Overdue - 18

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Macon said to me a few days later at work. “I’m going to paint my kitchen yellow.”

“Really?” I no longer remembered that I’d left his house feeling angry and envious. I only felt a stir of excitement that my vision was about to become a reality.

“Yeah. Ever since you said it, I can picture it clearly.”

I straightened. It felt good to be useful. I hadn’t felt that in a while.

“But is it okay? I feel like I’m stealing your idea.”

I waved away his concern. “That’s what I would paint that kitchen. I have no idea what my own future kitchen will look like. Steal away.”

Several hours later, though, it was still on my mind. How charming it would look with the correct shade of yellow. How repellent it could look with the wrong one. “Are you going to paint your kitchen soon?” I asked.

He nodded, slowly at first but then faster as he considered it further. “I think so.”

“May I help?”

He seemed surprised. “You want to help me paint?”

“Yeah.” I had surprised myself, too, but this was the most interest I’d felt in anything since I’d stopped dating. Also, I couldn’t tell him that I was concerned he’d pick an ugly color. That I was concerned for the integrity of his house.

He’d been looking at me askance, but his gaze sharpened. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am.”

“Have you ever even painted a room? Since you live in an unpaintable apartment?”

“I helped Brittany with her house. And Cory’s friends held a lot of painting parties.” The blankness of his response prodded me to elaborate. “That’s when you invite your friends over to paint the walls of your new place, and you pay them in pizza and beer, and supposedly it’s fun.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“It is . And everyone else would always get drunk, and somehow the painting was always left to me. And I would do it!” A thought occurred to me. “That’s probably why I was invited to so many parties.”

“You’re too responsible.”

“I am.”

“If it’s so bad, then why do you want to help?”

“Because it sounds better than sitting alone in my sad apartment.”

He frowned, but a man interrupted us, wanting to replace a lost card. Macon asked to see his ID, and while the guy was digging it out, Macon shook his head. “I don’t know. You’d be doing me another favor, and I still owe you for watching Edmond.”

“You’re not in my debt. I was helping out a friend. You’d do it for me.”

“You don’t have a cat.”

“Come on.”

He threw up his hands. “Okay. I’m not going to stop you from painting my kitchen.”

“ Helping paint. This isn’t a painting party.”

His expression turned vexed as he snatched the driver’s license out of the man’s hands a little too aggressively.

“When do you want to start?” I asked as soon as we were alone again.

“Sunday?”

“If we start then, we won’t be able to finish it over the weekend.”

“My kitchen isn’t big. It won’t take two days to paint.”

I explained that he was forgetting about the prep work: patching, sanding, cleaning, taping, priming. More importantly, he hadn’t factored in the time it would take to select the color. “But we’re painting it yellow,” he said, baffled. “A buttery, sunshiny yellow, like you said.”

“You’re underestimating how many shades of yellow exist in the world.” I did a quick search. “Okay, so the hardware store down the road closes at seven. That gives us plenty of time to pick up samples after work.”

“You mean tonight ?”

“Do you have anything else going on?”

“I might,” he grumbled.

A few hours later, I was thrusting paint sample cards into his hands. After I helped him eliminate the most obvious nos, he was still left holding dozens of cards. “Tape these to your kitchen walls,” I said, removing another that was too pastel. “Move them around and study them in different types of light. Take down the rejects as you spot them and keep narrowing it down until you’re left with only a few that you like. I’ll come over before work on Saturday and help you pick the right one.”

“Why before work?”

“So I can see them in the daylight. That way you’ll be ready to buy the paint after work, and then we can start early the next morning. In the meantime, you should spackle any holes and repair any cracks.”

He seemed overwhelmed. “How do you know all this?”

I felt gleeful at being more knowledgeable about something than him for once, and I lectured him on small rollers versus the regular size. “The small ones are so lightweight that your arms don’t get tired. You’ll have to tape, but then you won’t have to cut in, so it’s worth it.”

He agreed to try them only to shut me up. But like any good librarian, he made up for his ignorance with diligent research. By Saturday morning, his walls were prepped and cleaned, he’d created a list of remaining supplies to purchase, and four paint sample cards were taped up.

