Fix It Up

by Jessica Gadziala

  His truck was in the drive.

  My stomach knotted a bit at that, but I reminded myself that it had to be handled.

  I moved inside, stopping just inside the door, finding a figure sprawled on the uncomfortable sofa with a pillow from the bed and a blanket from the closet.

  Whether he was asleep or just pretending was too hard for me to tell.

  But, well, there was no mistaking his actions, was there?

  He didn't want to talk about it.

  He didn't want it to happen again.

  He didn't even want to be anywhere near me again.

  Why there was a sinking feeling in my stomach at that realization, yeah, I was going to go ahead and choose not to focus on that.

  As it would turn out, though, pretending there wasn't an issue, yeah, that was a major mistake.

  Everything went to hell.

  EIGHT

  Brinley

  It was the longest four weeks of my life.

  Dramatic? Probably.

  But also incredibly accurate.

  We didn't talk about it.

  In fact, we barely talked at all outside of situations where we had to. Meaning on the work sites. And in front of the cameras. We got our frozen, soulless smiles on, and we put on a good show. I did little interviews about how much fun we were having which coincided with the playful fights on the set, the eye-rolls with sweet smiles like we were frustrated with each other, but lovingly.

  The fights got worse though.

  It was like our first job together all over again. But our close quarters full of long silences and eye-contact avoidance only fueled the fires, added malice to the words which - I always realized in hindsight when it was too late - really didn't belong there.

  It was weighing on me too.

  I couldn't say anything for Warren.

  Because he did absolutely everything within his power to avoid speaking to me.

  He was still sleeping on the couch every night. When I'd walk down in the morning, he would still be moving around slowly, aching as an eighty-year-old from the hard surface, but refusing to come back up to share the bed, to be a grown up, to just move on from it all.

  And me, well, maybe I should have invited him back up to the bedroom. And I likely shouldn't have been wickedly pleased by watching him grunt and groan around painfully for an hour or so before his body finally loosened up.

  But, well, I was... ugh, I didn't even want to think the word. That one that said exactly how affected I was, how weak I was, how much this was still weighing on me. A month later. Like a school girl.

  There was no denying it though.

  I was hurt.

  Hurt.

  By this guy.

  By his flippant rejection of me after forcing a kiss on me.

  And I was so alone here, more alone than I had ever felt in my life before. Even cohabitating with someone. The walls were empty, the space in between quiet, allowing my brain to do nothing but scream ever-louder.

  What it had to say? Yeah, not nice things.

  "I'm going home this weekend," I told him as I passed by, voice low enough that the guys painting the bedroom five feet away couldn't hear me.

  "What?" he asked, actually turning his attention to me, a rarity considering there was no camera around to catch it.

  "I. Am. Going. Home. This. Weekend."

  "I was planning on staying here. Get more work done."

  Of course he was. Somehow, we had also flipped roles. He was now some frantic workaholic while I did what was required - and still did it well - but nothing more. Most nights, I walked myself home just a few minutes after the crew left, doing any extra projects I wanted to back at the house. Alone. Away from him. While he stayed at the house until well after dark. Away from me.

  "Well, I didn't invite you anyway," I said, shaking my head.

  "Think you actually need my invitation to go back to my house, Brin."

  Ugh.

  I hated that tone.

  That cocky, condescending one, the one that lacked any of the softness he had used with me before the kiss, something I had maybe started to get used to.

  Jerk, I thought, not for the first time that day. Or even the tenth.

  "I wasn't going back to your house. I am going to visit my family. And Brent."

  "Brent?" he asked, brows drawing together, voice having an edge I couldn't quite place, and, quite frankly, didn't want to. I was done with that. Trying to analyze him, trying to understand why he did or said the things he did, trying to figure out how to get along with him. At least in our free time. "And how are you going to get there? We took my truck."

  "I'll find a way." I didn't care if I had to dip into my savings to Uber my way back. I just needed to go. The entire town felt like it was closing in on me. Which was silly considering the season was over, the beaches were empty, many of the stores and restaurants shuttered for the off-season. It was practically a ghost town in comparison to how it had been just a week before.

  "What..." he started, but I was already walking away.

  I left before him as I always did, packing a single bag, then calling for an Uber, knowing it would make their afternoon to get a long ride like this, and for maybe the first time ever, genuinely not caring about how much it would cost, how frivolous it was, what the money could be better spent on. I would, after all, be coming out of this situation with more money than I came in with. While not having to pay any bills. I would be fine. And this splurge was to save my sanity. You couldn't really put a price on that.

  Though you could put a fare on it.

  Two-hundred-twenty-five plus tip.

  But it was worth it as we pulled out front of Brent's house, both familiar and odd to my eyes after such a long stretch.

  I hadn't called.

  I guess I probably should have.

  Because Brent had company.

  And he didn't lock the door.

  And when I say he had company, I meant of the female persuasion.

  And the reason I mentioned the unlocked door?

  Yeah, that was because they were having naked fun time on the couch.

  "Jesus Christ," Brent growled, grabbing the woman who had been riding him, and dragging her against his chest, shielding both their bodies even as I whipped around.

