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Though I was normally a glass-half-full, everything-will-work-out type of person, I fully expected that spending the next couple of weeks picking out finishes for the house with Burke would be a bit like pulling teeth: painful, necessary, and something you very much wanted over.
But it didn’t happen that way. He didn’t do any of the things I expected him to.
He listened.
He asked questions. Good ones too.
He didn’t dictate what radio station we listened to, ceding that decision to me.
He didn’t question my driving. Didn’t interrupt me when I was talking, even if the topic wasn’t something he cared too much about.
We picked flooring for the rooms in which the original couldn’t be refinished, and even though he mostly deferred to my design choices, he had a good eye when he actually had an opinion on something.
Even if that opinion sounded very manlike in its delivery.
“The color of that counter hurts my eyes, and if you pick that for the kitchen, I’ll hold the furniture hostage.”
It shouldn’t have been charming. Or funny. Or have made me want to pick other options like that just to needle him a little further.
Except that’s exactly what I did, moving over to a black counter with massive white veins running through it. “Love this,” I purred. I ran my fingers over the edge and sighed.
The horror on his face was so immediate that I burst out laughing.
His body stilled, then slumped in relief when he realized I was kidding.
I nudged him with my shoulder before moving on. He grunted.
“Funny,” he muttered.
We did not pick the countertop in question, deciding instead on a honed quartz in a creamy off-white color with subtle veining. He liked it because it wasn’t “so fucking shiny.”
I loved it because it would look beautiful with the deep blue I wanted to use on the kitchen cabinets.
In the midst of all that, he had moments every once in a while that revealed he didn’t hate this quite as much as he pretended to.
As we wandered around our third tile showroom of the day, he listened when I explained why something wouldn’t work for the Campbell House.
“Too modern again?” he asked. The tile in question was large, with beautiful gray-and-white striations.
“The coloring is fine; it’s the size on this one.” I pointed to a different display. “See those penny rounds—the sheet of small circles? Or that one on the edge with the black pattern in the middle? Those are perfect. It was small, detailed, design-focused tile back then. We can get away with neutrals on the floor, but we still have to keep the size correct.”
He hummed, picking the patterned black-and-white option off the wall. “It reminds me of a quilt,” he said, referencing the starburst design. “My sister had one like this growing up. My mom made it for her.”
I stilled. He so rarely shared anything. It was a lot like catching a glimpse of a wild animal. Your movements slowed and your breathing got really shallow because you didn’t want to be the one to scare it away.
“Does your sister still have it?” I asked. “Or your mom?”
Internally, I winced at how uncasual that sounded coming out.
He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice dipped a bit, like he was afraid someone might be listening. “My mom died when we were little. I’m not sure if Tansy still has it or not.”
Oh, sure. Of course he’d have something simple and heartbreaking in response.
The common thread between us was so clear. And I had the distinct feeling that if I picked at it, if I tugged on the thread he’d just shown me, he’d want to pull the words back into his head.
It took every ounce of discipline, but I decided to leave them right where they were.
I tilted the tile board in my direction. “I like it. We could do it in the downstairs powder room.” I glanced in his direction. He was still studying the tile. “What do you think?”
