“And cooking magazines.” I sigh and run my hand over my dripping neck. “I don’t think he ever cooked anything either.”
“Why not?”
“Prisha realized the old guy had been using the oven as extra storage. She found a whole bunch of canned goods in there.”
Aaron shook his head. “Yikes.”
“How is the basement looking?”
Aaron flashes a smile. “I’m pretty sure we’ll have all the structural issues dealt with before the inspector gets here. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
I nod and look away.
I want to lean on him. I want to take his hand and feel the roughness of his fingers. But it’s hot, and I’m sweaty, and the last thing he needs is a clingy girlfriend.
“I’m glad,” I say. “I’m really thankful that you’ve been working for the construction group.”
“Right?” Aaron chuckles, crossing his arms. “I couldn’t have planned that. Having all the contacts in place to get this old dump approved and ready to sell.”
My brain hiccups.
This would be an appropriate time for a compliment. I should tell him that I’ve seen how hard he’s working, that I acknowledge how much he’s grown, offer him the respect he deserves. But if I start gushing like that, he won’t understand why, because I haven’t done it before. And that’s on me. So is there a way to indicate that I respect him and his work without drawing attention to the fact that I’ve been a failure in this area?
“Trish?”
His voice barely registers.
I need to think of something to say to him. Normally I’d tease him about how his eyebrows look like drowned fuzzy caterpillars. But now that I think about it, that sounds mean. No wonder he hasn’t wanted to take our relationship to the next step, especially if I make fun of him the whole time. In fact, it’s a wonder that we’re still together at all!
“Trisha?”
I could compliment him on his tool belt, but he didn’t make that. I could compliment him on his ability to swing a hammer, but that falls short. I could compliment him on—
“Lee-Lee?”
I scowl at him. “Don’t call me that.”
Dummy. After everything you’ve put him through, he can certainly call you whatever he wants.
Aaron has moved closer and currently has my elbows in his hands, his expression wary. “Where did you wander off to?”
I blink. “Nowhere.”
“No, I think you got lost in that crazy brain of yours.” He smirks. “What’s rattling around up there under all your hair?”
My hair. Ugh. With my split ends. Is he bringing it up now because he’s noticed that my hair is a wreck?
“It’s nothing.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Trish.”
“It’s nothing, Aaron. I promise.”
The eyebrow stays raised, his expression doesn’t shift.
“I’m just tired.”
His fingertips press into my elbows with a bit more pressure, his thumbs brushing against my skin gently. His eyes narrow.
“Really.” I sigh and meet his gaze. “I’m just tired.”
Both eyebrows draw together and he leans into my face, his musky, spicy scent flaring boldly. “You put that doll in your room, didn’t you?”
My lips make a straight line as I glare at him. “Shut up.”
He throws his head back and cackles.
I should be irritated at him, but he’s laughing so hard that irritation is the last thing I’m feeling.
“Did it watch you all night long?” His eyes are sparkling with mirth, and—good Lord, he’s beautiful.
“You’re not funny, Aaron,” I manage to say.
His long fingers press against the damp fabric on my lower back as he pulls me closer and nudges my wild hair with his nose.
“I’m a little funny,” his voice rumbles in my ear.
I flatten my palm against the broad plane of his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp to the touch. He has plaster dust on his collarbone and shoulder, and I brush it off thoughtfully.
I don’t know how to do this. We’ve been together for so long, and we’ve had so many meaningful conversations. At least, they were meaningful to me. But how many times have we talked and I listened to him? How many times has he been struggling and never told me? How many times has he needed my help and I ignored him? How many times has he noticed all my failings and said nothing because he wanted to protect me?
“Trisha.”
His tone is a bit sharper, and I meet his eyes.
The sparkle is gone now, replaced with a sober expression of genuine concern.
“What is it?” The corners of his eyes crinkle intensely.
“I’m just—”
“You’re not just tired.” His hands slide down to set against my hips. “What’s wrong?”
