Fix It Up

by Jessica Gadziala

  It was the first time I had heard a word of praise in weeks. I was almost embarrassed to admit just how much that affected me that she thought that, and that she would trust me with the official pages for the show.

  "I can do that," I agreed, nodding, finding a soul-deep kind of determination to get it perfect, to prove to her that she was right to put her faith to rest in me.

  "I am supposed to get back to her as soon as I got in touch with you, so she can get us some reservations in the city. And, though she didn't say this, I am figuring, tipping off the rival rag to this one," he said, waving at his phone that was still in my hand, "that we will be there, so they can catch pictures of us happily together."

  "And since this one has no pictures or proof of us arguing," I concluded, "the newer one would be seen as the more accurate."

  "Yep."

  "Where did you tell Rachel I was?" I asked, stomach dropping a little. That didn't look good, did it? This article dropped when I was nowhere to be found, couldn't be gotten in touch with?

  "I told her your sister was pregnant, that you were coming up to help your mom plan a baby shower."

  "And since that is a woman's thing, of course you hung back to do some work."

  "Exactly."

  "You think fast," I told him, impressed.

  "You want to head up today? Saturday night."

  "Date night," I agreed, nodding. "What time is it now?"

  "A little after nine. Got time to get some food before heading in."

  "Rachel will handle the hotel room?" I asked, finding that I liked having someone to handle those things. Having always been a bit of a control freak, I never thought I could find comfort in having someone else make decisions for me. But Rachel had picked out the townhouse. And she always had the best choices for set meals. It was nice for a change not to have to think so much, micromanage every little thing, do it all myself.

  "Yeah. She just needed the confirmation. I will call her. Go charge up your phone, get some coffee. Then we can hit the road."

  With that, he got up, taking his phone to go out front to make the call. I jumped up to go get myself presentable, make coffee for us both, charge my phone, and then take myself back into the bathroom to hold a plastic baggie full of ice to my eyelids, trying to take down the puffiness.

  "Why were you crying, Brin?" Warren's voice asked, soft, but unexpected, making me jolt, the baggie falling off my face, slapping down into the sink as my gaze went to the mirror, finding him reflected there.

  Standing in the doorway, his arm was cocked up on the jam, head slightly ducked, dark eyes boring into me.

  "It doesn't matter."

  "It matters," he countered.

  If there was one thing I knew, it was that while I was stubborn, he was equally so. In fact, in many situations, he could out-stubborn me.

  My mouth felt oddly flooded with saliva, like my body was trying to drown out the words. I swallowed, though, and forced them out.

  "I was lonely," I admitted.

  "You were lonely?"

  "I can go through a whole day hardly speaking a handful of words to people anymore," I explained. "So, I came home to spend some time with my friends and family. And everyone was too busy for me. It was just... overwhelming," I concluded, unable to make eye-contact, even through the mirror.

  "Not used to being alone," he murmured, making my gaze finally lift to see him watching me.

  "No, I'm not," I agreed. It had been incredibly isolating to move away from everyone, to know their lives were moving on without me, while mine stayed oddly stagnant. It was the calm before the storm for me, I knew, but that didn't change the day-to-day drudgery.

  "I've been a shit roommate," he surprised me by admitting. "Don't remember the last time I even said good morning to you."

  "Well, in your defense," I said, lips twitching, "you were too busy creaking like an old man to say much of anything."

  "It was nice to sleep in a bed," he admitted, smiling a little, making me feel guilty. Like maybe he had been waiting for the invite after all. "First time in weeks my back wasn't hurting," he added. "Did you bring enough stuff to hold you over for a few days, or do you need to stop by your old place."

  "Depends."

  "On?"

  "How fancy is this place Rachel is getting us reservations for? Keep in mind that anything that requires footwear other than flip-flops is fancy in my book."

  He smirked at that. "Then fancy."

