Page 28 of Lovingly Restored

“It’s necessary to me. I don’t want to owe you anything.”

He turns to face me, and everything in his body language is tense. Taut neck muscles, firm set jaw. I think of the abs that stopped my elbow in its tracks.

“Ashlyn,” his voice is strained, “it was a favour. A friendly gesture after an inconvenient night.”

“You know what would have been a friendly gesture?” My voice rises, shrill like my engine that night. Why am I letting my emotions run so high?

“I bet you’ll tell me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Calling! Calling would have been nice instead of some weird act of chivalry whereby you assumed I’m incapable of taking care of myself or my crappy vehicle. And I’m sorry it wasinconvenientfor you!”

He points a finger at me. “It wasn’t like that at all!”

He loses his composure, slamming his fist against the thin board we cut together. Splintering beneath his fist, the pieces clatter against the floor. The triangular pencil falls from the table. I watch it sit there, immobile and stuck. Kind of like Isaac and I. Frustration radiates off us. I have to get out of the workshop before we take our anger out in a way we can’t take back. Because we aren’t looking at each other like we hate each other. Quite the opposite. I fantasize about tossing a wrench at his stupidly handsome face, but also figure a ferocious fling on the floorboards would go a long way to blowing off some steam. My sweater feels like a straitjacket, so I push at the door with an adrenaline-fuelled shove, but it doesn’t budge.

“Pull.”

”Iknow!“ I shoot daggers at him, pulling this time and charging out.

Gulping the night air calms me. Outside, away from the smell of Isaac and fresh-cut cedar, my mind begins to clear. No more visiting the workshop. No more chats with a man sitting at the foot of my bed.Absolutelyno more shared laundry. There’s chemistry between us, that’s for sure, but the equation is off. I enter the house, going straight for my purse and pulling out several fifty-dollar bills. If Isaac won’t tell me how much the tow cost, fine, I’ll still pay him. I won’t owe him anything, and I’ll make sure I never do again. I let myself into his room, tossing the money toward the bed, watching the red rectangles flutter down to the duvet. The way they land askew irritates me, so I march over to stack them up and place them on the end table instead. I won’t leave the money thrown about like a damn strip club. When the pile is neat, I remember his words.You can’t even do laundry casually.Tears sting my eyes. He’s right. That’s who I am.

Another stack of paper catches my eye. Before I consider that it might be something confidential, I’ve already scanned the heading. You can’tunseesomething. It’s a bank statement, clearly labelled: Lauri Contracting and Restoration. This must be new. I asked him if he ran his own business last week, and he’d said no. Things start falling into place, my brain filing my thoughts like tiny folders. Isaac recently moved in with his grandmother, hardly going anywhere except for the workshop. I’d bet this stack of money and more that he’s had a big change lately. I try to drum up the anger from before, but it won’t appear. Instead, there’s a sense of camaraderie and a bit of pity for a guy who’s been down on his luck. A guy I’ve been barking at to keep up with his chores. I slip out of the room and head for the bathroom to shower. Washing the remnants of this masculine Christmas smell off my skin will help me cool off. God knows I need something to take my core temperature down a few degrees. How long am I going to lay in bed tonight replaying every word of this stupid fight? Is that how it’s going to be for the next who knows how long? Flirt, fight, retreat, repeat?

Chapter eleven

Isaac

Itrytokeepthe corners of my mouth from creeping upwards, but my mouth splits open into a grin so wide my cheeks ache. Staying annoyed with my type-A roommate is too hard when she does cute stuff like this. The tidy stack of cash that first appeared on my end table after our spat in the workshop has just turned up neatly rolled into the crotch of my cleaned and impeccably folded boxer briefs with a note that reads:

I did your laundry, nowyouoweme.

I tried my damndest to return her money. Slipping it into the cover of her smutty romance novel didn’t work. The next morning the bills reappeared under my windshield wiper. I snuck back into the kitchen like a fucking ninja while she was washing Mummo’s hair and tucked it into her apron pocket. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had with one hundred and fifty dollars. Neither of us has said a thing about it out loud, but we’ve dared each other to with furtive glances.

I had no idea it would be such an enormous deal that I towed her car. I’ll take the fact that I had her headlights and belts replaced to the fucking grave. That she didn’t notice either repair is a testament to the fact it needed doing. I’m not proud of my part in our spat, though. I acted like some hot-headed Neanderthal who lost his favourite club. Her line of questioning brought out the deep-seeded frustration I’ve been bottling up. Interacting with Ashlyn drives me up every wall of the house and along the sloping roof, too. Some mornings I receive the silent treatment, other days we play cards with Mummo after supper and make small talk. I’ve seen her check out my biceps one moment then glare at me the next. If you ask me, she doesn’t have a clue what she wants. Casual hookups haven’t been my thing for years, and Ashlyn doesn’t seem like the type, but I’m not sure how much longer we can dance around the palpable sexual frustration.

In the kitchen I snag an apple from the fruit bowl, biting into it then running a finger down Mummo’s handwritten list, contemplating which item I should tackle. Halfway down I find something promising. After checking the workshop to see what I have on hand, I head to the closest hardware shop. It’s small, locally owned, but the only thing I need is paint and some chains. The roads are calm on a Sunday morning; the fresh green buds on the tips of the trees are poised to blossom, and there’s more blue than grey in the sky for a change. Soon, pink and white flowers will burst open in droves, signalling the early spring of the West Coast. The front window of the store sparkles and displays hand lettered signage and a pyramid of paint cans. A bell jingles over the door as I enter, the sound of small business and Sundays with Pappa.

Mr. Umber, the long-time owner, shakes my hand over the counter. His smile deepens the grooves along his cheeks.

“Isaac! Good to see you around here. What can I help you with?”

“Looking to get a couple gallons of paint today. Fixing up a porch swing for Mummo.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Not too bad, thanks. Well enough to have me doing chores.”

Mr. Umber laughs with his thumbs hooked in his suspenders. He’s only a few years younger than my grandma. Still working and keeping busy. Pappa had done the same thing. Never truly retiring. It kept him sharp.

“Still working with your father at Forward?”

I hesitate before deciding honesty is the best policy with someone I’ve known since I was too small to see over the shop counter.

“I’ve moved on. He let me go.”

His bushy eyebrows sink. “I don’t like the sound of that at all, Isaac. Sorry to hear it.”

“I’m trying something new…” Before I can second guess it, I reach into my back pocket for my wallet and draw out one of the business cards that came in the mail.

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