“Speaking of the fundraiser, we should do some more planning. Do you want to come to mine one day after work so we can work on that?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Ya, that sounds good, what day were you thinking?”
“How about Thursday?” she offers.
“Only if I bring dinner.”
For the next few days, I finish clearing out the theater, making it as blank a canvas as I can. Growing up, I would sit on the floor watching renovation shows with my mom. She watched them for the décor, I watched them for the transformation.
The part I enjoyed watching most was the messy middle, where everything had to be stripped down and cleaned up to be something better. Walls would come down, old mistakes would be exposed, and everything looked worse instead of better.
I’ve learned that renovation isn’t about pretending something was never damaged, It’s about being patient enough to rebuild it right.
I wonder if that’s why people are quick to judge each other: they see the mess and assume that is the end of their story, but they don’t stick around long enough to see where everything turns out beautiful. No one seems patient enough to wait around for the rebuild, that’s how I’ve felt since moving back home.
People don’t see the man who built a life in LA. They don’t see the nights I worked overtime just to afford rent. They don’t see the projects that succeeded, or the ones that failed and nearly took me down with them. They don’t see the years I spent figuring out that I didn’t want a life that looked impressive, I wanted one that felt like mine.
They see the boy who left Lavender Creek and didn’t take over the ranch. To the town I am the one who ran, and maybe I did, but it wasn’t from the town. I ran from expectations and from being someone I didn’t choose to be. Now that I am back, all they seem to notice is the dust, but dust means something can be rebuilt. Maybe I deserve the same patience as people give renovations.
8
Violet
"Coffee first, everything else later."
Today is Thursday, which means Everett is coming into the café after closing tonight to plan the theater fundraiser.
When Lily suggested that I help him, I was hesitant at first. Getting involved with someone means trusting them, and he has walked away from this town once. Maybe he will do it again.
After the café closes, it always feels bigger.
I’m wiping down the counters and tables while I wait for Everett to show up. I told him around 7:30 p.m., and right on the dot, there he is.
I sense him before he knocks on the door. He’s been coming into the café on the days I don’t bring him coffee, and I’m not sure how, but I started to feel his presence before I even saw him. Like a magnetic pull. I chalk it up to all the time spent together and nothing more.
Opening the door, I step aside to let him in. He’s carrying dinner, which is good since I haven’t eaten since lunch. I’m sure he can hear my stomach grumble as he walks past me.
“Any table?” he asks.
“I thought we’d go up to my apartment and work, it’s more comfortable,” I say as I finish wiping down the counters.
“Oh, I see how it is, you want me to come upstairs,” he says, raising his eyebrow suggestively and winking.
What is it about a man winking at you that turns you into a puddle?
“You wish. You’ll be on your chair, and I’ll be on mine,” I say, teasing him back.
“Would you like a coffee? I can make decaf if you don’t want the caffeine this late?” I ask as we approach the door to my place.
“A decaf would be great, thank you.”
Once the door is open, I switch on the light in my apartment.
I give him a small tour. It’s not a big place, so it doesn’t take long. You walk in, and right ahead of you is the living area, and to the left of that is the kitchen with a big window that looks out onto Main Street. To the right of the living room, there is a small hallway with a bathroom and my bedroom a little farther down.
He seems to like it, not that I care. Right?Why do I care what he thinks?
Shaking my head, I hope to shake out thoughts of how nice he is, and how hot he is.
