Fix It Up

by Jessica Gadziala

  God, how low my expectations for interactions with him had sunk.

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't wear the goddamned flip-flops to the site again."

  Oh, the bastard.

  The problem was, in this one case - just this one - he wasn't exactly wrong. I shouldn't have worn flip-flops. But I also wasn't supposed to be at the site. Except I had gotten a text from the landscaper who I had gotten close with, telling me about the floor situation. So I had rushed over from a day at the water park with my sister and her kids to confront him.

  With my hot pink bathing suit peeking through my white tee, my hair a mess, and flip-flops on my feet.

  It was somewhat his fault, if you thought about it. But I did know better. So it was my fault too.

  With nothing else to do, I raised my chin, curled my fists, turned, and walked away.

  By the next afternoon, I had completely forgotten about the woman in the aisle of Home Depot, and the card in my purse.

  She hadn't, as it turned out, forgotten about me though.

  TWO

  Brinley

  "Brin, we talked about the glitter."

  That was Brent 'The Bear' Lawson, my roommate. Well, could I really call him my roommate when I was living in his house? I didn't know the semantics for such a situation. I did pay rent. And though we had gone a few rounds about it, he eventually agreed to let me pay half the utilities too.

  Brent had been my next-door-neighbor growing up, the little - though, really, he had never been little - boy who I built mud pies with, rode bikes with, told ghost stories with in the woods behind our houses. As we grew up, everyone had been so sure we would transition from buddies to more, convinced there was no way we spent so much time together simply because we enjoyed each other's company.

  We'd had the same reaction to those comments too.

  Ew.

  Double ew.

  Brent was like a brother to me. It never even clicked to think of him as anything else. Not even in high school when he towered over everyone, was the kind of solid that made girls swoon. He'd joined up on the football team, getting a letterman's jacket that further cemented the cheerleaders' need to throw themselves at him.

  But I could never get the image of him once eating a worm on a dare out of my head long enough to see him as anything other than my old friend.

  Out of high school, he got a full ride to college on a football scholarship. Where he picked up the nickname 'The Bear,' which was absolutely fitting.

  Everything had seemed on track for him too, being the best linebacker in a decade, whispers of pro ball in his future. Until he blew out his knee in his sophomore year. They'd hoped he would come back. He threw all his free time into physical therapy. But in the end, there was no way he could continue the career.

  Unable to pay for college without the scholarship, he'd dropped out. Then quickly found his footing, got some training, and became a corrections officer.

  Stories like his never ceased to send a huge surge of insecurity - and maybe inferiority - through me. Stories like his and half our old classmates, and my own siblings. All these people doing so well in life, who found their niche, who had new cars, who were buying houses and settling down.

  Meanwhile, here I was, still struggling.

  No matter how hard I worked - twice the hours that Brent did, or my siblings did. And I could just barely pay my bills. I had a budget - literally, a giant board I kept in my room to nitpick over every small purchase - and I stuck to it. But to no avail.

  The economy just wasn't good enough for your average joes to get an interior designer. And if your average joes weren't buying it, then your business was hurting. There weren't as many wealthy potential clients to go around. The ones that were looking for designers generally already knew of some big names, had a friend who used someone, got a recommendation off of Google.

  I was a small fish in a very big tank.

  Full of sharks.

  Alright, maybe that was dramatic.

  But it was how it felt at times.

  Like no matter what I did, how hard I tried, I never got anywhere because there were people out there bigger than me, more visible than me.

  It was a thought that made me want to take to my bed sometimes.

  Except, to take to my bed meant in Brent's spare room.

  I was getting too old to have a roommate.

  I needed to get a life going for myself.

  Which was what had me up late the night before working on a project on the dining room table.

  I'd cleaned up, of course, knowing Brent would likely sit there with his coffee and paper in the morning before work.

  I guess I hadn't cleaned up enough, though.

  "Sorry, Brent. Just let me grab a roller," I told him, rummaging in my closet for a dog hair roller I had for just this reason. Because Brent hated glitter. I mean the man loathed it. So much so that when I worked with it, he stayed a full two rooms away, convinced it would get on him, and then he'd be picking it off for a week.

  He wasn't exactly wrong, either. I often found glitter in the oddest of places - stuck in my eyebrow, under my arms, stabbed under my toenails. It got everywhere. Then put down roots like it never wanted to leave, like it wanted to meet a nice glitter partner and make glitter babies all over you.

  "Heard you turn in at almost two," he commented as I rushed past to roll the table and chairs as he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, sipping his coffee out of a mug that was meant as a gag gift it was so huge, but almost looked normal-sized in his giant paw.

  "Yeah, it was a late night."

  "Then you got up at six," he went on, and I could feel his dark eyes watching me as he said it too. I knew what those eyes would say, too, if I looked. That he thought I was pushing it too hard. That he was worried about me.

  "I take a nap some afternoons," I insisted.

  "You pass out while sketching on the couch," he corrected. And I had no argument to make to that, since it was true. "You're running on four hours of sleep, and too much coffee. You're gonna crash, Brinny. And for what?"

