Page 133 of Perfect Mess

“Doesn’t sound horrible.” Gary smiled. My heart practically beat right out of my chest.

Once we got going, Gary took over and did all the work. Since he was the expert, I was a happy to let him take charge. I helped where I could, handing him a fresh paint brush when he needed to cut in along the edges or holding the ladder for him when he had to reach the top of the wall.

It was well after midnight when Gary finally climbed down the ladder and stepped back to assess the result. I waited while his eyes swept over the wall. Floor to ceiling. Back and forth. “Not bad,” he said, nodding his head. “Not bad at all.”

“I think it looks great.” The greige was gone. The pink was gone. And yes, the red really popped.

“Is it hot in here or is it just me?” Gary wiped the sweat off the back of his neck with a clean paint cloth. Reaching back, his exposed triceps rippled, triggering a similar response just below my abdomen.

“It’s not just you.” I fanned myself with an open palm. And it wasn’t just hot in Aunt Catherine’s house, it was suffocating. “Gus told me the duct work needs replaced. The circulation in here is the equivalent of a stagnant pool of mud.” Aunt Catherine’s air conditioner unit was ancient, so whenever the temperature got up there, it just couldn’t keep up.

“I can look at it later.” I thought to myself that Gary could look at whatever he wanted to.

Gary peeled off his painting overalls, leaving only the shorts and Yale T-shirt he had been wearing underneath. I tried not to stare, failing miserably.

“It’s going to be a little wet for a while,” Gary said. “But it should be completely dry in time for the open house.” I watched as a funny look settled on Gary’s face. “That reminds me.” His teeth pressed into his upper lip. “I got you something for your open house. Be right back.”

Gary went out to his van. When he came back, he had something large and rectangular wrapped in brown paper. There was even a red bow on it, the same color as the wall. “Open it.”

As soon as I ripped open the brown paper wrapping, all the air whooshed out of my lungs and my heart hit the pause button. It was Last Flight, the painting of the little blue bird. I didn’t even realize I was crying until Gary handed me his paint rag. I didn’t even care that it was sweat soaked.

“But Jack took this one,” I sputtered. “How did you …”

“I bought it back,” said Gary. “One of the nurses found it sitting in the back of a closet at his office. Still wrapped.”

Without thinking about it, I jumped into Gary’s arms for a hug. “Thank you Gary. Thank you so much.” It was the best present I ever received. Even better than the Barbie Dream House, my dad got me one year for Christmas.

Gary’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. I could feel the beat of his heart quicken as my body pressed against his. That time when I looked up into his eyes, he didn’t look away.

I’m not sure which one of us leaned in first, but as soon as his lips pressed against my lips, a wave of heat coursed through my entire body like hot lava flowing from a volcano. From my lips, down to my chest, then oozing down lower and lower until it consumed me entirely.

I could still feel his heartbeat, the pace getting faster and faster as I splayed my hands across his chest. His shoulders tensed, the muscles like granite boulders, baking all day in the sun.

If Aunt Catherine’s house was hot before, now it was on fire. I couldn’t breathe. My head was spinning. The entire middle part of my body between my upper thighs and my chest was on a rocket ship ride straight into the middle of the sun.

Before I lost what little was left of my spiraling self control, I pushed away from him. “We said we were going to take things slow,” I gasped. My heart sure wasn’t beating slow. Neither was all the blood pumping through my body, most of it still rushing down to all the parts below my waist. The only thing slow that was happening was the flow of oxygen into my lungs because I had stopped breathing.

“Slow?” He said it like he was repeating a word from a foreign language, a word he had never heard before and didn’t know the meaning. “Right. We should definitely take it slow.” His mouth was saying one thing, but his eyes were on a completely different page. Actually, a different book entirely.

“It’s late,” he said. “Now that the painting’s finished, I should finish cleaning up and go.”

“Yes,” I agreed. My voice was barely a whisper.

He didn’t move.

I didn’t move either. Once again, staring into his eyes was like getting sucked down into a whirlpool in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, lost, gone, and forgotten.

“You’re staring,” said Gary.

“So are you.”

“That’s because you have paint in your hair.” Gary smiled.

“Well, I’m staring because you have paint on your shirt.”

“I do?” Gary peered down at his torso. Which, coincidentally, I was peering at too.

“Right there on your shoulder.” I pointed at his hard, chiseled shoulder. Right next to his soft, kissable neck.

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