Color of Loneliness

by Madeleine Beckett

  “Do you want to replace them?”

  Pursing her lips, Myra looks around at the cabinets and the worn linoleum on the floor, all of which has to be as old as the house itself. She realizes the whole space needs an overhaul. “Yeah,” she says with a sigh.

  Dylan sets the clipboard down on the counter and pulls a measuring tape off of his tool belt. Myra chews on her fingernails again as she watches him measure and jot notes on his clipboard. When he occasionally tucks the pencil behind his ear, his hair curls around it. Every time he uses the tape measure, he lets it snap back into position, the noise echoing noisily in the silent kitchen. She watches as he does more scribbling with a scowl on his ruggedly handsome face.

  He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is that all?”

  “No,” she says, getting the strange feeling that for some reason he doesn’t want there to be anything else. “I’m also having trouble with the electricity. My lights flicker on and off, and sometimes they just shut off altogether.”

  They make eye contact for a moment before he looks back down at the clipboard. “Sounds like some faulty wiring,” he mumbles, scribbling again. “Where’s your breaker box?”

  “In the basement, I think,” she says as she walks towards the basement door and opens it.

  Myra flips on the light switch and takes in a deep breath. She grips the railing fiercely and carefully walks down the decrepit stairs, hoping she makes it to the bottom unscathed.

  “I think it’s over…” She stops speaking when complete darkness sweeps the room.

  “That’s what I was talking about,” she whispers.

  “Hang on,” Dylan mumbles. She hears keys clanging together and some kind of a clicking sound. She exhales heavily when she sees a small light focused in her direction.

  The light moves away from her as Dylan turns, leaving her in the dark as she hears his heavy boots plod loudly across the concrete floor.

  “Wait,” she calls out. “I’m afraid I’ll fall down.”

  Myra can feel his irritation and annoyance without even seeing his face. It practically fills the room. He turns back towards her and doesn’t say a word as he holds out his arm.

  With her heart pounding, she rests her hand lightly on his arm, gripping his coat, and holds onto the rail for dear life. Within seconds, they make it safely back upstairs just as the lights come back on.

  * * *

  Dylan heads back down to the basement by himself to check out the breaker box. Setting his clipboard on one of the shelves, he stretches his arms above his head. From the moment she opened the door, he knew from one glance at her startled expression what she was thinking. He constantly gets calls from women to change light bulbs, clear clogged drains that aren’t clogged, or check out mysterious wiring problems that don’t exist just so they can ogle his ass or blatantly throw themselves at him. Dylan hates the fact that women find him attractive. He just wishes he were average looking. He does not want attention from any woman period.

  His current profession and his looks are a lethal combination. He thinks back to Mrs. Marshall who called him for a clogged drain, which was a fucking lie. He turned around to find her sitting in a kitchen chair in a miniskirt with her legs spread open wearing no panties. He got the hell outta there so fast he left burnt rubber tracks on her driveway.

  Rubbing his hands across his eyes, he picks up his clipboard. He knows this customer – he frowns as he searches for her name, Myra Sommers – legitimately has a house that seems to be falling apart around her, but he still can’t help but feel she just wants to use it try to get in his pants. He tells himself that he just needs to keep his walls up high and keep them well fortified.

  After inspecting the wiring situation, he reluctantly climbs back up the stairs.

  * * *

  “I’ll work up a written estimate and get back to you in a couple of days,” Dylan says before he turns and walks swiftly out the front door before Myra even has a chance to reply.

  She frowns. “Okay. Thanks for your time,” she calls out after him as she steps up to the door and stares at his retreating figure.

  He doesn’t bother responding as he quickly gets in his truck. She watches the truck as it backs out of her driveway and disappears down the road.

  * * *

  Myra walks the short distance to Jim’s house and knocks on the door.

  “Why, hello,” he says in greeting with a wide, happy grin. “Come in, sweetheart.”

  “I made you some cookies,” she says as she grins back and holds up a plate. “A little thank you for all of the hard work you did helping me with my many boxes.”