  "For stability," I told him, going to the garbage to very carefully dispose of the sticky sheet, making sure I didn't drop any stray pieces of glitter around while I did so. "I just need to work for the right person with the right connections who can help me make a name for myself. Until then, I can survive on a few fewer hours of sleep. I have to."

  "Brinny, I told you that if you were struggling still, to stop paying half the bills. I didn't want you to pay them anyway. Even if you weren't here, I'd still be paying them. It's stupid."

  I didn't want handouts.

  But I couldn't say that to him.

  He would get that sad look in his eye like he was offended I would ever think that was what he was doing. But, well, it was. I finished school four years ago. I needed to be an adult who pays all her own bills.

  "If I weren't here, you'd be paying less in all the bills," I insisted.

  "What? For your five-minute showers? And the one light you use at night? Get real."

  "Brent, can we not do this today?" I asked, hearing a bit of desperation in my voice, and not really even caring. After all, this was the guy who I had sobbed on while wearing my prom dress because the guy I gave my V-card to was making out with some other chick behind the venue while I was looking frantically around for him. The guy who had held back my hair when I got sick off vodka crans at my first high school party. The guy who once showed up to the restaurant when I was on a date and got a surprise visitor with tampons, so I didn't have to tell the guy I was with that I had to leave to go buy some.

  He'd seen me at all of my inglorious moments.

  He could handle a little desperation.

  "Got another meeting with that asshole, huh?"

  That was what Brent called him. Not Warren. 'That asshole.'

  Can you see why I love Brent so much?

  "And he's pissed at me," I agreed, going for the coffee, wondering how many cups would
be too many cups. I'd already had four. And there was no way I was showing up to a meeting with him without another one to hold. Or throw in his face.

  "What for?"

  "For 'tattling' on him to the owners about the floor."

  "But they hated it."

  "Yep."

  "And they would have hated it on reveal day too."

  "Yep," I agreed again, taking what I hoped was a steadying breath. "He is irrational. Somehow, this is all my fault."

  "What's the meeting about today?"

  "The master bath."

  "Oh, man," Brent said, shaking his head.

  "Don't get me started," I agreed.

  We'd already gone a round about it the night before, him insisting that the walls be shiplap. Shiplap. Like we were on some TV show. Like it wasn't the most overdone trend in modern decoration. Like it wouldn't date the bathroom in a few short years.

  Ugh.

  Maybe Brent was right. Maybe I needed more sleep.

  I felt grumpy lately.

  And while, sure, I had an Italian mother, and I was all kinds of fiery, and quick-tempered like she could be, it always burned hot and bright for short periods of time, then was gone. This had been lasting. This almost felt like it was becoming a part of my personality.

  Which I couldn't have.

  And the blame, of course, I put squarely on some very broad shoulders holding up a very big head. Figuratively.

  We weren't even halfway done with dealing with each other, and I was just not myself lately. Frantic. Anxious. Insecure. It was really starting to mess with me.

  "Look, remember Carrie?" Brent asked, meaning one of the popular girls in school who had always hated me because I won an art contest over her once. In sixth grade.

  "How could I forget? She once told me that she had the number for a great plastic surgeon to fix my nose."

  "And you wondered aloud - in front of half the football team - if having his number explained how she went from an A to a D over one summer," he agreed.

  "What about her?"

  "Remember when Alissa transferred to the school, and everyone started fawning over her instead?" he asked, making me give him a nod. Carrie went extra bitchy that year. "People who are used to being the best don't like being challenged. Even if the person challenging them is right. That's what you do to that asshole. You challenge him. Because you're just as good as he is. He's not used to that. You were bound to knock heads a bit. Don't let it get to you. Take it as a compliment."

  "Look at you going all Tony Robbins on me," I said with a smile, giving him a one-arm hug as I walked past. "Thank you. I have to get going. Don't get shivved, okay?" I asked, making him chuckle. "I know they'd have to carve through a good ten layers of BS before they got to any organs, but still."

  "Give him hell," he called as a farewell as I made sure to step into sturdy combat boots. Sure, they weren't steel-toed like he wanted, but they weren't flip-flops either.

  And I'd even put on pants.

  Which meant I might have a case of dreaded swamp ass by the time I got there since my AC was more of a wish than an actuality in my car.

  I'd struggled with the choice to wear it too. Not wanting him to think he could always get his way, that whenever he criticized me, I would jump to alter whatever it was he found fault in. But, to be fair, the shoes and pants thing was a safety precaution. I'd look unprofessional if I couldn't abide by basic safety rules.

  I stopped to grab a coffee, deciding at the last possible moment to be the good guy, and grabbing him one as well. Black, like his soul. Me, I had a sweet tooth. And an adventurous palate. So mine was loaded down with some half-and-half, vanilla syrup, raspberry syrup, and a dash of cinnamon. Odd, but good. Really more of a winter drink, but the sweetness was taking away from my sour mood a bit.

  Pulling up to the site, I saw Warren's black pickup. Not a new one. It had been well-loved - and well-used - for several years already. Paint splattered the bed. Gouges were taken out of the heavy duty plastic from hauling tools and wood into it over and over. But I knew from experience - i.e., having to ask him to drive me to the thrift shop to pick up a sideboard that I knew I wouldn't be able to lift or fit into my truck - that he kept it immaculate inside. You'd have thought it was fresh off the lot.

