Page 50 of Untroubled Heart

“Mason, this is going to be beautiful.”

“Mmm,” he says absently, making me look up, only to find his eyes on me. He clears his throat. “It’s gonna take time and some hard work, so we better get started. The electrician and plumber have already done their inspections, and the structural report came through late Friday arvo. I’ve got support beams being delivered during the week, so we can frame up the load-bearing walls before we take anything out. Today, we’re going to get started on stripping the tiles and cabinetry in the bathroom and kitchen.”

“Straight to the good stuff. I like it.”

“Yep.” He nods, moving around the table to pick up a shopping bag. “But safety first.”

He pulls out some safety glasses and gloves, a dark pink, long-sleeved shirt with reflective silver bands along the sleeves and chest, a pair of navy blue shorts, and tan-coloured sneakers with pastel pink laces and a strip of darker pink along the heel. “I grabbed a few sizes cos I wasn’t too sure.” He holds up the shorts first, then grabs the gloves. They’re attached to a clip, which he then fastens to a hook on one side of the shorts. There are pockets on every side, functioning pockets for once. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve put my hand in a pair of new jeans to find the pockets are fake. Why are we doing this? In what world does a woman not need a pocket? I pick up one of the shoes, yelping when I find it unexpectedly heavy.

“Those are steel-capped. I have other sizes in my car if you need, but I think these are right.” He pulls a pair of black socks from the bag, handing those to me next.

“I would have got all this over the weekend had I thought properly about it.” I chuckle. Obviously, I would have needed some form of protective gear on a work site. “Thank you so much for going to all this trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” He helps me put everything back into the bag. “You can get changed in the bathroom upstairs, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Once I’m changed and back downstairs, I find Mason fiddling with a wireless speaker.

“They fit,” Mason says, beaming, as he sets the speaker on the fireplace mantle, music softly spilling out. Two drinks also sit on the mantle: an iced chocolate and a strawberry matcha.

“They do.” I glance at Mason’s shirt. He’s changed into a long-sleeved neon yellow with dark blue along the bottom.

“Time to show me what you’ve got.”

For the next few hours, Mason shows me how to unscrew all the doors of the kitchen cabinetry, then we use crowbars to gently pry away the frames.

The time passes easily as we fall into a comfortable rhythm, working around each other.

I learn that not only do I love working with my hands and watching transformation bloom from my fingertips, but also, Mason has a really nice singing voice, whether he’s singing a sweet melody to himself or belting out a rock ballad and using various tools as a microphone. When one song comes on, he laughs telling me a story of how he and his grandpa always argue over the meaning of one song; his grandpa insists it’s about confidence and being the cream of the crop, while Mason’s certain it means a different kind of cream.

Another song comes on that always makes his stomach clench because it was playing in the hospital waiting room when his brother was in a car accident years ago. He changes the station when I tell him I hate a particular song because it’s one my mother would play on repeat whenever my dad decided to show up at home, one that describes everything clearly now that the rain has gone, and it always makes me sad that she doesn’t see her own sunshine.

By the time we finish one wall of cabinetry, my hands are aching, my boobs are about to spring a leak, and my stomach is grumbling, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

“Perfect time for a break,” Mason says when his phone pings with a notification. We leave our tools in the kitchen, and I follow him to the front porch just as a delivery van pulls up.

“For Mason?” a young guy calls as he steps out of the car.

“That’s me.” Mason goes to greet him, accepts a paper takeout bag, then joins me back on the front porch.

“Can you grab those chairs, please?” He points his chin behind me, and I see two picnic chairs folded against the side of the house.

As I bring them over to the table, Mason lays out two rolls wrapped tightly in foil and a glass bottle of soda each. “You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

I shake my head warily. “No… no problems apart from the whole vegan thing.”

“Pfft, I know that. I was very strict with my instructions, and I looked up the drinks to double-check.”

He takes a seat, unwrapping what I can now see is a loaded burrito, but my feet are anchored to the dusty porch because he went out of his way to make sure I could eat something. He didn’t even need to get me lunch. I have an esky in the car with a sad little quinoa salad. When I make no move to sit down, he pauses, pushing my chair out further before he takes a big bite.

I accidentally brush my knee against his when I sit, and unwrap my food. It’s so full, I can hardly make out what’s inside, so I take one big bite, and an array of flavours explodes in my mouth. It’s fresh and tangy, crisp with a hint of sweet spice.

I groan as I finish my mouthful. “This is the greatest burrito ever.”

“Right? This place is one of my hidden gems, so don’t start telling everyone about it.”

I chuckle, wiping off a bit of sauce that’s dripped onto my lip. “Okay. What did you get?” I ask, looking over at him as I take another bite.

“Same as you.”