  “Perfect. I’ll pour us some milk.”

  Moments later, they sit down at the table. “Mmmm, these are delicious,” Jim says in between bites. They sit quietly enjoying the cookies and the companionable silence.

  Myra feels Jim’s thoughtful eyes gazing at her. “What?” she asks.

  “You look so much like your mother,” Jim says with a gentle smile on his wrinkled face. “Do you remember much of her?”

  “Not a whole lot. I wish I could remember more.”

  “You’re just as beautiful as she was.” Myra drops her head bashfully as she stares at the tablecloth. “She was so warm and full of life. She was a lovely person on the inside and out. And she loved you so much. Always remember that.” Myra nods as she feels a knot forming in her throat.

  “So why are you back in town?” Jim asks.

  Myra’s stomach drops as her gaze darts to his. He nods, giving her an encouraging smile. She stares back down at the pattern on the tablecloth. “Well, I wanted to… start writing my novel,” she stammers.

  “No. I want the real reason you’re back here.” Jim lifts a bushy, grey eyebrow at her.

  Myra takes in a deep breath. “It’s kind of hard for me to talk about.”

  “I’m a good listener.”

  Myra pauses for a minute before nodding. “Grampie told you that my boyfriend and I broke up, right?” she asks. He nods in response. “I didn’t go into all of the details with him; about why we broke up.” She takes in a deep breath and stares down at her lap.

  “Trent fell in love with his assistant. And now she’s… pregnant. I had to get away. I was stuck there in Philly. It was like I was trapped. I couldn’t quit my job because I needed the health insurance; I was terrified about losing that insurance. But now I have no job, I’m on Cobra, which is unbelievably expensive, and I moved back here into this money pit of a house that is falling apart around me. And I left my best friend, and I’m really regretting my decision, and I’m just, I…” Myra rambles as tears start trickling down her cheeks.

  Jim scoots closer and covers her hand with his. “Bless your heart, sweetie. I’m so sorry that happened to you. It’s a shame you had to go through something like that. But don’t regret your decisions. I’m a firm believer in free will, but I also believe that our decisions set us on the paths to our fate, our destinies.

  “That’s probably just the babblings of an old bookstore owner who’s read too many books over the years.” Jim smiles, chuckling softly. “But I truly believe that sometimes the decisions that seem the most illogical at the time, later on turn out to be the best decisions of our lives.”

  Myra sniffles as she wipes at her eyes. “Maybe…” she says in a soft voice. She wishes she could have Jim’s positive outlook. She wishes she could believe in fate and destiny. But how can she? All of her experiences so far have been filled with heartache. She can’t believe in those things right now. She just can’t. Because they don’t exist. Not in her world.

  * * *

  Myra picks up her ringing phone. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Better, thank God,” Susie says. “I’m closing in on that magical twenty-four hour mark. I haven’t ruined anymore butt huggers in the last hour so that’s a good sign,” she says before laughing and coughing at the same time.

  “I’m glad. I was worried about you.”
/>   “How’s the unpacking going?”

  “Good. Jim was such a huge help. We got everything unpacked. I now just have to go through each room and start packing up the stuff that needs to go into storage.”

  “Yuck. That sounds like a lot of hardass work.”

  “It is. And Grampie was a bit of a pack rat.”

  “Please don’t tell me there are hoarding tendencies in your bloodline.”

  Myra laughs. “No, he wasn’t that bad. But this house is in a lot worse shape than I thought. Everything is falling apart: the kitchen, the plumbing, the electricity. It’s a mess. I’m probably going to spend more on this place than I ever would have in rent. I’m wondering what possessed me to move out here.”

  Myra frowns when she hears Susie let out a loud “woohoo”. “I knew you would do this,” Susie shouts excitedly. “Now get your skinny little bony butt back on a plane because I need my buddy back.”

  She rolls her eyes. “No, I was just having a moment. I’m not going back to Philly. I think I just have mover’s remorse or something. You know like buyer’s remorse? I’ll get over it in a few days.”

