Page 74 of Olivia's Only Pretending
I ran in behind him. Watson’s paws clicked across the tile floor to greet us. “Hey buddy.” I scratched behind his ears.
I glanced around the living room as Victor messed with something in his kitchen. A worn-in black leather couch sat in the living room with a round wooden coffee table that looked like a Victor Hernandez original. Black-and-white family photos hung on the walls. I walked into his kitchen and spotted a couple of photos hanging on his fridge: pictures of Ireland and Greece.
“Have you visited here?” I asked him, pointing to the pictures.
“Not yet,” he said, grabbing a treat from the jar on his kitchen counter. He held it out for Watson.
I smiled to myself, thinking of the maps hanging in my office.
I glanced around. Minimally decorated, unsurprising for busy Victor. He was rarely home, and if he was, he was usually tinkering with some woodworking project. But I soaked in the little pieces of him around the house. The finger paintings from his nieces and nephews on the fridge. A work belt slung over a dining table chair. A tiny Latin dictionary on his bookshelf. A box of his favorite cereal by the sink. His leather jacket, which smelled like him, on the coat rack. The sneakers that were once white kicked off in his doorway.
“My wrench is in the garage. I’m going to go grab it—” he started, but I cut him off.
“I’m coming, too.”
“My messy garage is part of the house tour?”
“It’s the main attraction,” I said, heading for the stairs to the garage.
The garage was really Victor’s work shed. This place was not minimal. I didn’t have to search for hints of Victor. The place was full of his touch. The walls had built-ins where hehung his tools and were lined with shelves. A worktable covered in sawdust. A sander. Chisels. A table saw. It smelled like smoke and cedar.
I took a few slow steps inside as Victor brushed past me to pick out the wrench. I touched a few different projects he’d recently finished. A maple chair wide enough that I could sit cross-legged. A dark mahogany vase that I immediately wanted. A freshly sanded table that looked like a nightstand.
“You do so many of these. But they must take a while to make?” How was Victor juggling these projects alongside the projects at my house?
“Yeah. Some take longer than others. Some of them can take months, but I don’t mind waiting. I kind of like taking my time.” He scratched his chin.
I pulled open a drawer and looked at the shiny tools I didn’t understand. “You like the long projects, huh?”
“Well, I’m not starting something I’m not sure I want to finish. I don’t like to waste my time.” Victor’s voice was warm, sanded down.
Victor wasn’t just a playful guy. I’d already learned this, but now, looking at his work shed, the place he came to blow off steam and work on his craft, something about him clicked in my mind. He knew when to be playful, to bring light and laughter, but he also knew when to be serious. Like for a project, or a relationship, or his family.
I walked over to the cedar chair, running my fingers across it, feeling the raised edges of his ornate carvings. “You’re kind of an artist, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that, Liv.” He ran a finger through his hair, a blush coloring his cheeks.
“What would you say?”
“I’d say”—he took in a deep breath, thinking—“I like to build things.”
“You’re good at it.” I clasped my hands, looking around the shed again. It was dark and cozy in here.
Victor headed toward the switch to open the garage door, ready to head back to my house. I stood back for a moment, watching him.
He was steady and solid, like the things he built. Like the tiny, ornamental details you’d notice when you looked at his creations a little closer, there was so much more to Victor once you looked a little closer.
Twenty-Two
“Ithink something that I noticed is how often we get an FMC that is really doubtful and questions not only the obviously amazing hero, but alsothemselves,” said one of our book club members, Tamara. She was also an English major. “Like,I relate, but also, I want to throw my book across the room sometimes!” She huffed and blew a little strand of brown hair out of her face.
“I wanted to shake the character and say,grow up and go get your man!” another student exclaimed.
“I’m fairly grown up, at twenty-nine, and I hate to say it, but doubts and questions will always be there. You don’t grow out of those,” I said. “Hopefully, over the years, we get better and better at handling them, though, instead of letting them take over.”
“And I feel like …” Our conversation about our latest book kept bubbling, but my mind lingered on the doubtful main character.
How fear and doubt always popped up, but it was no match for what was meant for you. What was destined for you had a way of persisting like waves crashing to shore. God createda current that kept pulling you closer and closer to what was meant for you.
