Lately, he’s been extra grumpy. Even more than he was when we first met almost a month ago now. Back then, he was grumpy, like maybe he had a mild headache, but I could still make him smile with a well-placed comment or kind gesture. Now he’s morphed into a bear with a sore head, and there’s nothing I can do to turn that frown of his upside down. The last couple of days have been extra intense. There's something bothering him, but he won’t give me the time of day to find out what's on his mind.
And it’s not like I haven’t tried—anytime we're alone together, he just grumbles about needing to do something and walks away. I’m just trying to keep out of his way now. I figure he’ll spit it out when he’s ready. Or not…
Deciding to grab my earbuds so the noise of his discontent quits stripping years from my life whenever he swears or sends something crashing to the ground, I get back to painting the fence posts that will line the perimeter of sunflower garden I’ve created. They’re growing so well and should start to bud in the next week or two. So a cheery little fence around them will add a little color while we wait for them all to flower.
We?
Scrolling through the playlist on my phone, I let out a sigh as I realize how hopeless I’ve become. I’ve come to think of Dylan and me as a ‘we’, when I know that’s something that’ll just never be. At most, we can be neighbors, perhaps even some semblance of friends. But in my wildest of dreams, I don’t think he’ll ever cross that line into being a ‘we’.
The thought saddens me, so I pick my most upbeat playlist and stick my earbuds in.As the music fills my ears, my mood lifts and I move my booty to the beat, picking up my brush and returning to my fence post.
Up, down. Dab. Stroke.
I dance and hum and paint, thankful I can no longer hear the ruckus Dylan is causing, even though I'm stillawareof it. It's hardnotto be aware of a man whose simple presencefeelslike something. I’d know the beat of heart if I heart it anywhere.
Pushing my feelings for him aside, I keep at my work, letting the music flow throw me until it’s completely taking over. I even lift my paintbrush and use it as a microphone as I belt out a few bars.
But no matter how absorbed I am in the music, I don’t miss it when Dylan’s gruff voice calls out.
"Ah! Fuck! Shit!Fuck!"
I tear my earbuds out and immediately run to him, my heart in my throat as I call out his name.
“In here.”
I find him in the hallway near the bathroom, bent over and clutching at his arm and skid to a stop.
"What…happened?" I ask between pants. This lady hasn't had to run that fast in alongtime. I can barely breathe and clutch at my side.
"Fuckin’ beam fell apart as soon as I put any sort of pressure on it. Fell through and scraped my arm on the way down," he replies through gritted teeth.
“Let me see.” I slowly make my way closer to him and reach for his arm.
“It’s fine,” he grunts, flinching away.
I reach out again. “I can help, Dylan.”
Reluctantly, he adjusts his stance so I can see his arm. It's a nasty looking wound, and I nearly swoon at the sight of his blood. But I want to be strong for him this time, so I steel myself and tough it out.
"Let me get my first aid kit."
"No," he immediately replies.
"Dylan," I sigh and place my hands on my hips. "That is not a scrape. It’s a gash. And it needs to be cleaned out or you’ll get an infection. God only knows what kind of germs or bacteria are hanging around this place."
He sucks in a breath as I pull my hands away from his skin. "I really don't need your help. I can look after this myself."
His eyes hold mine for a long moment, and I can tell by the tightness in his jaw that he’s not willing to bend on this one. "Fine." I take a step back to give him some space. "I’ll get the kit and you can sort it out yourself.”
I turn and rush back to my camper, getting the first aid kit and running it back to him. When he takes it from my outstretch hand, I almost turn right around and leave, but then I pause and turn back to face him. “You know, Dylan. It’s OK if you’ve had enough. You really don't have to keep coming back to help me with the cabin. I already owe you so much for your time, and—"
“No,” he states, the gruffness in his tone making me flinch.
“But you obviously have some sort of issue with me. I don’t want you feeling like you have to finish this up just because you said you would in the beginning. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Will you hire help if I walk away?” he grunts as his eyes lock on mine with intensity. It steels my breath away. Everything about him steels my breath away.
"No,” I whisper. “You already know I don’t have the budget for that.”
