Page 55 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Lottie knew everyone in this town. She would always greet them by name and ask after various family members and medical ailments. Elaine’s was shoulder bursitis.”
“Of course Lottie would do that.” I touch my hand to my cheek, willing it to cool down. “I’ve been calling her Foxy every time I come in here.”
“Well, perhaps she took it as a compliment.” Gramps commandeers the cart and tosses in a bag of apples.
Because it’s Sunday, I don’t have to be chained to my computer all day. The pool is calling my name, but I resist; I need to make some progress on the house. After a quick lunch with Gramps from our Foxy’s haul—I can never show my face there again—I borrow his car and drive to Pebble Cottage.
I let myself in, the slightly musty smell of the empty house somehow comforting. The AC hums gently—I’ve been keeping it set to seventy-nine degrees to prevent mildew growth, based on the advice I found on the Florida Power and Light website. It feels comfortablein my shorts and tank top. I feel an unfamiliar sense of ownership here, like I can do whatever I want, with even more freedom than I have in my rented apartment: I can set the thermostat to the perfect temperature; paint the walls whatever color my heart desires; plant flowers and tomatoes and spicy peppers in the yard if I feel like it. For now, though, it’s the floors that I have to focus on.
Remembering what Daniel said last night, I look skeptically at my phone. He’d said we could set up a date for him to help me. Not that he could drop everything and come over right away. But I don’t have time to spare. Maybe I should just not ask him. He was probably just being polite, anyway, offering to help.
But… there is a lot of work to be done, and I don’t know where to begin. That and the fact that I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to see him again. He just makes things more fun.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I text him.
Hey! I know this is last minute, but I’m planning to work on the house today. Feel free to join me if your offer still stands!
Heart thumping uncomfortably, I wait for a moment, but no typing bubbles appear.
I’m full of regret. And embarrassment. I shouldn’t have texted him, but whatever. I can’t undo it. I try to ignore the humiliated knot in my stomach and focus on the house.
In the middle of the living room, I stare around at the carpet. It looks very… permanent. I walk to one corner, crouch down, and tug experimentally at the brown fibers. The carpet doesn’t budge. I should have watched more HGTV to prepare me for this moment. My confidence deflated, I go out to the sunroom, where I sit at the Scrabble table and look up videos of people ripping up carpet.
My first thought is:I need tools.I didn’t think I would need any tools. My second thought is:I can’t do this.
Sure, actually ripping up the carpet seems doable, if I’m evenstrong enough. But then I have to cut it up and roll it and haul it out to the curb. And there’s a part about prying up some narrow wood boards that I don’t even want to think about right now. Oh, and I have to, apparently, peel up the padding underneath the carpet and scrape up a thousand tiny staples. And then what do I do with little staples littering the floor-that’s-not-even-a-floor? I should get a broom.
I grumble to myself and start a shopping list on my Notes app.
Broom
Gloves
X-Acto knife
Duct tape
Hammer
Nails
Staple scraper thingy
I go back to the video and see that it’s actually called a pry bar. I addpry barandpliersto the list.Great. Spectacular.I don’t think I’ve ever set foot in a hardware store in my life. My dad bought me a basic tool kit in a zippered canvas bag when I moved into my first apartment, and yes, the bag was pink. I picture it, sitting on a shelf above my washer and dryer back home. I wish I had it now. But more than I want my pink tool kit, I want to collapse into a useless puddle. What was I thinking?
Resting my forehead on the glass tabletop, I seriously consider changing my mind. But what would that mean, really? Swallowing my pride and asking Daniel to hire someone? No. I can do this. So nothing in my skill set has done anything to prepare me for manual labor of any kind, let alone home renovations. I can at least try.
I’m full of dread as I force myself to get in the car and map outthe route to the nearest hardware store. Forty-five minutes later, I’m back in the house with a broom in one hand and a plastic bag full of supplies in the other. The hardware store wasn’t too bad. Yes, I felt like an impostor, and yes, I expected someone to ask what I was buying all these things for and was slightly disappointed when no one did. But I got what I needed and now comes the actual hard part.
I carefully set the broom and tools against one wall and extract the X-Acto knife from the bag. Now all I have to do is cut out a corner of the carpet and start pulling.
I can’t.
What if I do it wrong and mess it up? What if I literally, physically can’t?
My chest feels tight. I could fly home tomorrow. Email Daniel from the plane and tell him I changed my mind.
This idea feels both comforting and nauseating.
