Fix It Up

by Jessica Gadziala

  "By not crying on your shoulder. He was who talked me into coming here. I was going to wait for you to come to me. I don't know if you've noticed, but I can be a bit stubborn."

  "What?" I asked, voice pitching higher. "You? No way."

  "Would you have?" she asked, smile falling, voice getting low.

  "Would I have what?"

  "Come for me."

  "I don't know if you've noticed, but I can be a bit bullheaded," I said, smiling when she snorted. "But I'm also a man who knows what he wants, and will give myself callouses to hold onto it. In case it isn't obvious, Brin, I want you." I gave that a second, let it sink in. "I would have come for you. I'd come back for you a hundred times if I had to."

  Brinley - 2 weeks

  There was crow.

  There was a lot of crow.

  And it was just as dry and bitter as you imagined, full of bone pieces that got caught in the throat until you were sure you were going to choke on them.

  Our names got smeared by vicious bloggers.

  We became punchlines of jokes on late-night TV.

  We had to endure endless questions about our motivations, doubts about our relationship.

  It was ugly.

  It was easy to say you needed to have a thick skin when you are in the public eye. It was one of those throwaway comments that everyone makes, like it excuses the fact that people come at you with sharpened claws over something that didn't even affect them, ready to tear out your throat for having the audacity to exist and be human and make mistakes.

  But, I would find - as I would continue to find - Rachel did know what she was talking about.

  The outrage died down when we just kept owning it, kept eating our crow with a healthy dose of humble pie for dessert.

  We stayed out of the public eye while the story raged. But we kept our social media updated with selfies and projects we were working on at the farm. Warren snapped pictures of me doing projects at the dining room table. I took ones of him - shirtless, it was a real hardship, lemme tell ya - as he worked on repairs to the barn.

  We didn't work on the house except to clean it, clear out some of the older things we had no use for - cedar chests full of old clothing or paperwork. Rachel was strict about that. She wanted a crew to be a part of every step of the restoration if or when we got to it.

  Especially the bedroom, she had told me. And even though it was through a text, I swear I could hear the innuendo in her voice.

  So we cleaned. We worked on fixing the outbuildings and the fences. He took me on walks through the woods to show me the stream he'd almost drowned in as a kid. He showed me the fruit orchards, piles of rotting apples, peaches, plums, pears, and nectarines surrounding the trees that had been unattended for so long. We went to dinner with my family, after which he informed me that I was way more fiery than my mother. And, finally, we had Brent over one night.

  He gave Warren the warnings I had expected.

  Then pulled me aside and told me not to screw it up.

  "What's up?" Warren asked, coming in from outside with an armful of firewood. Because, apparently, this place was old old school. Meaning it didn't have heat. It had fireplaces. And it was getting cold out.

  I waved my hand with my phone at him. "Just got a call from Rachel."

  "And?"

  "And it's time," I told him, nodding.

  They figured things had blown over enough for us to head back down to finish filming. We'd take a solid ribbing from the crew, then could jump right back into work.

  Quite frankly, we both needed it.

  Maybe me more so than Warren.

  He was used to more downtime.

  He had been keeping busy with work on the barns and the workshop and various other things that I had offered to help with, but knew I was more of a hindrance than a help most of the time.

  I had nothing to do.

  I fiddled with projects, had found a lot of gems hidden away in the workshop - half-finished projects and old, seemingly useless items - that I had up-cycled into really fun projects for my Instagram profile.

  That was another change, too.

  There may have been a bit of a mob mentality about our deception, but there was also a huge chunk of people who came to look into us, and liked what they saw, stuck around.

  I made a deal with myself not to read the comments, having heard once that Beyonce gave out that advice, telling her friends in the industry not to scroll. And, well, if Beyonce lived by it, then it was a good rule to adopt.

  But there were thousands of new followers, of likes on my posts as far back as two years ago.

  These people came, liked what they saw, and showed me love.

  I needed it more than I would have ever felt comfortable admitting - the approval. After so long of just barely getting by, to see that people like my work despite my somewhat sordid current reputation, that meant a lot to me.

  But even with the love flowing in, I was getting a bit bored being at home all the time.

  I needed to work, to get my hands on a project, to make a vision come to life.

  It was a good feeling - if maybe a slightly nerve-racking one - to know we were heading back.

  "Know what I was thinking?" Warren asked, running a hand across my hip as he passed, always seeming to have a need to be touching me, which was in no way a chore to endure.

  "What?"

  "Maybe we can nab some of that stained glass you liked so much. Do something here with it."

  I smiled at that, leaning my head into his arm.

  "Frauds and thieves. That will go over well."

  Warren - 9 months

  The show was finally going to air.

  It seemed like ages ago we had finished the last scenes on the last episode. But there had to be edits, and special PR, and press tours, and other shit that I didn't even begin to try to understand before the show could go live.

  Which it was.

  Tonight.

  Her family had wanted to host some big viewing party, but Brin had shut that down, saying she wanted us to watch it privately, wanted to pick apart the moments, the feelings, with just the two of us.

