Page 47 of Perfect Mess

I sent a couple more beer emojis and bear emojis for good measure, but Gary’s texts stopped. No little dots. No new messages. My battery was in the red, so I plugged my phone into the charger and got ready for bed.

Once again, Purrfect snuggled up next to me on my pillow. Apparently, it was our new routine. It wasn’t long before I fell into a deep sleep.

So deep that I didn’t hear my phone boing.

When I woke up the next morning, there was a new message waiting for me.

NEW PAINTER:

wear comfortable shoes

ChapterEleven

The next morning, I put on some old clothes I didn’t mind getting paint spilled on and a pair of comfortable shoes, then mapped the address Gary sent me. It was in the middle of nowhere, miles from civilization. The kind of place you would invite someone if you didn’t want anyone to hear their screams. My first thought was to revisit my Gary is a serial killer theory.

“If I don’t come back later, call the police,” I told Purrfect. The look on her face made it clear she was perfectly content to let my dead body rot in the woods, never to be found.

I had to take a series of dirt roads to get there. Pine trees stretched for miles. For a serial killer looking for a secluded place to lure their prey, it was perfect. The GPS finally brought me to a log cabin with a green roof. A boardwalk trailed off into the woods. There was a post next the building, with a sign attached to the post. The sign read, “Nature Center.”

“God damn it,” I said, to no one in particular.

I got out of my car wearing the painter overalls Gary had let me borrow, the ones I had not yet returned. Even though I was wearing old clothes, I figured the overalls would provide an additional layer of protection, considering my track record with paint.

Before I even got all the way out of my car, I was drenched with sweat. It was the kind of day when the bright sun reached down from the blue sky and punched you in the face. The air smelled like swamp. Blood plump mosquitoes buzzed my head like I was a giant monkey on top of a skyscraper. In the trees, I spotted a flock of buzzards, waiting for the next thing to die.

I found Gary dousing himself in bug spray, leaning against the handrail along the boardwalk. He was dressed in a floppy hat, cargo shorts, a long-sleeved sun shirt, and hiking boots with neon yellow laces. I think he was going for a big game hunter out on safari look, except instead of lions and tigers, it was squirrels and butterflies.

“This isn’t a painting job, is it?”

Gary slowly shook his head, the smile on his face widening. “I didn’t think you’d show.” He looked down at my shoes. I was wearing my brand new white pickleball sneakers, the most comfortable footwear I owned. I figured when we started painting, I would take them off and go barefoot.

“You’re going to want to change out of those,” Gary said. “They have rubbers you can borrow inside.”

Blink

“This really is a pro boner job isn’t it?”

“Rubber boots,” Gary clarified. “Like snow boots.”

In the distance, a bird screeched. Like a hawk gutting a mouse. Entrails hanging from its claws.

“Funny, when I was listening to the radio on my way over, I didn’t hear them mention anything about a blizzard.” I looked up to check the sky, just in case. The sun was like a heat lamp slowing, roasting the entire state like a rotisserie chicken. Or rotisserie flamingo, since it was Florida.

“It’s not snow you have to worry about, it’s mud. You got anything on under those?” Gary tilted his head toward my overalls. His overalls, technically.

“I can’t help but wonder what answer you’re hoping for,” I teased. I surprised myself when I realized I was pleased when he blushed.

On the drive over, I had repeated the mantra “please Mary, just be nice, please Mary, just be nice” a thousand times, out loud, to coerce my brain into submission. I needed to stay on Gary’s good side. And I would not let the temperature, bugs, or Gary’s lack of disclosure sour my mood.

I stripped off the overalls, revealing the shorts and old t-shirt I was willing to sacrifice to the paint gods.

“I thought you didn’t like Justin Bieber.” Gary pointed to my shirt, which featured a tattooed Justin on the front, and at a bunch of concert cities and dates on the back. At least this time I was wearing a bra.

“I have yours back at the house,” I said. “This is the only shirt I own that I don’t mind getting splattered with paint.”

“You really hate Justin Bieber, don’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

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