Page 36 of Writing On The Wall

I hoist myself up onto a counter, grunting out my reply. “True.” Another reminder that this town won’t keep him here.

“Love you, Vee. Don’t murder anyone.”

“But Nicolas taught me so much about how to get away with it,” I joke, referring to Ember’s cat and his crime show obsession. “Love you, Em. I’ll see you soon.”

I scrape away for the next ten minutes, peeling away the layers like old memories that have imprinted themselves into the walls.

I manage to get the majority of the wallpaper off, but there are still a few stubborn parts that will need to be sprayed. That’s one thing I managed to research on my lunch break yesterday.

Dry strips of the paper rustle on the countertop as I shiftaround. I probably should have covered the area before I started.

Acknowledging that I have dyslexia—if only to myself—has meant coming to terms with doing things in an order that might seem strange to others. It’s all part of my life story of trial and error. Try, re-adjust. Try, re-adjust.

Sometimes it feels like pushing a wagon. For maximum efficiency, a wagon is designed to be pulled, but when my brain defaults to pushing, I have to question whether I’m approaching tasks in the most logical and energy-efficient manner.

From the looks of the mess surrounding me, there most likelywasa more efficient way to go about this. I begin my descent, but my shoe slides over a strip of paper on the first step.

I instinctively reach out when I slip, scraping my arm against the rusty hinge I left behind after removing a cupboard door last night.

Ouch.

Slowly this time, I make it to the floor without further injury and go directly to the bathroom where I keep the first aid kit. I’ve done this too many times lately.

I clean the scrape below my elbow and select a Mandalorian Band-Aid. My class is on a Star Wars trend, and they love it when I jump on the bandwagon for whatever they’re into.

I walk back into the kitchen and find Ethan there with his shirt back on—whomp-whomp.His back is turned to me and his hands rest on his hips as he surveys the mess I’ve created.

He peers over his shoulder when he hears me shuffling closer. Eyes with the gray of an impending storm sweep over my newest Band-Aid. His body pivots until he’s facing me, his gaze tethered to my arm the whole time.

He lifts a hand with a shake of his head, as if to ask ‘how.’

I roll my eyes dramatically and stick my tongue out in response. But, come on, I hang out with eight-year-olds all day. Can you blame me if my comebacks are a bit on the childish side?

“Do you walk around with your eyes closed? How are you this accident prone?” he asks, his voice deep and filled with annoyance.

“Um,rude. My spatial awareness may need improving, but allow me to remind you about rule number three.” I step forward and poke him in the chest, my frown deepening at how un-squishy it feels. “Why are you here, anyway? I thought you left.”

He turns and saunters to a cabinet, opening and closing doors. “Where are your mugs?”

When he looks my way, I unfold an arm and point to one of the lower cupboards. He opens it to find the two mugs, two glasses, and two plates that occupy the space. I can’t bring myself to unpack everything, only to have to repack it all when I install new cabinets—which will hopefully be sooner than later.

Ethan picks a mug—the one with 2006 Mr. Darcy’s face on it—and a grin slowly takes over his face, like we’re sharing an inside joke. But I furrow my brow. No way he knows who that is.

He holds the mug under the sink and flicks the tap to fill it up, offering it to me like a proud cat that just dropped its prey onto my lap.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” I ask.

“Feel it,” he says, nudging the mug closer.

I scrunch up my nose and curl a hand around the mug, then my eyes widen in surprise. “You fixed the water heater?”

“Of course I did.” He beams.

“You could have just asked me to stick my hand under the faucet. This was a weird approach.”

“Dang it, Ivy,” he groans, setting the cup down in the sink. “Can’t you just thank me? And seriously, I know I’m about to break another rule, but help me understand why you’re wearing shoes like that for a job like this?” He gestures over the mess I left on the counter. I may be overly defensive at times, but he isn’t putting a whole lot of effort into not being an a-hole, either.

“I’d think my reasons for wearing shoes with added height were pretty obvious.”

---