I read them aloud. “Midsummer Magic, Sun-Kissed, Rise and Shine, Goldilocks.”

“Which one do you like?” he asked, handing me a mug of green tea with honey. I enjoyed all varieties of caffeine, but this was a particular favorite. Unsurprisingly, he’d been the one to hook me on it in the first place. I blew across the surface and took a sip. Also unsurprisingly, his tasted better than mine.

“They’re all good,” I said, admiring the colors.

His shoulders relaxed, and I could tell that my approval pleased him.

“Maybe Goldilocks is a touch too gold. And Sun Kissed is a tad bland?”

He took them off the wall.

“Rise and Shine,” I said. “That’s the one.”

“That’s the one I was leaning toward, too.”

I removed the card and slapped it onto his chest. “Done.”

The unexpected contact startled us both. I’d never just … touched his chest before. He made a whole production of slowly untaping the card from his shirt while giving me a hard look.

I shrugged because I honestly didn’t know why I’d done it.

He tutted with mock disappointment. “Rise and Shine it is.”

Macon was an early riser, despite his grumpiness upon arriving to work every day. (“My mood has everything to do with leaving my house, and nothing to do with the morning itself,” he once told me.) I still wasn’t sleeping well, so we made plans for me to return early again on Sunday. I’d wanted to go with him to the hardware store to pick up the paint and supplies, but I’d spent our whole Saturday shift trying to think up an excuse to join him and never did.

We both laughed when he greeted me at the door. We were wearing the same shirt, a gray Colburn County logo tee that we’d received as a holiday “gift” from our employer two years earlier. Other notable gifts included brown paper lunch sacks that each contained a pitiful orange and five chestnuts, and logo coffee mugs that we were ordered to stop using a few months later because they turned out to be contaminated with lead.

“Merry Christmas,” I said.

“Humbug,” he said.

He’d already taped around the cabinets, windows, and trim. Everything was ready and waiting for me, including breakfast. He’d texted an hour earlier: If you value my sanity, please don’t eat another Pop-Tart. I’ll make something for us. He’d seen them on my kitchen counter and had been pestering me about it ever since. “I only bought one box,” I said, heading for the little table in his dining room. “Desperate times and all that.” Then I gasped. Two plates were piled with matching heaps of home fries and tofu scramble. “This is so nice. Thank you.”

He set down another mug of tea in front of me. “You’re welcome.”

I moaned at the first mouthful of scramble—peppers, spinach, onions, and herbs. “I assume these are all from your garden?”

“Yeah. Are the peppers okay? They were still in my freezer from last year. I’m trying to use everything up before I fill it again this summer.”

“Everything’s delicious. I can’t wait to see what you make for me tomorrow morning.”

“I’d be happy to feed you again tomorrow morning.”

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. “I wasn’t serious.”

He shrugged. “I was.”

And he did seem content, watching me tuck in. I thought I understood, though. No part of me blamed Cory or was angry with him, but it had always made me sad not to be able to cook for him. Not to be able to share in the preparation and presentation and pleasure of a good meal. I also suspected—so perhaps I did blame him a bit—that this had held me back. Although my diet wasn’t usually as unhealthy as it had been lately, I might have made more of an effort in general if we could have shared our meals. The want and need to feed the people we cared about was primal. It was why families gathered for dinner, why coworkers baked each other rum cakes. And tofu scrambles.

Macon fought with me about cleaning up afterward. “You can’t not let me help,” I said.

“It’s okay. I’m weird about dishes. I like them done a certain way.”

“We’re librarians. We all like things done a certain way. Tell me how you do them, and I can help.” I started to put a plastic lid into his dishwasher, and he made a strangled noise. I held it up. “This?”

“No plastic in the dishwasher.”

I set it back down on the counter. “Got it.”

