Mitchell had sported a wiener by comparison. Even after all these years I can still remember our wedding night, although with no-one to compare him to, it hadn’t been obvious just how short-changed I’d been.
I should imagine Candy, his chairside assistant, and the woman who’d replaced me, was ever so disappointed. There’s nothing I can do to swallow my smug grin at the thought of what their first time together must have been like.
Her perky blondeness had rubbed salt into the divorce’s wound when I’d first heard about her, so I sincerely hope she was disappointed. With my mind clouded with thoughts of the pair, it takes a second to get my bearings when I finally stand.
Tyler looks to be in pain. Surely, I didn’t hurt him, courtesy of my ungainly efforts to stand? And yet there’s no missing his grimace as he struggles to get to his feet. On second thoughts, a quick peek at his crotch and I can see he’s not having trouble standing at all.
This again puts Tyler in stark contrast to ‘Sir Mitchell the Slow to Rise’, as I referred to my husband when in the bedroom. Although never to his face.
Eventually, Tyler straightens, having me even more conscious of his height and broad shoulders. Next to him, I feel positively petite.
I know it’s petty, but comparing Mitchell to Tyler is a balm to my being cast aside because I wasn’t able to bear children. As with a lot of other things in our marriage, this too had been my fault.
I’d never had the nerve to ask him to be tested, as he’d insisted I was. Years of his sniping, both at home and at work, had left me too worn down to force the issue.
Now that I’m free of the marriage, my relief is palpable. Strange, but on looking back, I no longer find Mitchell as attractive as I once did.
It’s only when Tyler says, “Excuse me?” that I realize I must have been talking to myself again. It was a habit that drove Mitchell up the wall, especially when I was wearing a mask and he didn’t have a hope of lip-reading my sotto voce commentary.
Although if I think back on some of my spoken thoughts, this was probably for the best.
“Oh, oh, I’m sorry.” As I look Tyler over, I don’t bother repeating my mumbled thoughts, instead asking, “Are you okay?”
His brow wrinkles before he can answer. “Am I okay? What about you? Sorry if I hurt you. I blame the fallen angel.”
In answer to my confusion, he bends over and wrenches something free of the undergrowth. Only on him holding it aloft do I see it is indeed a small statue of an angel, with wings folded and hands clasped in prayer.
There’s no sign the small garden ornament ever sported a halo, a bit like the guy holding it. He props it against the side of the house, and we continue on our way. I’m keen to get his opinion of the place rather than simply the hole by the front door. My initial impression of my new flip is that with the right care, it can truly shine.
The only thing I’m unsure of is the logistics of saving it. The closest I’ve been to wet rot was falling through the floor earlier. As I walk up the back steps, I’m all too conscious of Tyler right behind me. And when he clears his throat, it’s all I can do not to spin around and look at him accusingly.
On him following me into the kitchen, there’s nothing to show he’s disgusted by how broad I am across the beam. If it had been Mitchell, I’d have heard all about my not being the woman he’d wed.
Meanwhile, Tyler’s expression is closed, although my gut tells me this is to protect him, rather than my feelings.
Unsure what to make of it, I decide it’s better for both of us if we instead concentrate on the house. As happens in so many of those home makeover shows, I state the obvious. “This is the kitchen.”
Rather than look at me as if I’m an idiot, Tyler smiles broadly. “Yeah, the appliances rather gave it away.” He then turns on the spot, taking everything in, before asserting, “We’re probably looking at a complete gut job.”
Even with my having zero experience flipping houses, I can see there’s nothing salvageable, which is a shame. I quite like the olde-worlde look of the cabinets.
“Would it be possible to replace the cabinets with like-for-like rather than having glossy white ones?”
Now it’s Tyler’s turn to examine me, although I’m unsure what about, or even if he concludes what’s obviously puzzling him? “Kinda. Those are solid wood, so if you like them, then we might bring them back to life.”
As I peer at the battered woodwork and paint-clogged hardware, I’m unable to stop myself from muttering, “Without resorting to black magic?”
Unlike Mitchell, Tyler catches my words, his laughter booming and full of joy. Soon, I’m smiling as broadly as he is, feeling happier than I have in months.
Here at last was a project even a novice like myself could undertake. What did they call it on those flipping shows? That’s right, sweat-equity.
It’s when Tyler slides past me to walk into a miniscule dining nook off the kitchen that I decide stripping paint isn’t the only way I’d like to get sweaty. It’s a thought I bury, wanting to save it for the middle of the night when I can’t sleep.
There’s also me not having a chance with a man like Tyler Vance. Nor do I want to risk yet more heartache. Not when I’m only now getting over the bitter divorce.
Heck, it’s fresh enough Mitchell still has to buy me out of the loft apartment he’d apparently loved more than me. He’d been furious when my lawyer negotiated a sixty-forty split in my favor, saying his higher income meant he’d paid for almost all our living expenses.
The look on the judge’s face when I’d explained I’d been the one to put up most of the money for the place had been priceless. I’d owed it to my late parents to fight for my share.