  "I'm sorry. So so sorry. Okay. I'm leaving. Ah, carry on..." I mumbled, moving out the door with my heart slamming in my chest.

  It seemed that Brent was enjoying his freedom.

  That sent a swirling, uncomfortable feeling through my belly before I tamped it down, shook my head, tried to shake off the negatively clinging to me.

  He should be enjoying his freedom.

  He should be screwing people on every surface of his house with no fear of being found out.

  It was just becoming ever clearer that I didn't belong here anymore.

  Reaching for my purse, I dug around for my cell, finding my sister's number, waiting until it almost went to the machine before she answered, sounding out of breath.

  "Brin, is everything okay?" she greeted.

  "I, ah, yeah. Everything is okay," I said, but it suddenly felt like a lie.

  "Okay. Well, I am at lamaze class. And then I have a birthday party for Abby. Can I call you back tomorrow?"

  So there went that option too.

  "Yeah, sure. No worries. Give the kids a kiss for me," I demanded, feeling some hopelessness start to settle deep.

  Hanging up with her, I tried my parents, getting the machine, then a text back a moment later telling me they were visiting my brother, his wife, and their new baby for the weekend.

  Never, never had I felt quite so alone as I did when I called yet another Uber, this time to take me to Warren's house, so I could grab my car, unsure where or what I was going to go or do.

  Feeling lost, I climbed inside my car, rolling down the manual windows to let out the stagnant, stifling air, lowered my chair back so I could go flat, curled on my side.

  And did it. />
  Cried.

  I wasn't, in general, a big crier.

  It took a lot for me to get to that point, where I felt like I had to purge it. Maybe because I emoted a lot in general. I wasn't one to bottle things. I let it all out, so it didn't fester.

  But, I guess, I had been holding things in more lately. I hadn't let my family or friends in on what had been going on with Warren, hadn't been able to talk about it with him to get it settled, so it wasn't weighing on me.

  I felt heavy.

  And, I guess, I was as full as I could get.

  I needed to empty out.

  That was what I did, in the privacy of my car in Warren's quiet driveway. Until my face felt raw and my eyes were so swollen that they felt half-closed.

  It was pitch black outside when I finally pulled my seat back upright, swiping at my tear-stained cheeks, then grabbing my purse, deciding that if I was here, I might as well check on things, maybe get a drink, use the bathroom, and grab a cup of coffee before I hit the road again.

  To where?

  That was a good question.

  I had no idea.

  I guess I could squat at my parents' place while they were out of town, wait for my sister and Brent to have some time for me.

  I would feel refreshed then, ready to take on the next few weeks. This was what I needed.

  Grabbing the key Warren had given me when I had fake moved in what felt like a lifetime before, I made my way in, checking to be sure that his mail was still being held, flicking on the exterior lights.

  His house was eerily quiet, making me oddly act on the impulse to flip on his stereo. And not change the station.

  I would never admit this aloud, but I actually kind of missed his country music. We weren't allowed to play any music on the set because of copyright laws and such, so we mostly worked in silence.

  I had oddly gotten used to the deep voices of the male singers he preferred, the slow songs, the depth of feeling in the love songs. I had oddly started to find comfort in it.

  And comfort was what I needed right then as I moved around making coffee, having to make do without cream because he had cleared out his fridge - of course - before we had moved out. I loaded it up with sugar and some chocolate syrup I found in his cabinet, then went to the bathroom for a quick shower.

  Sure, I should have called him and told him I was here.

  Actually, I should have asked.

  He had even told me so.

  But I was just staying for an hour or so.

  I would tell him when I got back.

  When it was too late for him to blow a gasket about it.

  I hadn't meant to fall asleep.

  I think my puffy eyes and slight crying-hangover headache had worn me out. I had just meant to sit down on the couch to finish my coffee.

  But I must have curled up on the sofa at some point.

  "Brinley."

  The voice was soft, coaxing, trying to drag me out of a dream about being trapped under a pile of throw pillows.

  Familiar, but my mostly unconscious brain couldn't place it, didn't want to follow its instructions.

  "Baby, wake up."

  That sounded sweet, my brain decided, reaching for consciousness, liking the soft way the voice was trying to get my attention, my body feeling warm and light and happy.

  "Brin."

  This time, the voice was a little firmer, making me finally lose the dreamy in-between, startling awake with a jolt, eyes shooting open, heart starting to pound as I looked almost frantically around, trying to make sense of my surroundings.

  "Relax," Warren said, voice softer than it had been in weeks.

  "Wh..."

  "You're at my place. You passed out on the couch," he explained calmly, his dark eyes watching me, seeming to see through me. It had been so long since his focus was genuinely on me that it was off-putting, making me immediately wonder about the state of my hair that I had fallen asleep on while it was still wet.

  I pushed myself upward, feet planting on the floor, hands on my knees, suddenly acutely aware of how close he was from where he was perched on the coffee table.

  "Why are you here?" I managed to ask, knowing he was staying behind to catch up on work.

