I still don’t know what that means.
But I handed her a roller anyway.
She’s wearing one of my flannels. Sleeves shoved up. Hem hitting mid-thigh over cutoffs. There’s a streak of paint across her cheek she might not know about, and another near her collarbone she definitely doesn’t.
Music’s playing from her phone. Some indie folk thing with too many feelings and not enough drums. Windows are open. Pine air is pushing through the room.
She steps back, turning slowly in the middle of the floor, assessing a battlefield.
“Okay,” she says. “If this place were a person, who would it be?”
I don’t look up from the trim. “A bar?”
She gasps. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m efficient.”
She points her roller at me. “Personality.”
I consider it. “Arlo.”
Her face lights up. “Oh shit, yes.”
“Grumpy. Observant. Pretends not to care.”
“Secretly sentimental,” she adds.
“Debatable.”
She narrows her eyes. “You don’t think Arlo is sentimental?”
“I think he tolerates us.”
She laughs again and steps closer to the wall I just finished.
“You’re wrong,” she says. “He’s absolutely sentimental. He just disguises it with sarcasm and whiskey.”
“That’s called coping.”
She grins. “That’s called layered.”
I step back and study the line where the old wood meets the new paint.
“Layered sounds expensive.”
“Growth usually is.”
I glance at her.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
She wipes sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a faint smear of paint in its place.
“I like making things better,” she says.
“You think it was bad before?”
She tilts her head. “No. Just… guarded.”
