Page 6 of Fixing to Be Mine

My eyes scan down it.

Sheetrock: living room, hallway, dining room, library

Baseboards

Paint

Considering it’s only Sunday, I might be able to finish the living room and hallway before the rodeo comes to town. I still haven’t decided if I’m going or not though.

I’m not on a specific schedule, but I’m racing against time to finish remodeling before the first cold front rolls through.

There are a few livable rooms—the kitchen, one bathroom, part of the living room, and the primary bedroom downstairs. The rest is still bones and echoes for now.

I glance around, thinking about Sunny. She had that same unfinished look, like something was cracked wide open and she was trying to hold herself together. Beautiful but strong, even while breaking.

I wonder if I called her right now and made the offer, would she take me up on it? There was something sizzling between us. I felt it, and by the look on her face, she did too.

The paper she wrote her number on is still in my truck, but I don’t go get it. I’ve learned over the years not to force stuff. If it’s meant to be, things happen.

The rest of the day passes in rhythm—measure twice, cut once, repeat. I’ve got the living room insulated by the time I hear the rumble of a truck barreling down the driveway. Clouds of dust kick up, country music blaring louder with each second they move closer. Only one person announces themselves like that—Emmett.

I step out onto the porch as the truck comes to a stop. He kills the engine and climbs out with broad shoulders, messyhair, wearing a shit-eating grin. My little brother is stacked with muscles.

“Howdy!” he hollers as he walks up the porch, looking at the house like it’s gonna bite him. “This place still gives me the fucking creeps.”

When we were growing up, ghost stories swarmed around, and this abandoned property was the center of a lot of hazing back in the day. Most folks avoid it, saying it’s cursed, and, hell, maybe it is, but it doesn’t bother me. When I’m here, I feel at peace, safe. I see what it’ll be one day, not what it’s always been.

“Good,” I tell him, patting him on the back. “Appreciate your help with this.”

The Sheetrock is stacked against the wall waiting to be hung. I could manage it solo, but having an extra pair of hands makes it safer, especially with the high ceilings.

Emmett grabs a pair of gloves without me asking, and we quickly get to work. He grumbles under his breath the whole time. That’s the thing about Emmett: he may give me shit, but he always shows up. He’s dependable and caring, even if he’s an asshole.

It takes us close to two hours, but the living room is finished. When we take a step back to look over our work, I smile. My brother looks around.

“Wow, you’ve gotten a lot of shit done since the last time I was here,” he says. “Gonna be nice when it’s finished.”

“I can’t wait,” I tell him. “Want a shot of whiskey?”

“Nah. Gonna go home and take a shower, then head to Boot Scooting.”

It’s the local bar in town that has pool tables and dancing; it’s one of the hangouts for forty and under, and it’s always busy, especially on the weekends.

“Of course,” I tell him, moving to the kitchen and grabbing the bottle anyway. It’s where I left it this morning before I got started.

He follows behind me.

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