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I’ll have to start haunting the neighborhood Facebook sales and giveaway sites for household and yard stuff. Still, a smile creeps over my face as I head back to Evie’s room, because I, Paige Redmond, am a grownup with a yard that needs raking.
“Heck, yes, sis,” I say aloud. “You did the thing.”
The primer on the first wall, the one destined for a rainbow glow up, is dry, so I measure and block out the wide stripes for each section of color. I picked up a rich, happy pink to start and end the spectrum.
Evie pops in. “Can I go see the Dubs?”
“Not right now, kiddo. I need to work on your room. I can’t go with you.”
“So?” Her tone is curious, not rude, like she can’t figure out what me being busy has to do with anything.
Well . . . is it that big of a deal to let her go a block in a perfectly safe neighborhood by herself?
“You’re right. You can go. Let me text Nana Dub that you’re coming, and she can text me when you get there. Deal?”
“Bye!” she calls, already halfway down the hall.
I’ll eventually need to put Evie to work, but there’s truly not much she can do right now. Everything is waiting for something else to be done first. She can’t move into her room until it’s painted. She can’t unpack silverware because the drawers need to be lined. By next weekend, I’ll have enough to keep her busy, and Evie loves to be busy.
Lisa texts less than ten minutes later to let me know Evie made it, and I go out back to fetch the pink paint I need. I should be able to get down one coat of each color today. Our tiny back stoop has just enough room for two people to stand on it, then four concrete steps leading down. The handrail is missing, something I need to fix sooner than later, but right now, it makes it a convenient workbench if I stand on the ground beside the stairs. It makes the stoop waist-high.
I give the can with the pink dob a few hearty shakes before prying off the lid to stir it more. I pull out the stir stick, satisfied. It’ll take two coats, but it’s the perfect shade.
“You should fix that handrail,” a male voice says behind me.
I yelp and spin, ready to stab with my stir stick, only to find Mr. Brown standing there in khakis and a gray sweater with a pink spatter line of fresh paint across the chest.
The hazard of most yards not having fences around here is people can sneak up on you. And the hazard of sneaking up on someone is getting painted.
He stares down, his mouth falling open slightly before his wide eyes meet mine.
Despite my best efforts, a sinking sensation fills my stomach at the exact same moment a laugh bubbles out of me. “I’m so sor—” I try to say, but he cuts me off.
“It’s not funny.” He looks down at his pink stripe again like he can’t quite figure out what just happened.
It’s the worst thing he could have said. It’s only going to make the laughter worse, which is only going to make him angrier, which will only make me laugh harder, no matter what I do. I try, knowing it will be futile.
“Sorry, you just” —the word wobbles on another laugh— “surprised me. It was an accident.” This makes me laugh again, and I can’t even blame him when he glares at me. “I really am s-s-s-sorry,” I stutter around more laughter.
His mouth opens then closes once, twice, and then presses it into a tight line before he turns on his heel with military precision and marches back to his big fancy house.
I try to pull myself together, but it only makes me laugh harder. I have to run up the stairs and step inside to let it roll for almost a full minute before I can force myself to take deep, even breaths until it subsides.
I didn’t want to be friends with Mr. Brown. I’m sick of uptight men, and I’m still annoyed he forced me into six extra months of mortgage payments and soaked up half my repair budget with his stupid counteroffer. But I definitely didn’t mean to paint him—another snorting giggle escapes me—on our first day as neighbors. Or anytime, really.
But honestly, his sweater looked a little better. At least the color gave it some life.
I lean against the wall with a sigh, the sign that the laughter is finally draining from me. Sometime in the last few years, I’ve developed the bad habit of laughing at inappropriate times. And the more inappropriate it is, the harder it is to stop. It’s getting to the point where I feel a slight dread before I start work each day that something bad will happen and set off a laughing jag at the expense of some poor customer. Or Evie’s teacher. Or Lisa or Bill. Oranyone.
As far as Chino Dude, there’s not much I can do now. I apologized. It is what it is.
I pick up the paint can and head back to Evie’s room, climbing on the ladder to start the uppermost stripe. I finish the first section and need to climb down to move the ladder and start the next one, but when I reach the floor, my conscience pricks me. Does it count as an apology if I mean it, but I laugh through the whole thing?
I really did mean it.
Ugh. I’m going to have to go over there and apologize for real.
ButafterI finish this pink.