I bring my other hand up to brush the dust off the other shoulder, pressing my lips together and swallowing hard. I should have known he’d recognize that I was upset. He’s always known me better than I know myself.
“Do you think—” The words are out of my mouth before I can reel them back in. “I’m disrespectful?”
I can’t look at him, so I stare at his chest.
“What?” he croaks.
Well, it’s not a croak per se. It’s something between a croak and a squeak, almost like he’s reverted to junior high and his voice is in the middle of changing.
I need to look at him, but I’m terrified to do so. What if his eyes tell me the truth—that he’s always thought I had a big mouth. That I always overstep my boundaries. That I never think before I speak and it always hurts him, but he’s too much of a gentleman to admit it.
I square my shoulders. “Do you think I’m disrespectful?”
Aaron pauses, his fingers still on my hips. “N—no.”
My heart drops.
I can feel it plop into my stomach.
“Trisha.” Now he sounds worried, his hands grasping my arms again. “What is going on?”
“You hesitated.” I shut my eyes.
“What?”
“You hesitated. You think I’m rude.”
“Trish.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.” He’s chuckling now, gentle and softly chiding. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.”
I fold up and press my forehead against his shoulder.
He sighs loud enough for the whole house to hear as he bundles me into his arms and holds me tightly in spite of the heat. “Trisha.” His voice is kind in my ear. “If I hesitated, it’s because I don’t understand the question.”
I pull back and finally meet his gaze defiantly. “It’s not a hard question!”
“It’s not the real question either, Trish.” He smiles.
My lower lip trembles, and I go back to brushing dust off his shirt.
“I say mean things to you all the time,” I mutter.
He cups my face in his hands.
“And I make you feel like you can’t do things or that you don’t notice things.”
My voice wavers.
“And I have split ends.”
Aaron snorts. “Trisha.”
“What?”
He lifts my chin with his index finger until I’m staring into his face.
“You talked to your mom, didn’t you?”
I feel the inadvertent flare of my eyes before I wince. “That has nothing to do with this.”
Aaron raises an eyebrow.
I sag again, and he runs gentle fingers into my tangled, sweat-soaked mass of hair. He cups the back of my head in the palm of his hand and pulls me forward to press a soft kiss against my brow.
“We need to talk, Trish.”
My stomach flips. “Yeah, we do.”
“But not here.” He straightens, hands back on my elbows as he steps back. “We both have work to do.”
I nod.
“I’m coming over for dinner tonight.” He squeezes my arms.
“So we can talk then. Okay?”
“Right.” I shake myself. “Sure. Of course.” I take a deep breath and smile.
The smile feels forced and wrong on my face. It’s not a smile that touches my eyes, and I’m sure he can tell. Because he’s Aaron, and he always knows.
He smirks at me, pats my cheek, and brushes past me to go into the house.
I stay on the porch staring out at the street for a moment, but before I can move Aaron’s warmth wraps around me from behind. One hand forms around the knob of my hip, and the other splays across my collarbone drawing me back against his chest as he presses a searing kiss behind my right ear.
He lingers there for a breath while I forget how to breathe, the air in my throat stuttering like a choking engine.
“I don’t see any split ends.” His voice is a deep, rumbling growl against my ear, the timbre of it setting my nerve endings on fire, like electricity sparking across my skin.
He kisses that spot behind my ear again, and then he’s gone.
Leaving me to regain my balance and composure like a beached trout flailing to get back into the water.
As I’m standing in place, trying to remember how to inhale and exhale, Cecily and Keith come around the side of the house and make a beeline to my box of magazines and unopened letters.
“I’ll take this.” He starts to lift the box. “Hey, Trish, I did have a favor to ask.” He frowns. “Would you be sure to leave the basement door unlocked tonight? I was planning to come back this evening and pack a few more things up.”
“Do you need help?”
