“If you ever need a pretty kitchen, I know a girl,” I say with a secret smile.
Tyler looks around at my kitchen, then back at me, jaw hanging open.
“Wait. Are you saying”—he glances around again and runs a hand down my countertop—“did you do all this?”
My smile turns downright smug. “What, like it’s hard?”
Tyler and I laugh at my reference. “I’m in my kitchen a lot. A few years back I decided it might as well be pretty. I watched some videos about durable cabinet paint, dug out some power tools from the shed out back, and taught myself how to make countertops that resembled butcher block.”
Clearly impressed, Tyler moves around the room admiring my handiwork, but a gut punch of guilt hits me out of nowhere.
“Tyler, I know the outside of my house is a mess, but I wanted a pretty kitchen…” My words trail off when Tyler crosses the distance to me, taking my hands in his.
“Listen to me, Jo. You’re a busy mom. You take care of your grandmother. You work hard at your job. You don’t owe an explanation to anyone, especially to me. If I show up to fixsomething outside, it’s because I want to. You can repaint every damn wall of this house for all I care. Keep making your spaces beautiful if it makes you happy. Please, let me handle the rest.”
I keep my eyes affixed to Tyler’s for a long moment until his dart to my lips and back up to my eyes, in a silent question. He searches my gaze and must see the silent “yes please” in them, because he leans in to place a featherlight kiss to the corner of my mouth.
The moment is over quickly, but not before I raise a hand to the spot his lips just were, the phantom touch still lingering.
We head to the living room, taking seats at either end of my couch, much like we did that first day in Singing River. It’s funny how so much has changed in such a short time. That feels like ages ago, when in reality it was only three weeks ago.
We sip our drinks in silence while Tyler openly studies me, his gaze thoughtful, a lazy smile on his face.
“What’s your favorite color?” Tyler asks after a few moments of silence.
I cock a brow, eyes squinted.
Tyler shrugs, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Feels like vital information if I’m gonna get to know you.” The way he’s looking at me, I almost believe my favorite color actually matters to him.
“Is that what you’re here to do? Get to know me?” I ask.
“I’d like to. I’ve met Jo the college girl, Jo the mom, but I wanna know everything there is to know about Jo the woman.” Tyler takes another sip of his wine, rests the glass on his knee, and locks eyes with me.
“Even my broken bits?” I ask, timidly.
“Especially those.”
Trying my damndest to ignore what those words do to me, I gnaw on my bottom lip, taking a beat to ponder how to describe my favorite color. “Periwinkle—no, cornflower blue. Wait, no—lavender.”
Tyler’s lips quirk to the side. “That hard, huh?”
Standing, I hold up a finger and run to my art room, gathering a handful of acrylics and a clean bowl. I squirt blobs of blue, purple and a dollop of white, mixing until I’m satisfied with the shade.
I re-enter the living room, holding out the mixing bowl for him to inspect. “This is my favorite color.”
Tyler takes it, humming approval. “It’s beautiful.”
“And you?” I ask, settling back onto the couch, placing the bowl on the coffee table. “Is yours beige?”
Tyler laughs at my jab. “I feel like this is that accounting talk all over again.”
My brows furrow. “You remember that?”
“I’ve told you, I remember everything.”
Same as they were the first time he spoke them, his words are a caress, draping around my shoulders, wrapping me in their warmth. My face heats and I study my cuticles.
“My favorite color is a shade of pale blue, tinged in silver. Haven’t seen it in a while, though. Not until recently.”