  "Ugh," I grumbled, not excited about the idea of having to drag out a little black dress. "Alright. Well, do you want to go pick up food while I grab some more clothes? We can meet back here, eat, then head out."

  "Sounds like a plan," he agreed, moving away.

  So that was what we did.

  When I got back to Brent's, he and his lady were long gone. I had six text messages from him I had yet to check, finding that every time I thought of answering him, I got an image of him and his girl in my head, making my cheeks heat up. It was silly, sure. We were adults. We had sex. We'd even had sex while the other was in the house. But it was always somewhat subtle. A squeak of the bed or a moan that the radio or TV didn't quite cover. We talked about sex. Joked about it.

  I guess it was a whole different monster, though, to see a brother figure playing hide the hotdog with a very beautiful woman in the living room where you spent many late nights watching old Friends reruns while eating Chinese right from the cartons.

  I packed some clothes reserved for special occasions, heels, some more makeup, and a few refresher items for my wardrobe to bring back to Cape May with me after this was all done since the weather would likely be turning soon. I would have to swap out everything pretty soon, but since almost all of my bags were still in the townhouse, I would have to make a trip up again in the near future to get all my fall and winter clothes.

  Warren was already back when I got to his house, transferring my bags into his truck, having a quick, awkwardly silent meal, then hitting the road.

  We were twenty minutes in, and my belly was doing a weird swirling thing at the idea that we were going to have nothing but more silence on the drive, when he finally spoke.

  "You didn't change the station."

  "I'm sorry?" I asked, turning to watch his profile, pretending - at least outwardly - that my mind didn't have a tendency to drag out the memories of the kiss whenever I looked at him - at the hard press of his lips, the rough grip of his fingers, the burn of his stubble on my skin, the feel of his hardness pressing into me. Even just thinking of it sent a flush over my body, made my sex clench hard, wanting more of it, wanting everything he had to offer.

  "At my place. You turned the radio on. And didn't turn the station."

  Oh.

  Right.

  And how was I supposed to respond to that?

  I don't know why, but the music makes me think of you, and despite all the tension the past several weeks, I still somehow find that comforting?

  Yeah, no.

  That wasn't going to work.

  "I've learned to like some of the songs," I said instead, it being true.

  "Such as?" he asked, seeming genuinely interested. I guess because I had railed so hard against the genre for so long.

  "There's one slow one, and a guy says something about damnation and crying to his grave."

  "'Fire Away,'" he supplied, glancing over at me. "Chris Stapleton," he added. "That's an interesting one to choose."

  "Don't dig too deep," I said, shrugging. "I just like the sound of it."

  Except it wasn't just the sound; it was the lyrics, and the depth of emotion the singer put into them. I don't know, it spoke to me in a way. But that sounded silly, especially because I wasn't in love with anyone. But, yeah, it gave me shivers. Goosebumps rose up on my arms when I heard those first few strums of the guitar.

  "I'll make a country fan of you yet," he declared, sounding light, almost joyful, and it was such a contrast to the Warren I had been living with for months now
that I found myself studying his face as he drove.

  "I wouldn't go that far. For every one of those soulful songs, there is one that talks about bare feet and cut-off jeans and objectifies women as badly - or even worse in some cases - as many rap songs."

  He said nothing, but smiled as he reached inside his center console, producing an iPod. "Find a song called 'Girl In A Country Song' on there, and play it," he demanded, fingers brushing mine as he handed it over. It was accidental, of course. Chaste as well. But my skin seemed to spark at the contact, making me almost drop the damn thing before I set to doing as he demanded, grabbing the AUX he handed me, and plugging in the iPod, listening to two girls complaining of exactly what I had just complained about. "The industry saw the problem after this one dropped. It's gotten a little better lately."

  "I miss having music on the worksite," I told him as he switched back to the radio when the song finished. "I guess that's why some of the guys sneak in iPods under their shirts." It was against the rules, of course. The cords were dangerous, and they couldn't hear it if someone yelled out a warning. Which was why a low playing radio was usually used.

