Page 26 of No Kind of Hero
“Right now, it’d probably have to be my awkwardness,” she said, and he had to laugh again.
“Nope.” He kissed the top of her head, which smelled like flowers, and felt a rush of tenderness so strong, it scared him. “That you tell the truth. You say things nobody else would. Everything comes from your heart. I love that you say it to me.”
She pulled back, put her palms on his cheeks, and said, so close he could see the way her smile trembled around the edges, “If I do that? That’s because I’m tellingyou,and I know that no matter how hard it is to say, it’s going to land in a safe place. And do you think you could come to Seattle sometime? It’s too long until summer. It’s too long until Springbreak.But . . .” She sighed. “I have a roommate, and I know I’m being . . . too scared. And even so, I’m so selfish. I want to see you.”
“Then,” he said, “you’ll see me.” He kissed her again, then laughed, because the bubble of happiness in him wouldn’t allow for anything else. “Try to keep me away.”
“Even though . . .” she said, then hesitated.
“Even though what? I already know I’m not getting laid tonight. Nothing else could be worse than that.”
She smiled, and then she didn’t. “Even though it’s where the football thing didn’t work out?”
It was, and he wasn’t talking about it. The past was gone. All he had was the here and now, and that was Beth in his truck and in his arms.
If going to Seattle was hard? He was going anyway.
Beth finished painting the area above the mirror. Evan had gone quiet again. First the dead dog, then her mother. She was some sexy conversationalist. But even so, he didn’t seem tense anymore. She’d always been able to read him, and right now? Things were all right. He was glad she’d come today, and so was she.
She said, “You used to always work with a radio. Not anymore?”
“Hmm?” He looked at her, his eyes faraway, then gave her that faint, lopsided grin that had always done her heart in. “Yeah. Guess I got distracted by you. I need to check on the scaffolding and my crew, too. Going to help me finish in here?”
“Yes,” she said. “Until lunchtime. How’s that?”
“That would be good.” Everything about his body language told her it was true. That was the thing about Evan. He was like a dog that way. You could believe him. You couldfeelhis truth. “Back in ten or fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll do the insides of the stalls,” she said. “Leave the edges for you. Like before.”
He smiled again, which was twice in a minute. “You talk about your dead dog, and I have you paint toilet stalls. Guess we both know how to do romance.”
“Nope, and I still don’t,” she said, so bold she surprised herself. “I just thought that you were like a dog. Trustworthy, you know. Honest. That’s not too romantic, but then, you were always better at it than me. I’m counting on you to pull us through.”
He hesitated a long moment, then shook his head. “I barely get myself right, and you mess me up all over again. I’m back in ten.”
In fact, he was back in about thirty seconds. With the radio. He plopped it down, turned it on, and said, “Just for you. Be back soon.”
He went out again, and she painted, swayed back and forth to upbeat country music, heavy on the guitars and the twang, sang along about how she wasn’t here for a long time, she was here for a good time, and wished it were true. When her phone rang in her pocket, she didn’t even glance at the display before she answered. “Hello?”
“Simon here.” His usual rapid-fire delivery, and her pulse rate spiking just that fast, too. “Ten days gone. Tell me that means you’re fifty percent back to normal.”
“I’m painting a toilet stall,” she said.
“Nope. Bzzz. Wrong answer. Try again.”
She laughed. She should be tensing up, but something in her, something stronger than caution, felt giddy and totally heedless of the consequences. Maybe it was the woman on the radio singing about winning the lottery, or maybe it was something else. She gave the roller a couple more careless swipes and said, “Just a sec. I’m stepping down off the toilet seat.”
“No,” Simon said. “Just no. Tell me you’re volunteering at the homeless shelter, at least. We encourage our associates to give back to the community, blah blah. Except that that’s what the wordspro bonowere invented for, and they’re not about painting toilets. And I’m not talking about pro bono anyway. I’m talking about the brand-new client who came in today. Marjorie Sinclair, eighty-two years old, crazy as a loon, and not one bit pro bono. You may have heard of her. You may not have heard that she’s got a charitable foundation, three pugs she’s crazy about, four sons who hate each other, a second husband the sons hate more, and the most complicated mess of an estate you’ll ever have the pleasure of sorting out. She’s fired her lawyer, and she doesn’t trust men and told me to my face that if I think I’m doing her estate, I’m crazy, because I’ve got shifty eyes. Which is true. Consider this your lucky day. Fifty percent of you is good enough. Four flights a day from Spokane to Seattle, and two of them haven’t left yet.”
“Except,” Beth said, edging her way out of the cubicle and going for the paint pan, “that I’m on vacation.”
“Painting toilets isn’t a vacation. Lying on the beach is a vacation.”
“Really?” Beth came back and started to prime the back of the next stall in line. Maybe Evan should paint each one a little differently. Like what? Affirmations, maybe. Quotes. Like graffiti, but better. On swirly ribbons of paint. A different one in every stall. Or star scenes.
Ooh. The Zodiac. Who didn’t sneakily love reading their horoscope? How fun was that? “I can’t picture you on the beach, somehow,” she told Simon.
“That’s because I’m not there. Why would I be? What, an hour of sweaty boredom, a sunburn, and sixty minutes I’m not billing? No. It was a hypothetical. And I’m not billing right now, either. I’m investing five minutes of overhead to tell you to get yourself back here and talk to Marjorie Sinclair before I give her to Felicia Diaz, who’s a partner, in case you forgot. I don’t want to do that. Marjorie doesn’t want personality. She doesn’t want emotion. She wants icy cool and competent. She wants results.”
