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Chapter 1
Gwen
Staying up late last night seemed so virtuous at the time.
I swept up sawdust.
I counted stacks of linoleum.
I finally moved that bucket of scrapped trim board out of the shower so I could, you know, shower.
But now that it’s morning, I am sorely regretting my three a.m. bedtime.
“Here,” a female voice chirps. “Drink.”
My eyes water and I close my jaw, which was gaping open, and then fight off a second yawn. Did I brush my hair this morning? I don’t think I did. If I could stop yawning, that’d be fabulous.
A blurry Lizzy looms at the edge of the desk, her bright pink blazer nearly painful to my sleep-deprived eyes. Too bright. This whole day is too bright. I want to be in bed, covers pulled tight to my chin.
The mug of coffee before me has steam curling up like a heavenly mist.
“Another late night?” Lizzy bites into a powder-dusted donut.
My stomach growls. Breakfast. Right. Forgot about that when my alarm woke me out of a sound sleep an hour ago. Of course, I snoozed it.
Several times.
Too many times.
So many times, I fell into a dream in which I was once again counting linoleum panels.
“Coffee… thank you,” I mutter, clutching the mug.
“You’ve got to stop, Gwen. You can’t keep this up.”
“I can’t stop. The roofer… I owe… Ugh.” My thoughts jumble, and I give up on the whole sentence-forming thing. That part of my brain requires an hour of wakefulness and one cup of coffee before functioning, and I’m still shy of those marks.
Also, thinking about the three grand I owe that roofer isn’t an appropriate Monday morning thought. I’ve learned over the years that it’s best to try to think positive thoughts on Monday mornings to avoid the dreaded blues.
“You can’t keep burning the candles at both ends, Gwen. Get Clay to do his part, for goodness’ sake. This project was supposed to be a team effort. You’re pulling all these late nights and then trying to work all day while he’s—what?—playing video games? Is he even working these days?”
“Not working… He quit the sandwich shop.”
Thoughts about my younger brother’s ways also go under the ‘depressing’ column, so I bite my lip before going on about how he didn’t even make it through the two-week probationary period at his last job.
“What’s the deal, then?” Lizzy asks. “You shouldn’t owe a roofer. Clay should be up there hammering shingles.”
“His knee…” I grumble.
I will not voice my suspicions about my little brother’s knee injury aloud. I love him too much. I can’t bad mouth him behind his back.
But inside, a snippy voice notes that his injury seems awfully convenient, given that it’s keeping him from picking up his share of the responsibilities with the house-flipping project we’re chin-deep in.
Two days ago, I saw him jog lightly across the lawn to grab a rogue frisbee that soared over the shrubs. He flung it back to the kids playing across the yard and then quickly went back to limping when he saw me watching.
Nope. Don’t want to think about that.
“Coffee,” I mumble again. “Glorious coffee. Don’t worry about me, Lizzy; I’ll be fine.”
