Page 5 of Losing Forever
He arches an incredulous brow.
“I’m not avoiding your questions. I promise. I need more information in order to answer them professionally.” I might not have asked for this job or even considered doing anything close to this, but my aunt gave it to me, and I don't want to let her down.
Noah brings up the listing for the house on the laptop and reads the details. “The roof is old and will need to be replaced.”
“Does it say anything about the foundation?” The house appears solid, and I don't see cracks in the stucco exterior.
“No. But the plumbing was updated three years ago.” He taps the screen with his erasable pen, using the end with the football helmet eraser. “That's good. Right?”
I raise my brows. “You're asking me?”
“Shit.” He huffs and sits back on his heels, his broad shoulders slumped. It's a weird look on him with his big, muscular frame. “I didn't stress this hard over plays in football. We have to get this right. This will be our first flip. I don't want to fuck it up.”
Not his first. He—we—flipped a few houses with Aunt Lina and Uncle Brady in Winter Park. This, however, will be our first flip without them.
I touch Noah’s arm. “You won't mess up. You're too much of a perfectionist for that. Even when you played football, you were a perfectionist. It's why you were so good.”
I never saw him play in person, only in videos he watched of past games during his depressed phase. It was hard. Noah’s dream was to play in the NFL like his dad did for years.
I look Noah directly in his hazel eyes. “You know this business. Your dad and mom have been flipping houses for a decade. You have the experience and the skills you need to be successful. Trust yourself. You’re going to be great. You're great at everything. Always have been.”
He peers up from under his brown bangs, a questionable grin on his lips. “You grew up on the other side of the country from me.”
“Yeah. I did. But your mom loves to talk about you. When I came out of my coma, she entertained me with stories of your youth. It's actually not fair,” I tease. “Are there any sports you aren’t good at?”
He laughs and stands. “I'm surprised you didn't have security remove her from the room. Stories about me were probably the last thing you wanted to hear.”
I shrug, remembering the stark-white hospital, with all its beeping machines and bright lights. The nurses and doctors filing in and out, the multiple trips to get MRIs and CT scans. The cold pleather cushions lined with paper. The cold metal bars on the bed and the wheelchairs. The cold temperature. “They were nice. Warm.”
“Warm?”
I blink my vision clear and glance up at my cousin with a smile. “Yeah. Your mom always talked about the sun and how it tanned your skin and lightened your hair. 'He gets that from his dad,' she would say.”
My aunt is part Cuban, with mahogany brown hair, but her skin is as pale as mine.
“You were always running outside on a field of grass or jumping into a pool at the blow of a whistle. Your mom tells a great story, and I was good at coloring it in.” My heart aches in a familiar way. “I'm sorry she left you to come stay with me. I always felt bad about that.”
Noah's expression shifts from confused, to tender, to a mix of bewilderment and upset. “Don't apologize for that. I was in my own world back then. I wasn't even home. I was at UF. Trust me, it didn't affect me. And even if I were home, I would have told her to go to Seattle. I didn't know your parents or brother well, but I always liked them. When I heard what happened, I told her to go. My dad did, too. We didn't want you alone, Bray. We still don't.” He kneels beside me again and pulls me in for a hug.
Strong arms envelop me. I let him hold me for a moment, even though I haven't hugged anyone since I woke up from my coma. His mom held me and cried when I first woke up. She did it again when she told me my parents and little brother didn't survive. After that, I've sort of kept to myself. I've become my own source of comfort.
Noah pulls away and glances at my hands, which still rest on the seat near my thighs. “Sorry. I forgot you don't like to be touched.” He stands.
“It's not that. I just…I don't do it, and I’m not entirely sure why.” Maybe I'm afraid to show any kind of affection as a way of protecting myself. Growing close means a greater loss when that person is gone. I've dealt with enough loss in my short life. I don't think I could handle any more. Distance is safe.
Noah holds up one hand and grabs the laptop with the other. “It's okay, Bray. No need to explain.” He puts the laptop on his desk, sits in his oversized leather chair, and stares at the house listing. “I think we should do it. Flip this one. I think it would be a good return on investment. If we don’t go over budget. Damn, we need a budget.”
“Do you have interior pictures? I can look them over and give you cost estimates for products. I have a list of them from your mom. The selections start with budget-friendly prices and go up from there. For the first flip, I think we should stick to the basics, especially since this is a transitioning neighborhood.”
“I'll email them to you,” Noah says. “Can you get me the estimates by the end of today?”
It's three, and we've been working until five thirty or six each day. “I should be able to.”
“Great. Tomorrow, Grayson will be here to help. He got stuck taking care of family business or else he would have started today. You remember him, right?” Noah glances over his shoulder at me and then returns to typing on his keyboard.
“I don’t think so.”
“He visited a couple of times when I was recovering.”