  "We're moving onto the third house soon," he told me, as though I wasn't aware. The schedule was weird. We moved on before we were finished. And then I was expected to go back to put all the finishing design touches when the crews finally finished, Warren showing up to help even though that wasn't what he did ever.

  "Thirteen after that one."

  "We'll get used to it."

  It was the first time I had heard anything even close to a complaint from him about the job. I found it refreshing. I was starting to feel ungrateful with not being completely happy with the process. This was the chance of a lifetime, after all. But that didn't mean it was all sunshine and roses either.

  "You don't like leaving the project unfinished," I half asked, half declared.

  "No," he agreed. "I have no idea what these guys are doing, if they are following instructions exactly, or improvising. It's frustrating. My name is on these projects."

  "I get that," I agreed, nodding. No one else was doing my job for me. I couldn't imagine having to give up that much control over a project. He was handling it better than I would. Sure, he went over after hours to work, tweak, check things. But I would probably be obsessively stopping over, rearranging, reorganizing, grumbling about candlesticks being on the wrong end of the sideboard.

  "At least we get to do something a little different this time."

  He was right.

  The last two homes had been abandoned, too damaged to be worth fixing up, on land not desirable enough for the slimy developers to come in and steal them up. The next one would be different because the property was owned. In fact, it was owned by a couple in their mid-thirties who had bought it on a song - because of the obvious damage - and had set their minds to trying to fix it up themselves. Snag after snag made them all but give up when they were approached by Rachel's team about allowing us to do it for them.

  "We have a budget," I reminded him. That was new for us too. While Andy did control the pursestrings, he generally didn't quibble about things that we found necessary. I guess he figured that whatever we put in, he would get back two-fold if he sold, or even if he used it as a rental property. This time, we only had what the owners had in their savings to work with. Not a penny more. Forty-thousand. For who-knew-what work. We'd seen a picture of the outside, but had no idea what was within.

  "I can work on a budget," he told me, nodding. "Most of my jobs come with a cap. I'm used to making do. Hopefully, the foundation is sound, and the electrical and HVAC aren't too old or damaged. Those are the cash-eaters."

  "Yeah. And I actually have a lot of pieces stored in my parents' garage. Tables, chairs that I could reupholster for just the cost of the fabric and some batting - which is minimal, and some basic wall art pieces, frames, just a mismatch of a ton of things I got from great antique shops and flea markets. That should help keep costs low. Paint, lighting, and accents shouldn't be too bad. We'll make it work. So long as they don't have designer tastes on bargain budgets."

  "Rachel seems to think they are reasonable. If they were willing to try to do the work themselves, I doubt they are the kind of people who drool over thousand-dollar sofas. I was thinking of suggesting they work with us," he went on, chancing a look at me when he stopped at a light.

  "I think that's a good idea," I agreed, surprised the producers hadn't thought of it. "But just on the beginning stages. Demo and maybe some landscaping. So we can have a big reveal at the end."

  "Exactly," he agreed, giving me a small smile.

  "Did you mention this to Rachel?"

  He shook his head. "I wanted to run it by you first."

  "Thank you," I said, meaning it, liking that he didn't go behind my back. Like he would have any other time.

  "What kind of restaurant do we have reservations to?"

  "The Grill. It is some kind of steakhouse. She wanted to do some French place called Daniel, but I reminded her we aren't fine French dining kind of people."

  "Thank God for that," I said, grimacing.

  "Not into getting all cleaned up?"

  I shrugged a shoulder. "It's been a long time. I guess it is nice every once in a while, but I am more of a jeans and flip-flops and taco takeout kind of girl."

  "Really into the tacos, huh?"

  "Well, I have tastebuds, so... yeah."

  "Your tacos were amazing," he told me, making a rush of pride move through me. "I think I forgot to tell you that."