  "Your phone is dead," he informed me, making my eyes shoot to my purse, figuring that made sense. It was old. It went dead just from me checking the time.

  "Oh. Did something happen?" I asked, reaching up to rub at my eyes that felt bone dry.

  "You could say that," he told me cryptically. "Were you crying?" he asked, making me jolt backward, feeling oddly caught. "And don't lie," he warned me.

  Warned.

  Like he had any right to do so.

  "You barely speak to me for weeks, and you want to know personal details about me? No, that isn't how this works," I told him, keeping my tone calm, knowing he had a tendency to win when I got too angry. "What could have happened to make you drive all the way up here instead of waiting for me to charge my phone?"

  God, what time was it even? The sun was streaming through the shades. But it was impossible to tell if it had just risen, or had been up for hours.

  "I'm assuming you haven't been online."

  "I've been sleeping."

  "Rachel, Mica, and Andy are having a fucking conniption."

  "What happened?" I asked, suddenly alert, body stiff, heart starting to pound.

  Were we found out?

  God, anything but that.

  "Apparently, the crew has been talking," he told me as he fished for his phone, flicking and clicking through it for a second before handing it to me.

  And there was the cover to some cheesy tabloid. There were pictures of us, one from the promo we had been photographed for, a dramatic photoshopped split down the center; the other two that were taken in other points of time. Mine was a picture from my Instagram, the craft I had been working on cropped out, one that had refused to go right, so I had been scowling at it. But, of course, they had it, so it looked like I was scowling at Warren whose picture was a somewhat blank-faced one, unreadable.

  Then right there in bright yellow block letters, the headline.

  Fix It Uppers Break It Off?

  "Oh, God," I groaned, looking up at him, feeling my pulse start to throb in my temples.

  "It gets worse," he told me, tone a little guarded. "You can flip through to the article.

  "'Don't you know that they're toxic?'" I read aloud, groaning. Really? A Britney reference? I mean, not that you could expect clever journalism from a rag mag, but that was just lazy.

  Things are not as they seem in the smiling promo pictures for Home Improvement Television's new season of their hit - though wrought with scandal - show Fix It Up.

  According to sources on set, show frontrunners Warren Reyes - the contractor - and his wife Brinley Spears - an interior decorator - can barely get through a conversation without erupting into screaming matches.

  "Screaming matches, my ass," I snapped, looking up for confirmation that he was as outraged as I was.

  "It's not exactly The New York Times," he said with a shrug. "They sell more copies if they exaggerate the truth."

  "Who would snitch on us?" I asked, suddenly offended. These were people we worked beside, sweated with, broke bread with, laughed with, brought coffee in for in the mornings.

  Betrayal wasn't something I could claim to be familiar with, always having been lucky enough to have family and friends who always had my back, who would never talk about me behind it to strangers.

  Maybe it was silly to feel so now seeing as we didn't really know these people per se.

  "I won't be able to look at anyone the same again," I admitted, not bothering to read the rest of the article after I caught some snarky line about how we must have married based on our supposed 'explosive sexual chemistry' instead of actual compatibility. I imagined it only went downhill from there.

  "They weren't exactly lying, though, were they?" he asked, making my stomach drop a bit.
>
  "What are Rachel, Mica, and Andy saying?"

  "Well, Rachel is saying that Andy is freaking out about his investment, about how they should have gone with the couple with the kids because viewers like when they make guest appearances."

  Andy was a hothead and a worrywart.

  I wasn't worried about him as much per se.

  "Is Rachel mad?"

  Warren did a shrug and headshake all at once, a combination I was instantly wary of. "She's... concerned. She brought us in. The weight of this is falling on her. She wanted to know if it was the stress of the show that was making us fight, if we were okay."

  "What did you say?" I asked, feeling guilty for not having been accessible, even though maybe Warren had been the better person to handle it since he was much more adept at staying calm in tense situations.

  "I said we have always butted heads, that all couples who work together get on each other's nerves, that we were fine, just had very different styles on the job."

  "Did she buy it?"

  He looked toward the front window at that, lips curved up enough that I could see the bright outline of his teeth. "She, ah, implied something about fighting and making up," he said, making me smile too. Not because of her comment, but because he almost seemed a little embarrassed by it. Warren, embarrassed. It was novel.

  "So... what are we supposed to do?"

  "You know how we have the interview on Tuesday?" he asked, making me let out a grumble about the early morning spot on a talk show. Which I mostly objected to because it meant we would have to get up at four AM to get there on time.

  "How could I forget?" I whined, making his gaze move back to me, the smile slipping a bit to hide his teeth, but not disappearing.

  "She wants us to go up to the city tonight or tomorrow. And 'get seen' out on the town. Being in love. Happy. Let it imply that it is just the work that makes us bite each other's heads off."

  That was, well, doable.

  We'd have to work on it, given how tense things had been with us personally, but we could make it work. He had to make it work.

  "And she wants you to take over control of the social media for the show, post behind-the-scenes things, and pictures of us at home, being a couple. Get more personal. She said that social media is where you really shine."