  She seemed determined to spot the things everyone around us on the set, on the show, seemed to pick up on. Longing looks. Hurt looks. Desire-filled fights. Things that, in the moment, we hadn't been aware enough of what was happening to call it what it was. Or, even if we had felt twinges of it, never would have admitted it.

  We'd wasted a lot of time pretending when pretending wasn't necessary, when things were actually happening without us realizing.

  "That was weird," she declared after the credits rolled. "Seeing ourselves. It's weird," she added. "I snort too much."

  "Just when you're annoyed with me," I clarified.

  "So, like... most of the time," she told me with a teasing smile.

  She was exaggerating, of course.

  Since filming wrapped up, there had been a lot less arguing. We'd found that, for the most part, the work was the trigger. Our opposing ideas mixed with stubborn personalities. At home, we rarely found cause to argue. And even when we did, it blew over quickly.

  "Think you're ready for another round of filming?" I asked as she invaded my side of the couch, climbing up into my lap, resting her back into my chest, her head under my chin.

  We'd agreed to it.

  The special.

  At first because we were just so thankful that they were letting us finish the season that we would agree to anything they asked of us.

  But as time went on, as we tried to squeeze all mine and Brin's possessions into the farmhouse, as we fought over counter space in the bathroom, as we rammed into each other as we tried to cook a meal together in the kitchen, we were getting excited to be able to do renovations, to get more space, to make it our own.

  Plus, Andy had opened up his wallet wide, reached in, grabbed a wad of cash, and offered it to us.

  Because we were doing good things for the channel. People liked us, lik
ed the realness of our arguments, liked how we still loved each other after them.

  It was enough money to pay another good chunk of the mortgage on the farm. And reinvest in Brin's business as well.

  She'd never really believed it.

  That she could have it.

  After all these years.

  After all the hard work that led mostly nowhere.

  She'd never felt comfortable enough to truly let herself dream, even after the scandal died down, even when she was swamped with requests for her to redecorate houses, offices, resorts, and even the homes of a few mid-level celebrities.

  In the end, I had to be the one to sign the lease for her office building. She'd never have done it herself, not feeling like she was 'there' yet.

  So I took the initiative.

  I got the place.

  I cleaned it up because the previous tenant had left a mess.

  Then I drove her there blindfolded, led her inside, and showed her that her dreams were all coming true.

  When she'd turned around to admire the light from a rare back window, I got down on a knee.

  And I asked her to help make my dream come true as well.

  She teared up as you might expect, gave me her hand like I'd been praying for, then in true Brin fashion, declared, "Only if you let me put throw pillows on the bed."

  So we had fucking throw pillows on the bed.

  But I didn't care.

  Because she was there in it with me every night.

  Because she promised to be with me for all of our nights.

  Brinley - 4 years

  "This is fantastic," Rachel declared, clapping her hands a bit as she looked around.

  Rachel, as it turned out, became our biggest fan, our fiercest ally, our cheerleader, our counselor when we were being our true selves - stubborn and unbending - our dearest, truest friend.

  She'd accepted our deceit, fought for our redemption, invested herself in our success.

  Through a sham relationship.

  Then a real one.

  A season of a show.

  A special.

  A second season.

  Then a third.

  The one we were currently filming.

  Right now.

  Right here.

  In our house.

  Mine and Warren's.

  The farm we had made our own through three months of intensive, relationship-testing renovations.

  I had a wall of shiplap, damnit.

  And reclaimed shipping pallet floors.

  Because, in return, I got my stained glass window, throw pillows, beautiful wall art, a tile-free countertop, and a coffee table that Warren was not allowed to put his feet up on.

  We'd done the impossible; we'd meshed our styles until they weren't two starkly contrasting ones anymore. They were just seamlessly stitched together.

  There had been a much-needed addition, making the master bigger, and adding on a third bedroom and a home office. Where I was forced to keep my craft projects. Glitter was strictly forbidden in the main area of the house.

  "It is," I agreed, smiling at the room. "I hope he doesn't guess it right away."

  "Why would he?"

  "Remember season one?" I asked, as though it was possible for her to forget.

  "That was a bit of a whirlwind. Why don't you refresh my memory."

  "Jennifer and Bobby. They bought the house, and wanted to DIY it. We swooped in to help. And had a particular surprise for Bobby."

  "The nursery," she remembered. "That was some good TV."

  "We had a talk about that episode. I'm worried he will walk in, smell the paint, and just know."

  "You paint in the house all the time. I think you're being paranoid. And even if he does sense something, the nursery will still be a surprise."

  "He's going to bitch at me about how I shouldn't be around paint or on my feet or lifting heavy objects - and Warren considers grocery bags heavy items that women shouldn't have to carry in from the car - when I am pregnant."

  It sounded weird to say.

  Pregnant.

  It was both a surprise, and not.

  We'd ditched birth control almost a full year ago.

  But nothing had happened.