Soon I learned which bar of soap was for hands and which was for handwashed dishes (I’d guessed wrong before), which dishes needed to be dried immediately (normally just the cast iron, but today everything because we had to remove it from the room), and how to start the dishwasher (with a scoop of unlabeled powder). Then we moved the last few remaining items into the dining room and set out the drop cloths. It was finally time to roll the primer.

I started on one side of a corner, he started on the other, and soon our rollers met up in the middle. The primer was flat and streaky, but covering the battered old white already made the room look brighter. We washed up and had a couple of hours to kill while it dried. As strange as it sounded, we’d never hung out like this before, just the two of us with nothing specific to do. Concerned that it might get awkward, I asked for a full garden tour, and he obliged.

Everything was greener now, although most of the growth was still small and new. He showed me the early vegetables planted in neat rows and the numerous trays of labeled seedlings in his greenhouse. Their tiny leaves were so sweet. There was an herb garden laid out in a stone spiral that his aunt had built, plump beds with the first hints of native perennials, hidden birdhouses and feeders, and a sign declaring his yard to be a certified pollinator habitat. He was so proud of everything, and I liked seeing him happy.

“How much of this was here when you were a kid?” I asked.

“The spiral planter, some of the fruit trees, and that Japanese maple beside the driveway. The renters had let the weeds and grass claim the rest. Bonnie was livid. But a lot of it does look similar to how she used to have it, though more for practical reasons than sentimental.” He gestured to the vegetable garden as an example. “That’s the only area that gets enough sunlight for those beds.”

“Did she surround them in picket fencing, too?”

He laughed. “Chicken wire. Every time I had to fix it, it’d cut the shit out of my hands.” Nostalgia crept into his voice. “She taught me how to do all this, you know.”

“I do know. She must have loved visiting you here and seeing you in your adult life, puttering around in her garden, rehabilitating it.”

His expression fell into somberness, and I realized I’d said the wrong thing, turning her visits into the past tense. Not allowing for the possibility of her rehabilitation.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He shook his head as if to say it was okay, even though nothing about Bonnie’s situation was okay. “She did love it.”

A thought struck me. “Was it a difficult decision to paint the kitchen?”

He understood what I was getting at. “Because it’s looked like that my whole life?”

“I’m just suddenly wondering if that’s why you hadn’t touched anything for all these years. If maybe the house—the way it is—holds a lot of happy memories for you.”

Macon considered it before replying. “It’s true that I was always happier here than I was at my mom’s house,” he said, referring to the difficulties with her agoraphobia. His aunt was the one who had taken him places, and his childhood had become more isolated after she’d gotten married and moved away. “Bonnie was the fun one, the one who let me break the rules. In fact, I broke my arm falling out of that tree when I was seven.” He pointed to one of the cherry trees, and we laughed.

“Your mom must have lost her mind.”

“It took half a year before she allowed Bonnie to watch me again, even though the accident was definitely not Bonnie’s fault. I was up there reading and lost my balance.”

“You broke your arm reading ?”

Our laughter grew.

“I can’t believe you’ve never told me this story before,” I said.

“I absolutely have.”

“I would remember,” I insisted, because I would.

“Anyway,” he said, “when I took ownership of the house, Bonnie encouraged me to make it my own. And then Dani filled it with her stuff‚ which was fine. Honestly, I just hadn’t been motivated until you brought it up again. I guess I’d stopped seeing what shape it was in. I had to see it through your horrified eyes,” he added. His tone was pleasurably offended.

It made me smile. “So is Bonnie the older or younger sister?”

“Younger.”

“Figures. They’re always the fun ones. They’re allowed to be. They don’t have the same pressures and responsibilities on them.”

“ You’re fun.”

He was still joking around, but I blanked on a witty response. God, it was mortifying to always be so eager for him to like me. We had circled back to the porch, so we sat in the wrought iron chairs. “Does Edmond ever join you out here?” I asked, needing to draw his attention away from my flustered nonreaction. “Since he used to be an outdoor cat?”

“Sometimes he’ll follow me around for a while. Sniff the earth, chase the bugs. But usually he’d rather enjoy the garden through the windows. He’s very stubborn. And lazy.”