  "Yes. You were busy avoiding me."

  There.

  I said it.

  It had to be said.

  I didn't want to ruin what was a pleasant moment, but it was just going to keep eating me up if I didn't get it out, didn't address it.

  "Yeah," he agreed, mouth barely opening, so the sound came out clipped, almost growling. "We've never excelled at the talking thing," he added after a moment. "The bickering? The snapping at each other? Yeah, we do that great. But the talking, just two people rationally hashing something out? We haven't been good at that."

  "No," I agreed, nodding. "We haven't been good at that. But maybe if we tried it a little more, we could learn to be. We owe it to ourselves - and each other, since we are in this together - to give it a try. It will be a long year if we don't at least try to get along."

  "So, we'll try," he agreed.

  The silence fell again, but this time, it wasn't so uncomfortable. The music hummed, slow and steady, just like I liked it. New Jersey faded away into New York City faster than I would have liked, finding more ease in that hour and a half than I had in weeks.

  "The hotel won't let us check in for a few more hours. Any ideas on how to spend the time?"

  "You really shouldn't let me choose," I warned him. "I imagine they have dozens of antique shops."

  "Yeah, no. You're not choosing," he informed me with a laugh, driving around with the ease of someone who had clearly been in the city many times before.

  "How do you know your way around?" I asked as he found the hotel, giving the keys to the valet to handle for us. Even though we couldn't check in for a while yet, he took our bags inside to hold for us, so we could hit the streets to waste some time.

  "I had a job here a few years back."

  "What kind?"

  "Penthouse. He was OCD. Made me gut the place, and redo it from scratch. We had to wear gloves and masks. He didn't want anyone else physically touching any of his surfaces but him. Took almost seven months. I got used to getting around. You spend any time here?"

  "A couple hours here and there for concerts or shows. But I pretty much just went from the train station to the venue. I haven't been able to see much. Where are we going?"

  "To see things," he told me simply, shrugging.

  Then we did.

  We walked down some streets, checking out hotspot tourist attractions. I remembered last minute to grab my phone, and squeeze in close to War
ren to take selfies to share to the Instagram account as soon as I had access.

  "Hey, don't," I objected when I finally talked him into going with me to some kitschy craft store where he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of me while I flipped through funky fabrics that I had never seen anywhere else - succulents on a hot pink background, mermaids drinking frozen coffees, multicolored pastel macarons.

  "Why not?" he asked, looking down at the picture.

  "Because I wasn't ready," I insisted, knowing that ninety-percent of the time, people took the absolutely most unflattering pictures of you possible. Was it so hard to lift your hands up, and angle the camera down? Then again, Warren was about a foot or so taller than me, so I guess any picture he took would be at a downward angle.

  "That's the point," he told me. "It will look candid because it was. And you look great," he told me, turning his phone to show me the picture that, admittedly, was pretty flattering.

  "Alright, fine. Send that to me," I told him as I put the fabric back. Cute and kitschy in the city meant a mini future. And I had spent enough money this weekend already. "Can we double back to the soft pretzel cart?" I asked, belly grumbling. "There's no way I am making it to seven."

  We had pretzels. Then kabobs. And soft serve dipped in unicorn colors which was, of course, more selfie-worthy goodness.

  "We can hit the hotel now," Warren told me as we just kept destination-less walking. "Check in. Maybe get a shower. Or a nap. You can do whatever chicks do to get ready for a night out."

  "Whatever chicks do to get ready for a night out," I repeated with a snort. "I mean, it's really not that complicated. Three hours of makeup, some tugging and plucking... a blood sacrifice to the beauty gods..."

  "Sounds about right," he agreed as he put a hand at my lower back, trying to guide me to the side. It was a nothing contact. But my skin seemed to sizzle. As if maybe it wasn't just me feeling it, his hand snatched away as quickly as it touched me. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.

  Wishful thinking?

  No.