Keith shakes his head. “No, we made some piles of household goods down there, and URM thought we could give them to some of the guys who live in the units.”
I nod. “Sure. I’ll leave the basement open.”
“Thanks.” Keith takes the box with a smile and backs away to carry it to his truck.
Cecily stays there for a moment, staring at me.
“Patricia.”
I blink. “Yes, Cecily?”
“You should drink more water. Your face is the color of a tomato, and as I am not prone to exaggeration, you should take my word.” She turns and follows Keith.
I watch them go and shut my eyes, a gentle breeze whispering through the drooping cottonwoods. It’s not a cool breeze, but it’s enough to cool some of the sweat on my neck and back.
Water.
Water is a good idea.
Then, more boxes, and looking into ordering a big yard dumpster so we can play target practice from the second floor.
After that? Dinner with the family and a conversation with Aaron. I decide not to think about it and walk back into the house, but even as I shove the anxiety and insecurity down deep where I don’t have to deal with it right now, it’s still there, throbbing with a hollow ache.
Laurel needs to come back. Between this project and my family and Aaron and Cecily and Keith and the weird vibe I keep getting from him, not having Laurel here feels like trying to walk a tightrope with one leg tied to the other.
What’s on the Inside?
“Patricia Leigh Lee, what is that horrifying thing doing in my house?” Mom drops the big wooden bowl of salad on the counter and gawks in genuine terror at the porcelain doll on the kitchen island.
All three of my sisters burst into spontaneous giggles as they continue with their respective chopping and slicing duties.
“Oh, watch out, Lee-Lee. Mom brought out the middle name.”
“Shut up, Lizzie.” I throw an olive at her.
“Don’t throw food in my kitchen, and get that awful demonic thing off my island!” Mom picks up the salad bowl again and stops at Clara’s cutting board to gather up the sliced radishes. “Honestly, Patricia, where did you find that horrible thing?”
My sister Ruth is carving strawberries to look like flowers, and she flashes a smirk at my mom. “Didn’t you hear, Mom? She found it in a dump of a house and thought it was haunted.”
“So you brought it back here?” Mom squeals.
“I was proving a point.” I shrug and crack open a jar of sunflower seeds.
Clara chuckles and scrapes the rest of her sliced radishes into the salad bowl. “It really is the ugliest doll I’ve ever seen.”
A loud babbling sound draws my gaze to the floor where Lizzie’s toddler Benji is clinging to my leg, pressing his round chubby face into my knee. Once he realizes he has my attention, he opens his mouth like a starving baby bird.
I glance at Lizzie who’s focused on the demonic doll and snatch a strawberry slice from Clara’s plate, setting it gently in Benji’s mouth. He giggles and chews happily with both of his teeth.
I’m probably encouraging bad behavior.
But I’m the cool aunt. I have a reputation to uphold.
“You found it in a basement?” Mom is nearly in hysterics.
Flashing a glare at Ruth, I return my attention to unwrapping packages and opening jars. They don’t give me sharp knives in this kitchen.
“It’s just a doll, Mom.”
“It is not just a doll.” Mom shakes her finger. “It’s something that you found in a nasty dirty house. It’s probably full of mold and dust and germs, and now you put it in my kitchen.”
The back door in the family room bangs as it slides open, and Roger, my diminutive brother-in-law, strides inside carrying a plate of sausages.
“First round of delicious grilled meats is—”
“Don’t set it next to the doll!” Mom shrieks.
Roger jumps like he’s been shot, and the sausages nearly roll off the plate. He shifts his weight like a Wallenda on a tightrope trying to keep the sausages from falling. Benji turns and opens his gaping mouth again in hopes that Roger is unsuccessful.
Roger regains his balance and throws a distraught look at Ruth. “What’s wrong with—”
“The doll.” Clara points to the ugly porcelain doll with her knife. “It’s evil.”
“Evil?” Roger leans forward.