  “Ugh, fine. But just so you know, that pisses me off because I’m a nasty, selfish ogre and want you back here with me. Just remember you can always change your mind and move back here or move to Singapore or to the jungle and live in a tree or do whatever the hell you want, whenever you want,” Susie says, before she starts hacking again.

  Myra smiles. “I know. Thanks for being such a great friend.”

  “You’re welcome. And thanks for being such an awesome person that I can’t help but love to death.”

  Myra laughs lightly. “I’ll let you go so you can rest.”

  They say their goodbyes and Myra sits down on the worn couch, leaning her head back against it as she stares at the fireplace and thinks.

  * * *

  As Myra gets ready for bed, she doubts her decision to move here even more. She can’t stop thinking about it. At the time, she really thought it was the right move for her. But now? Not so much, especially since she doesn’t have an income right now.

  Was it like Susie suggested and she made a rash decision in the heat of the moment because of what happened with her that awful day? Was this some kind of automatic reflex? Did she run as a way of trying to protect herself from getting hurt again?

  Sighing, she shakes her head because just the thought of going back to Philly and watching her progress with her pregnancy makes Myra’s stomach lurch. No way could she have stayed. She had to leave. And she can’t go back.

  Even though she feels scared and frustrated and will probably be spending a lot of money on Grampie’s money pit of a house, she’ll just have to live with her decision. Because no matter what, she has no doubt whatsoever that she’d rather be sitting here all alone in this crumbling house than be back in Philly.

  Climbing under the covers, she snuggles in and pulls out a book. Reading helps her escape. It lets her escape to an imaginary world where she can live another life. Where she can forget about her own pathetic reality for just a little while. That’s one of the reasons why she wants to be a writer. She wants to create other worlds that people can get lost in.

  Before she knows it, hours have passed, and her eyelids finally start to feel heavy. Switching off the light, her body welcomes sleep for just a few short hours.

  * * *

  As Myra writes the contents on the side of a box of Grampie’s items she just finished packing up, her phone rings. She caps the marker and quickly clears her throat before answering it.

  “Hello?”

  “Myra Sommers?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Lawson. Dylan Lawson. I stopped by yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your estimate’s ready. Can I come by this afternoon?”

  “Sure. I’ll be here.”

  “One o’clock?”

  “Yeah. That should work.”

  “All right,” he says before immediately hanging up.

  “Bye,” she says to a dial tone. Again.

  * * *

  After fixing a quick lunch, Myra picks at her food, barely touching it. She still has no appetite. Tossing it in the trash, she works on packing up some more boxes.

  She startles slightly when she hears a knocking on the door, surprised the time went by so fast.

  A bubble of nervous energy builds in her stomach as she walks towards the door. She frowns because she should not be reacting this way to the hateful contractor. Internally telling herself to calm down, she opens the door. “Come in,” she says with a small smile.

  Dylan nods his face stoic and expressionless as he walks past her into the living room. He stands staring at her with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and a portfolio under his arm. She stares back at him for a moment.

  “Oh, we can go into the kitchen,” she mumbles as she walks and tugs nervously on the ends of her hair. “Have a seat,” she says, motioning with her hand.

  He sits and pulls out several sheets of paper from his worn, black leather-bound portfolio and slides them in front of her. “I’ve broken down each project, put in a listing of required materials along with the costs and added the labor and any additional charges. That way if you only want to do one project at a time, you’ll have a breakdown of cost per project.”

  “Okay,” she says as her eyes stay fixed on the paperwork.

  “Now under the roofing, the labor costs are more because I’ll have to have help. I’ve got another guy that works for me on occasion, and I’ve included his labor.”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “I guarantee my work. Make sure to read the legal jargon at the bottom about the details,” he says as he taps the bottom of the paper with his long, thin finger.

  “Questions?” he asks, his eyes studying her face carefully.

  She shakes her head. “No, not that I can think of. I’ll read this over and call you back with my decision?”

  He nods as he stands up and shoves the portfolio under his arm.