  There weren't, however, any of the cars and trucks for his crew.

  Horatio, the gardener, wasn't around either.

  I'd have to handle him completely alone?

  Brent was right. I needed more sleep to deal with this.

  But there was no time for that now.

  I grabbed the coffees, and the practical suitcase I called a purse, figuring it was better just to get it all over with.

  Hearing the low hum of the radio he always had on, I moved in through the half-finished kitchen, finding the floor already ripped up. Following the somewhat crooning sounds of what I referred to - mostly because it annoyed him - 'stadium country music,' I was suddenly glad I went with the boots, finding a few wayward nails he had missed. A trip to the hospital and a tetanus shot really weren't on my schedule for the day.

  "Wah wah, my horse, my dog, my pickup truck, my love left me..." I sang, loudly, off-key, as I always did since I couldn't carry a tune with both hands and a bucket.

  "If you'd listen to it," Warren started from behind me, making my body jolt, not having heard him walk up, "you'd see how old that thinking is. That for me?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the coffee in my hand. "Peace offering?" he asked when I nodded and handed it over.

  "You and me? At peace? Somehow I doubt that. That is my 'we will tolerate each other better when we are both fully caffeinated' offering," I countered, shrugging.

  "What kind of disgusting combination you got today?"

  "How do you know about my combinations?" I asked, surprised, my brows drawing together.

  "Coffee orders," he said, shrugging.

  "Mike gets the coffee."

  "And then the paper gets left somewhere that I end up finding," he agreed. "Coconut and mocha?" he asked, grimacing.

  "Enjoy your plain bean juice," I countered, curling my lip as he took a long swig.

  Coffee, for me, was a necessary evil.

  I couldn't function without it.

  Drinking it plain would likely leave me retching.

  So I dressed it up.

  That was what I was good at, after all.

  "Alright," he said, moving past the pleasant - or not-so-pleasant - ries. "So the master bath," he said, leading me up the stairs that he had already redone white like we had agreed on, even though he was pissed at having to paint over 'perfectly good wood,' and through the master bedroom that didn't actually have any renovation plans other than a new splash of paint, and little design touches.

  The bathroom, though, was gutted.

  All there was left were pieces of metal piping poking out for where the shower, tub, sink, and toilet had once been.

  "I know you want a double-vanity," he started, waving at the wall I had mentioned when we first walked into the space before he ripped everything out.

  "Yes. Non-negotiable. Apparently, Rob shaves his beard and leaves all the whiskers in the sink. Monica is sick of it. Wants her own sink, so she doesn't have to deal with it."

  "A double vanity to escape a conversation." I must have smiled, because Warren gave me an odd look. "What?"

  "It's somewhat amusing that you think a conversation would be all that is needed to remedy the situation. Have you met other men - or the one in the mirror - you're a stubborn bunch."

  "Says the woman who still won't admit she likes the backsplash even though I know that you do."

  "That's different."

  "How?"

  "Because you've yet to admit that any of my ideas are good. If you want praise, Warren, maybe try giving some sometime."

  To that, I got an eye roll.

  An actual eye roll.

  From a grown man.

  "Anyway, I'm thinking we need to rethink the tub and sho
wer placement. If we close in the toilet into a separate space..."

  "When," I corrected. That was another thing Monica wanted. She was not a fan of her husband coming in when she was in the tub to use the toilet. Because, yeah, ew. "Monica already agreed to giving up three feet of her closet to make it happen."

  "Fine, when. There won't be enough room for the glass door to swing open. The problem would be solved if we swapped the two."

  "Did you bring a catalog for the tubs?" I asked, knowing Monica was a huge bath-taker, and that the tub had to be perfect. So, well, he couldn't choose it.

  "It's in the truck."

  "And the tile choices?"

  "I'm thinking browns."

  "Of course you are." I only meant to say that in my head, but I sometimes had a tendency to babble under my breath.

  "What?"

  "I said of course you are."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "That you seem to think that this Colonial house is a Craftsman or Chalet."

  "The guts of the house don't have to match the outside."

  "Ah, they kind of do actually. If they don't, then when people come in, they go What the hell is this. And, in case it wasn't clear, What the hell is this isn't what you want people to think when they come into your home. You can't hodgepodge a bunch of things together, and claim it all works."

  "I wasn't hodgepodging anything. If you hadn't gone over my head about the floor in the kitchen, my plans for this bathroom would match."

  "Okay, but what about the living room, the study, the formal dining room, the halls, the other bedrooms..."

  "Why the hell did I even invite you here?"

  "I believe Monica and Rob wanted to make sure that every decision from now on, we do together. No more surprises."

  It was kind of sad that they needed to go all mama-bear and papa-bear on us, that he couldn't have seen that cooperation would make us both look much more professional. But, no, he had to be stubborn. And then forced me to be a tattletale. It looked bad on both of us. I was clearly resentful of that.

  "The browns would work with the accent wall."