“Well, I’ll have to come back this summer when everything’s in full bloom.”

“You’re welcome here anytime.”

He didn’t say it offhandedly. He said it like he meant it, and—there it was, that charge hovering in the air between us. I burned with renewed hope and confusion.

His brow furrowed as he turned toward his toolshed. “Can I ask you a question?”

My pulse thumped inside my throat.

“Why did you decide not to go to library school?”

It was upsetting that he could still do this to me, make me think he was going to ask about something else even though we were firmly back in friends territory. I didn’t want to feel this way around him. I didn’t want to ruin things between us again. I needed to stop misinterpreting him just because some lonely part of me wanted something that wasn’t there.

“I can’t really explain it,” I said after collecting myself. “But every time I thought about going, I felt sick to my stomach.”

“Was it the school part? Or the library part?”

I hesitated. I felt bad admitting the truth to him because even though he complained about his job, it was what he wanted to do. “Both.”

His gaze left the shed and returned to me.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m glad that Sue and Constance think highly of me. I’m grateful for the steady work, and I love the branch. And my coworkers,” I added.

Macon gave a sad but knowing smile.

“It’s like I have the second-best job in the world, and that should be enough. But it’s not.”

“What is the best?”

I winced. “It’s going to sound stupid.”

“I doubt that.”

“I loved working in the bookstore.”

He frowned. “Why would that be stupid?”

“Worse hours. Worse pay. But yeah, best job.” My posture turned defensive. “And I know it’s hypocritical, because we’re always talking about saving money and using what we already have and buying things used, but … books are different. For me, at least. And the book business means more to me than any other business, so it’s where I want to spend my dollars. So I don’t think it actually makes me a hypocrite. It’s just investing my money where I believe it matters.”

He let that sit for a few seconds before cocking his head. “If you’re trying to justify why somebody might want to purchase a book new or work in a bookstore, you know you don’t have to convince me, right?”

I looked away from him, laughing, but I had worried about what he would think. Macon, with his nontoxic cleaning supplies and organic vegetable garden and environmental economics books. Macon, whose opinion always mattered so much to me.

“Have you ever thought about opening one yourself?” he asked.

I snorted with surprise. “Actually, I have—and recently—but no. I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

I made a face like he was nuts. “Because I don’t know anything about starting a small business.”

“And you think all those other shopkeepers do? You think the guy who owns Vape or Dare knew anything about starting a small business? Or that pervert who owns Mastervaper?”

“Yes!” I laughed again. “Because they did it.”

“So you can, too.”

I shook my head, still smiling.

“I’m serious. If the vape shop guys can do it, anybody can.”

“Yeah, but the vape shop guys sell legal drugs. They don’t have to have great stores, they just have to have stores . They’re not hurting for customers. Bookstores are hurting.”

Macon shrugged.

“They are.”

“I know. But … maybe that’s not enough of a reason not to try.”

“Yeah, but I could put everything I own into it and lose everything I own .”

“And if that happened, you could come back to the library and do the second-best job in the world. Or move into the country and learn how to make cider. Or move to a remote Canadian island to study puffins. The world wouldn’t end.”

I continued listing reasons why it was a bad idea, all the duties of being a store owner that I didn’t know how to do or that sounded boring or difficult. All the duties that I did know how to do that were boring or difficult. But Macon shrugged these off, too. “No job is perfect. The trick is to find one with enough parts that you love to help you get through the shitty parts.”

“Speaking of jobs,” I said.

The first roll of color was the highlight of any painting job. Our rollers moved upward like synchronized swimmers, and the yellow was so flawless that I gasped.

“I agree,” Macon said. As good as a gasp.

The buttery warmth spread, and in less than an hour the first coat was done. Macon had pre-prepared lunch for us, because of course he had, so we returned to the patio and ate barbecue jackfruit sandwiches. The sauce was tangy, and the sandwiches were topped with a coleslaw that contained crisp green apples. Bumblebees hummed, and leaves danced in the breeze. It was as if we’d stepped into our old game: this was the place where we’d rather be than work. Our conversation flowed as it had in the before times, as it had that weekend over text, and it never slowed during the second coat, the break, the final coat. The walls glowed in the setting sun.

