Page 64 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“What?” I spring up as though the marble has burned me.
“I guess I should ask.” He turns to face me, and I can’t help but notice the full-frontal body language. I brace myself for a flirtatious question, but then he says, “What is your budget?” and my excitement deflates.
Picturing my bank account minus my rent, a couple of plane tickets, the rental car, and the insurance on Pebble Cottage, I say, “Small. Cheap.”
“Got it.” He strides forward and beckons for me to follow. “Your section is over here. Forget you ever saw that marble.”
“But…” I stroke it lovingly, picturing how nice it would look with my Pottery Barn couch, my off-white chunky crochet throw blanket, the enormous, creamy pink Anthropologie candle I could buy to go with it.
“Say goodbye, Rosen.” Daniel grabs my hand and drags me away.
“I’ll never forget you,” I call. I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
“Now, your square footage is small—reasonable—so you really don’t have to spend too much,” Daniel says. He suddenly realizes he’s still holding my hand and drops it. I snort with laughter. He continues his spiel. “But you should be prepared to spend around two thousand dollars.”
“Does this include paint?” I ask hopefully.
“No. But since you’re doing it yourself, the paint will only set you back a few hundred.”
“Excellent.”
An older salesman with a white mustache and a red vest pauses beside us, holding a clipboard.
“Help you find anything?”
“Yeah, we’re looking for vinyl hardwoods, light neutral shades, something mid-range,” Daniel says. I give him a sideways glance—shouldn’t he have saidcheapest possible? But he doesn’t look back at me.
“Or,” I interrupt the salesman’s response, “what about a ceramic tile with sort of a faux-marble look?”
Daniel touches me lightly on the elbow. “I don’t think you want to get into installing tile. It’s harder than you’d think.”
“I’m sure I could—”
He cuts me off. “Plus, tile is impossible to replace, and I bet good money you want to redecorate again in five to ten years.”
This shuts me up; I bite back a smile. Seems like Daniel McKinnon somehow, sort of, knows me.
“Your husband is right,” the salesman continues. “Tile is tricky, especially if you’re going for self-installation. I can show you a selection of vinyl that’s made to look like tile, or even marble.”
Daniel briefly closes his eyes as though praying for patience, holds up one finger, and starts to say “We’re actually—”
But I twine my arm around his. “Hubby isalwaysright. Aren’t you, smoochikins?”
The salesman’s cheeks turn rosy with delight above his mustache. “Newlyweds?”
“Just back from our honeymoon.” I nuzzle against Daniel’s shoulder. He stiffens with discomfort.
“Enjoy this time,” the salesman says indulgently. “I remember my honeymoon like it was yesterday. Niagara Falls. Been married almost thirty-six years now.”
Suddenly, Daniel leans into me and ruffles my hair, somewhat aggressively. “Any advice?” he asks.
“You know what they say.” The man tucks the clipboard under one arm. “Happy wife, happy life!”
“Well, that’s easy. Give this one another clown figurine to add to her collection and she’s happy as pie. In fact, she loves clowns so much, I should let her join the circus.” Daniel tilts his head to smile down into my face. I’m still gripping his arm, my face locked into a smile that’s now more like a grimace.
“Oh.” The man clears his throat. “Well, the LVPs are thataway.” He points and then hurries off.
As soon as he’s gone, Daniel and I spring apart.