  I was starting to wonder if we needed to go see a fertility specialist since we certainly had sex enough to produce a baby in a year.

  But then one night, the smell of chopped meat cooking for tacos made me feel violently ill.

  I'd figured it was food poisoning or a bug at the time, since we were constantly around a revolving door of new crew members who brought who-knew-what with them.

  But then we'd been on a job site a week later, and someone brought in nachos. More chopped meat.

  More vomiting.

  I'd called my mom on the way to the urgent care center, and I remembered being deeply hurt when she'd laughed at me.

  Laughed.

  At me being sick.

  "That is too good," she said, recovering.

  "Being sick is good?" I snapped, trying to ignore the rolling in my stomach.

  "You're not sick. You're pregnant."

  "What? No," I said immediately, but it only took me a second to see that was a possibility. "I mean... why would you say that?"

  "I was never sick with your brother or sister. But then you came along, and the smell of chopped meat cooking made me green. I couldn't be anywhere near the stuff until I popped you out. You grew up obsessed with chopped meat too," she recalled, nodding. "Sloppy Joes, beefaroni, and tacos. That was all you ever wanted to eat, I swear."

  That was, well, bizarre.

  But kind of cool.

  It was also not exactly a foolproof way to see if you were expecting.

  So I drove myself to the urgent care center, peed on a stick, and learned that - as she so often was - my mother was right.

  I was pregnant.

  My immediate urge had been to rush home, tell Warren, let him share that thrill since we both seemed to be losing hope on having a baby.

  But then I remembered.

  The way Bobby's face had looked, the way he had grabbed Jennifer, the way she had given him a beautiful memory of learning he was about to be a father.

  I wanted that for Warren.

  Even if he didn't realize he wanted it.

  Mr. Practicality.

  So I kept it to myself.

  It had only been six weeks, barely long enough to be absolutely certain. Six weeks too early to be telling anyone.

  I felt guilty telling Rachel and Nick - the lone camera guy we were allowing in on this - as well as Brent who had done all the work for me because he was every bit as overprotective as Warren, but I had to remind myself that it was for a good reason.

  Warren had been called down to Cape May to deal with a 'suspicious busted window' at our townhouse there. Yes, that townhouse. The one we'd fallen in love within. It had been a wedding gift from richer-than-Midas Andy. We went every summer with my whole family as I did as a kid, walking the pier at sunrise, going to the beach, the arcade, cooking, having ice cream every night in town. Warren had even surprised me with an outdoor shower one day, prompting me to thank him inside it together.

  But the window wasn't busted.

  And the neighbor didn't really want Warren to come over to tell him how he could expand his kitchen for two hours.

  And I didn't really need him to stop on his way home to find files for Billy Andrews and Brandy York to bring home to me. Billy Andrews and Brandy York didn't exist. But he'd only been gone nine hours - commute included - and we needed one extra one to throw all the finishing touches together.

  He was on his way now.

  I'd just gotten the text saying he was giving up on the file, that I must have brought it home with me or something.

  "Alright, Nick, let's move outside," Rachel said, as we had agreed. They could film. From outside the nursery window. Giving us the space we needed to have a private few words.

  It was just twenty minute
s later when I heard him come through the front door, his boot-clad feet clomping through the house as they so often did.

  My belly was in knots, my heart skittering around in my chest.

  "Brin?" he called.

  I sent Nick and Rachel a hopeful look, "In the spare room!" I called out to him, taking a deep breath, moving inward slightly so I could both see the door - and therefore Warren's reaction - as well as be seen by the camera.

  "What are you doing in..." he started, pushing the door open.

  The words froze on his lips as his eyes landed immediately on the crib in the center of the room.

  There was a long moment as his dark eyes stayed there - dark eyes I hoped our baby would inherit - too surprised to show anything.

  And then he did a very Warren thing.

  He looked at me with that smirk of his.

  "Billy Andrews and Brandy York?" he asked, eyes dancing. "B-A-B-Y?"

  "That's what you have to say?" I asked, slitting my eyes at him. "I had Brent bust his butt for you and all..."

  "You really gonna argue with me right now?" he asked, smiling.

  "You started it!" I insisted, shaking my head, unable to stop the smile that pulled at my lips either.

  Four years.

  Endless idiotic arguments.

  More love than I ever knew it was possible to feel.

  And all there was in the future was more of it.

  I wasn't sure my body was big enough to handle it all.

  "Let's try that again," I said after a second. "What do you think?"

  "You're making me a father?" he asked, moving close, putting his arms around my lower back, crushing my lower body to his, making me have to crane my neck up to look at him.

  "Yeah," I told him, seeing the depth of emotion in his eyes for a long moment before his lips started twitching.

  "Know what I think?" he asked, and I knew what was coming.

  I knew.

  And there was no stopping the smile that made my cheeks hurt.

  "I think it's fantastic," he told me before sealing his lips to mine.

  And it was.

  Absolutely, completely, one-hundred-percent fantastic.