Like,ofcourse, he wants to talk now.
Afterthings shattered into a million pieces.
I get that everyone does things in their own time, but this is our marriage! Why wait so long to fight for it? And now, I’m just supposed to just go along with everything? Pretend it doesn’t feel like manipulation?
Even the day he stormed into Hunter’s apartment, I allowed the lines to blur yet again. It’s like there’s never any middle ground. We’re either fucking or we’re fighting.
I lower the roller when my heart begins to race. I’m not even that mad at him anymore. Mostly, I’m just terrified that the only way to be together is to accept that we’ll always be dysfunctional.
And I can’t live like that.
Iwon’tlive like that.
Not again.
“Want some company?”
“Shit!” My paint roller clatters to the floor as I whirl around.
It takes a few seconds to realize I’mnotabout to be hacked into a thousand pieces by a serial killer. It’s only Seth.
“Sorry,” he grins, holding back a laugh. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I can’t even answer as I clutch my chest, trying not to have a heart attack.
He steps into the room, and I turn down the speaker, realizing it was probably dumb to be working alone at night with it playing so loudly.
“Burning the midnight oil?” He laughs when I arch a brow. “That’s something my dad used to say. I honestly don’t even understand the reference.”
I laugh and it lightens the mood. “Well, I amindeedburning the midnight oil. Thought I’d make myself useful. What’re you doing here so late?”
He hooks his thumbs through the beltloops of his jeans. “Just came to grab a few tools. I’m remodeling my first-floor bathroom, but it looks like you could use some help.”
I grab the roller from the floor and dip it in the paint pan, breaking eye contact when I remember our last interaction. The last thing I want is for him to misread my body language, thinking it’s okay to cross that professional boundary again.
“Actually, I’m just going to slap on the first coat to give the guys a headstart. Shouldn’t take me too long.”
“Yeah, but with both of us working at it, we’ll get done twice as fast, right?”
He doesn’t wait for my response before unbuttoning his plaid shirt. He drapes it across the back of a chair near the door, opting to work in a t-shirt instead.
“Got another roller?”
I don’t answer right away, studying him to make sure he’s not up to something.
“Over there,” I say, pointing at the bags from the hardware store sitting on the windowsill.
“Sweet.”
He gets started and it’s a little too quiet for me, so I turn the music back on. Only, not quite as loud this time. We get through a few songs before he speaks again.
“You’re pretty good at this. Done a lot of painting?”
I cycle through childhood memories, recalling the five or six times I had to patch holes my father punched in the drywall. I got pretty good at spackling and painting to make things look like new. It’s too personal to share, so I give the simple answer instead.
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“Painting was actually my first job. I started a small operation when I was in high school. I made enough over the summer to buy my first car.”
