“Hey,” I say as I walk all the way into the room. Kate startles slightly, but then turns her head to look at me over her shoulder.
She eyes me up and down. “You need to change your clothes, Petunia Peacock. You don’t want to get paint all over your nice stuff.”
I look down at the jeans and lightweight thermal T-shirt I’m wearing. This does not constitute “nice stuff” in my wardrobe, although it’s with shame I realize this outfit still probably cost more than what Kate spends in a year on her clothing.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, but kick my tennis shoes off and flip them out the door into the hallway. I definitely don’t want paint on those.
“Suit yourself,” she chirps, and then moves over to the paint I had picked out this morning. She had several paint chip samples for me to choose from, and although I told her I wanted to go with a neutral tan color, I had no clue there could be that many varieties available. I randomly picked one, which Kate said was perfect, and then I went off to the morning skate. Kate took Ben over to Michelle’s, who agreed to watch him for the day while we worked, and then went off to the store to purchase the paint.
The room is all ready and she did a fantastic job of placing the drop cloth; lining the molding, baseboards, and windows with painter’s tape; and laying out the pans and brushes.
“Ready to get this show on the road, Gooseberry Parfait?” she asks with a grin, looking at me with bright, expectant eyes.
I give her a smile of acknowledgment so she’ll move on from that nickname, but the smile feels forced. Her sunny personality shows me that she doesn’t have an ounce of regret over what happened between us or what could have been, had I not drawn a line between us. She’s clearly moved on, and I think she’s expecting me to do the same.
The rest of the day we work hard. We have the first room painted by lunchtime, and after a hastily gobbled sandwich and chips that Kate made for us, we start on the room that Kate is staying in. It’s a little difficult to maneuver around, as we had pushed her furniture inward before covering it with the drop cloths, but we manage without bumping into each other too much.
For the most part we’re silent as we work, each of us concentrating on our tasks. But it isn’t a time completely devoid of conversation. I ask Kate more about her sister and nephews, curious as to their ages and her involvement in raising them. She tells me that Kelly is two years older and she’d gotten pregnant with her first son, Jason, when Kate had just turned fourteen.
Then Lyle had come when Kate was fifteen and Christopher when she was sixteen.
Jesus…her sister pumped out kids fucking fast.
Kate tells me that everyone crammed into her father’s single-wide trailer. Her father took one room, Kelly took another, and then Kate gladly gave up her room for the boys. Kate was thus relegated to the couch from the time she was fourteen until she graduated at eighteen. Since Kelly had dropped out of school and gone to work so she could support her brood, Kate became the boys’ primary caretaker when she got home from school and her sister went off to work a second-shift job.
Laughing, she tells me, “See…that’s why it just wasn’t that big of a deal to camp out on Mark’s couch, and it’s also why Ben is a piece of cake. Try watching three boys that are all going through terrible twos and threes around the same time.
I shudder because I can’t even imagine.
And Christ…she fucking slept on a couch for four years of her life and she laughs about it.
Un-fucking-believable.
We finally put on the last coat of paint and Kate stretches her neck left and right as she lowers the roller in her hand. “I’m going to be feeling that tomorrow.”
I bet she is. Even I’m a little sore from all of it, and I’m in far better shape than Kate is.
“You did a great job,” I tell her as I skirt around the cloth-covered dresser to take the rolling brush out of her hands. “I’ll clean up if you want to go take a shower. You have quite a bit of paint on you.”
“I do?” she asks as she looks down at herself.
“Yeah…right here,” I say as I reach out with my free hand and brush the smudge of dried paint over her right cheek. It’s an intimate move. I didn’t have to touch her, just tell her she had paint on her face, but I couldn’t fucking help myself.
Kate goes absolutely still, and she looks at me with wide eyes, the blue in them swimming with uncertainty.
“And right here,” I say in a soft voice, my fingers now touching a spot on her forehead.
Kate inhales sharply and her reaction to my touch has my body tightening. Her eyes deepen in color and a small pulse at the base of her neck starts thumping. She’s affected by my touch as much as I am by giving it, and now I know…she definitely hasn’t moved past that kiss the other day.
This is so wrong.
So very wrong, I tell myself again.
I can’t be encouraging something between us when I just put a stop to it—for very valid reasons.
My hand falls away from her and I search for some measure of fortitude within me. With a tight voice I say, “Go on. Get in the shower and I’ll clean up here.”
And Christ…that’s disappointment filling her eyes. I see it only briefly, though, because she gives me a nod of acceptance and lowers her gaze. She turns sideways and starts to slide her way past me. I can’t back up to give her room because her dresser is pressing into my back and a wet painted wall is just on her other side.