeah.”
Mike bends to grab another piece but as he tries to walk toward the door, I stop him. My eyes find her again. “Is it okay if he throws that piece out?”
“Yes,” she snaps. Her hazel eyes are dancing with irritation, and she puts her hands on her hips. “What are you doing?”
“You said I had to check with you before removing anything,” I remind her.
