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I’m encouraged instead of discouraged.
“I’m helping you do dishes, and that’s final. I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll be right back after I bus a few tables.”
“Don’t you dare.” The smile tugging at his lips tells a different story than his words.
I flash Slade a cheeky grin and ignore him. I wander out to the dining room and stack a bunch of dishes into a large tub, including my own. I return to the kitchen and start loading his rinsed dishes into the dishwasher.
I love solving a problem, fixing things. It’s a control high.
Slade points to his face. “See this? It’s a glare. I’m glaring at you. It means I’m staring at you in an angry or fierce way.”
I scoff. “If you have to tell someone you’re glaring, then you don’t know how to glare.”
“This day kinda sucks. I’m glaring the best I can.”
Slade’s having a bad day. Mr. Perfect is not so perfect. Thank goodness. I can’t live up to perfect. “Glad to know you’re human like the rest of us mortals.”
“Hey, I bleed red too.” Slade grabs the tub to collect more dishes in the dining room, giving me the chance to take over the washing.
He returns and bumps my hip with his. “Move over, or I might have to glare some more.”
I’m not backing down. I’m rather enjoying our banter. I bump his hip right back. “Nope. Your glare doesn’t scare me. You might want to give it a little more practice.”
“I’ll make a date with my bathroom mirror.” He watches me scrubbing a difficult pan. “What do I do with you?”
“The dishes?” Sarcasm is my best friend.
His attempt at glaring ends as he laughs out loud. “I give up.”
“I’ll wash, you load or dry. We’ll have this done in no time.” Someone who is controlling can also be known as a planner or organizer. I’m all of the above.
It takes us a little over an hour to finish up, mainly because we keep blowing globs of dishwashing bubbles at each other and have to clean up the mess.
I place my hands on my hips as we look at the sparkling clean kitchen. “I’ll help you clean the rooms now. Show me what to do.”
“No, Marin. I draw the line here.” Slade’s words have a resolute ring.
I’m feeling sassy. “Well, I just erased it. There is no line.”
His brows flicker. “Oh, there’s a line. It’s thick, dark, and not easily erased.”
Is he talking about cleaning rooms? Or is he alluding to something else entirely? I’m not sure. “Let’s get to it. I insist. I want to help.”
He cocks his head to one side. “You’re different today. Did the blue man call?”
“Blu who?” My words ooze contempt. Love that new rhyme.
“Are you running?” Slade leans against the counter, folding his arms, surveying me with curious eyes.
“Running? What do you mean?”
“Running away from heartbreak by trying to stay busy.” His tone is quiet.
I understand what he’s saying. “I’ve let myself cry and be sad. I’ve even screamed at the ocean with you. But it’s enough already. I’m done feeling down. I want to move forward. Will what happened always be a tiny wound on my heart? Yes. The great thing about wounds is they heal. They become scars. They’re always there, but we survive them and move on. That’s what I’m ready to do.” I deflate after my valiant words. “Please, Slade. I need something to do. I might be running a little bit. I haven’t ignored the issue, though. I’ve faced it head-on.”
His eyes narrow as he studies me thoughtfully. “Are you sure? This is your vacation. You really don’t have to do this.”
“I know. I want to. Let’s do this together. Just me and you. The two of us. It’ll be fun.” Now who’s alluding to something else? Sort of. Kind of. A tiny bit. There’s no way he gets it. I’m so bad at flirting—so elusive it flies over his head.