“You were right,” he said. “This color is perfect.”

It was perfect. I swooned.

He held up one of the small rollers. “You were right about these, too.”

I laughed. That was also a satisfying win. And I couldn’t believe how quickly we’d finished, a full day early, but he’d done more prep than I’d anticipated. We removed the blue painter’s tape, and I did touch-ups with a thin brush while he cleaned and put things away. Edmond wandered in to inspect our work, curious what all the fuss had been about.

It was fully dark before everything was back where it belonged. I scrubbed my skin at the sink and washed off the paint, but a few stubborn flecks of primer remained on my hands and in my nail beds. It made me think of Gareth, which reminded me of how poorly I had treated him, and my melancholy—absent for an entire day—drifted back in and settled down for the night.

“You okay?” Macon noticed I’d gone quiet. His tone changed. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“Paint in your hair. It’s in the back, near your ponytail.”

I patted my head and cursed when I found the offending spot. After removing the ponytail holder, I tried to ease the paint down the strands. It barely budged.

“Shit,” I said. “I think it’s primer.”

Macon had been cradling Edmond but set him down to help. He reached out—and then hesitated. He’d touched my hair a few times over the years to untangle rogue barrettes. Doing it in the stillness of his own house felt different.

He was gentle. Careful and slow, just like when he detangled any other object. He was able to pick out most of the primer with his fingers, but then he had me lean over his sink to wash out the rest. Our bodies were so close that I smelled his sweat. No doubt he could smell mine.

“Oh,” I said, my eyes catching on something.

“Sorry. I’m trying to be careful.”

“No, you’re fine. But you’ve got some, too.” I gestured to the spot behind his ear where a pen normally sat. He’d probably touched it out of habit. It was also in an awkward location, so I squeezed the dripping water from my hair and instructed him to remove his glasses. I reached out—and then hesitated. Just like he had done. In the five years we’d known each other, I had never touched his hair. My fingers made contact, and he stopped breathing.

I didn’t understand, but there it was again: that familiar jolt and frisson. Touching his scalp was too intimate. I fought the urge to rake my hands through his unkempt hair, pull his head toward mine, and kiss him.

I suspected that he would allow it this time.

It was only the yellow latex, so the paint came off easily. I let go. He released a shuddering breath, which I ignored by turning on the sink full blast to wash my hands—and to wash away the feeling of danger. Maybe he was attracted to me, but he’d also had his reasons for rejecting me. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know what they were. I had to respect them. I did respect them.

“Well, Mason.” Sometimes I called him Mason because it needled him. Tonight I needed that crowbar, the distance of humor. “We did good.”

He put his glasses back on, and my heart tightened with lust. Goddammit. I was so attracted to men in chunky frames. He stared at the cabinets for several seconds. I thought he was collecting himself, but then he said, “They seem dingy now, don’t they?”

“A little.” A lot, actually. They’d already looked sad, but the fresh paint on the surrounding walls made them appear even worse.

He sighed. “I guess that’s my next project, then.”

“Repaint them in white if you want to keep it classic,” I said, because it had been on my mind all day. “Or use the same yellow if you want something more interesting—purposeful oversaturation.”

“What would you do?”

“It’s not my house.”

“But what would you do?”

“I’d … have to think about it.” I switched the point of view back to him, where it belonged. “But you’ll have plenty of time for that. First, you’ll need to take off the doors, remove all the hardware, and sand everything. I’ve heard it’s a terrible job.”

He rubbed his temples. “Oh good.”

“My friend Brittany has an electric sander,” I said, collecting my tote bag and preparing to leave. “I’m sure you could borrow it.”

“That’d be great. Would you mind texting her?”

“Wait. Now?”

“Might as well start tomorrow.”

I raised my eyebrows.

He leaned against the sink in an exhausted way that wasn’t meant to be suggestive but that I would think about later that night in bed. “You wouldn’t happen to have any interest in helping out with a terrible job, would you?”