“It’s not evil.” I roll my eyes and drop another strawberry in Benji’s mouth.
“It’s infested!” Mom turns away and dumps dressing into the salad bowl. “It probably has hantavirus.”
“Hantavirus?” Lizzie stops dicing peppers and gapes at her.
“It can’t have hantavirus,” Ruth sneers. “Only buildings have hantavirus.”
“Why are we talking about this?” I rest my elbows on the counter.
“What do I do with the sausages please?” Roger’s expression only grows more and more concerned.
“If you set them near the doll, they’ll be infected,” Mom says, sing-songy from the counter.
“Infected with what?” Clara snorts.
“Cooties.” I say and take a strawberry for myself.
“Patricia, stand up straight,” Mom snaps. “You’ll ruin your posture.”
“Yes, and posture is so important.” Lizzie makes a face and dumps her cutting board of chopped grapes into a bowl. “If you had better posture, Trish, your hair wouldn’t be so hard to manage.”
Ruth scowls. “That doesn’t make any sense, Lizzie.”
“I’m sure Mom will say it’s a contributing factor,” I say dryly.
Roger holds up the plate again. “Sausages?”
A loud, echoing voice reverberates off the tall ceilings as my niece Gwen gallops into the room on a pretend horse. She’s wearing a pink sequined cowboy hat, a pull-up diaper, and nothing else.
Clara couldn’t get the child to wear pants for her life.
And I’ve never been prouder. I’m pretty sure that Gwen is my spirit animal.
“Mommy, I’mma ride a pony!” Gwen fake-gallops to her mom’s legs.
“That’s nice, sweetheart,” Clara says without looking at her. “Roger, just take the sausages into the dining room. There are no demon-possessed dolls in there.”
“There are no demon-possessed dolls in here,” I mutter.
Gwen clatters to a stop next to me, staring
wild eyed at baby-bird Benji still holding his mouth open begging for strawberries. He turns to look at her and doesn’t close his mouth. Gwen sidles up next to him and looks into his mouth.
“Helllloooo down there!” She waves at something imaginary in Benji’s mouth.
The sliding door to the den opens again, and now it’s Bill and Dan, both with plates of sausages and chicken, fresh off the grill. Dad isn’t just a pastor; he regularly participates in the immolation of various animals.
Gwen gallops around the island.
“Gwen-baby, go gallop in the den please,” Mom croons.
Roger waves at Bill and Dan, points to the ugly doll on the kitchen island, and waves them in for a landing in the dining room.
“Trisha, put the rolls on the table.” Ruth shoves a basket of bread into my hands.
“Any magic words?”
“We don’t believe in magic.” Ruth pokes me in the forehead.
I start to turn around, and Benji increases the strength of his grip around my leg. Sloping my shoulders in defeat, I hobble awkwardly toward the dining room.
“Trisha, posture!” Mom calls after me.
I ignore her and set the bread basket on the table while Bill, Dan, and Roger stare at me.
“I have a Klingon.” I point to my leg.
Dan cackles as he bends down, and Benji lets out a squeal as he reaches for his dad. Dan pries the little boy off my leg and cuddles him close.
“You smell like strawberries.” Dan bops Benji on the nose and throws a suspicious glance at me.
“Hey, I’m the cool aunt.”
“Ha.” Dan heads back for the kitchen. “If he doesn’t eat his food, I’m telling Lizzie it’s your fault.”
“Tattle tale.”
I rearrange the items on the table to prepare for the giant salad bowl, the giant fruit salad bowl, the condiments, the coleslaw, and the last platter of meat that Dad is finishing up on the grill. I heard something about green beans at some point, but if they exist, I haven’t seen them.
“Patricia.” A creaky old voice calls from the dining room doorway into the hall.
I glance up.
Gran hovers in sight, clutching her walker and glaring at me like I told her that her hair was falling out.
“Hi, Gran.”
“Are we ready to eat yet? What’s taking so long?”
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