  “Okay, I’ll get back with you soon,” she says. He nods before quickly walking down the hallway and out the front door.

  * * *

  Myra dials Susie.

  “Hey.”

  “How are you feeling?” Myra asks.

  “I’m among the living now. I still have this nasty cold, but at least I’m not shitting my pants every five seconds. How are you?” Susie asks.

  “Okay. I had a contractor come out yesterday. He just dropped off the estimate.”

  “A contractor? What’s he look like? Is he Grampie-like?”

  “I don’t know. I guess not.”

  “Not Grampie-like? Hm. Is he a plump plumber type with major ass crack showing?” Susie asks, giggling.

  “No…”

  “Myra.”

  “What?”

  “He’s hot isn’t he? He’s smokin’ hot. Tell me. Spit it out right now,” Susie demands excitedly.

  “Susie,” Myra whines.

  “I mean it. I want deets,” Susie shouts. “I need me some deets.”

  Myra sighs. “Well, he’s okay, I guess.”

  “Oh, no, girlie. You’re not getting off that easy. So when does he start?” she asks in a giddy voice.

  “Come on, give me a break. I haven’t even read through the estimate yet. Besides, I probably won’t even hire him. He’s kind of, different,” Myra says, unsure of how to explain her interaction with the asshole of a contractor.

  “What do you mean, different?”

  “I don’t know. He’s mean and hateful.”

  “Hot damn. So he’s hot and angry? Imagine what he’d be like in bed. Oh yeah, all fiery and passionate and fierce. Maybe he likes to spank…”

  “Oh my God. What is wrong with you?” Myra says. “I told you I’m probably not even going to hire him.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You don’t fool me any. You know you don’t even have to give that estimate one look; that hot man’s al
ready got the job.” Susie lowers her voice. “So, is he like Brad Pitt hot or George Clooney hot? Because both of those men are super fine, but they’re like in totally different hotness categories.”

  “Stop,” Myra shouts, before she buries her face in the couch cushion.

  * * *

  Myra fixes a cup of coffee and sits down at the kitchen table. Her conversation with Susie really ticked her off for some reason. It doesn’t matter what the man looks like. Who cares that she found him attractive – incredibly attractive. His attitude makes him unattractive, in her opinion.

  With a sigh, she drags the estimate closer, sulking as she reads through it, hoping to find something suspicious or illegal in it. After scrutinizing it for the third time, she tosses the estimate on the table with a huff, irritated that she couldn’t find a single thing wrong with it and that it seemed to be an honest and fair estimate.

  But that doesn’t mean she has to hire the asshole.

  Her interaction with the man left a very bad taste in her mouth. Something niggles at her, warning her against him. That she should steer clear of him. Grabbing her cell phone, she does a search for local contractors. Three names pop up including his. Dialing the number for the first one, she gets a recorded message so she hangs up. She dials the second number.

  “Smith Contractors,” an older woman’s voice says.

  “Yeah, I wanted to see about getting an estimate.”

  “Sure. I can have someone come out the end of next week.”

  Myra sighs but goes ahead and gives the lady her information anyway and schedules the appointment.

  * * *

  Picking up the coffee pot, Myra moves to the sink to make another pot. As she steps onto the rug, a curse slips from her lips when she gets hit with the sensation of wetness on her socked feet. Looking down, her lip curls as she lifts her foot and stares at the bottom of it. Setting the coffee pot down, she kneels and her brows pull together when she picks up the soaked rug. Opening the cabinet below the sink, her mouth drops open as she stares at the mess in front of her.

  Moving stuff around so she can get a better look, she finally determines that the box of dishwasher soap she stuck under the sink earlier must have hit the old, rusted-out metal drain pipe, creating a huge, gaping hole at the bottom of it. So every time she turned the water on, instead it draining through the pipes, the water drained straight into the bottom of the cabinet and leaked out onto the floor. She cringes as she looks at the nasty, greasy water sitting there full of food bits. Her trash bags, zip locks, and cleaning supplies that she stores under the sink are all soaked.