Sweet

Chapter Four

I didn’t see Riley for a few days. When I got up the next morning, he was gone, and I left before he came home. By the time I was back from work, he was in bed. But evidence of our odd cohabitation came in the form of our pissing match over the windows and the air freshener. After work, I would fling open the windows in the living room and kitchen. When I stumbled to the kitchen in the morning for coffee, they’d already be closed. I started to think that Riley was sneaking out of his room like a window ninja minutes after I opened them to close them again because the house always felt stale, a permanent odor that reminded me of the area in front of the airport parking garage elevator. The yuck factor was high.

Maybe if he didn’t keep hiding the air freshener the results would have been more positive. But after realizing it was gone I found the stupid thing in the coat closet, and then tucked away in the bathroom vanity, so while he was at work I put it back in the living room, front and center on the coffee table. And he always re-hid it. The second morning I woke up because he opened my door and crept in, mister in hand, unholy grin on his face. Through slitted eyes, I watched him tiptoe barefoot across the room toward me, unaware I had woken up when he turned the doorknob. Closing my eyes quickly, I heard him deposit the air freshener next to my cell phone on the chair next to the bed so that it would clearly spray me when I reached for my phone first thing.

Jerk-off.

An entertaining jerk-off.

It was hard not to smile, but I managed to keep it together until he left. Then I rolled toward the chair and pulled the sheet closer around me, totally amused. Next he’d be tying my shoelaces together or putting itching powder in my T-shirts. Or conducting a panty raid, like we were at sixth grade summer camp. Though speaking of panties, it struck me as ironic that I was well aware that I was only in my panties and a tank top as he had crept into my room, and he could clearly care less. He hadn’t even looked at me. In my experience, if you flirted, it wasn’t exactly hard to get a guy to want to at least hook up with you, but Riley didn’t seem to find me all that attractive. Sure, he’d complimented me, said I was hot, had a good bod. But he’d said it in the way you say your sister is pretty, not in the way you talk about a girl you want to bang.

It had been a long time since I’d felt unbangable.

Maybe that was a good thing.

Maybe, for the first time ever in the history of my post-puberty life, I could actually be friends with a guy.

Doubtful. But hey, stranger things had happened.

It wasn’t like my brother and I were friends—totally the opposite. Paxton had practically made it his life’s work to get me in trouble. If I was my mother’s disappointment, the daughter who could never quite be the perfect (in her opinion, anyway) woman she was, my brother was her precious perfect son. It was what it was, but it totally didn’t give us the kind of sibling relationship you saw on TV. I avoided him, and he posted asshole comments on my Facebook page. That was the extent of our interaction.

So I was going to try to enjoy the weird dynamic with Riley and stop analyzing it.

I didn’t have to work, so I read outside on the back deck, and after an hour of glancing up from my book to the ashtray posing as a yard I couldn’t take it any more. I didn’t think of myself as OCD or anything, but that was just seriously gross. Going into the garage, which was even hotter than outside and smelled like motor oil, I found a pathetic old broom and a dustpan. Sweeping like it was my job, I managed to collect about a hundred cigarette butts into a pile and push them on the dustpan. Then I tossed them into the garbage can, feeling a whole lot better about my view. There were still random butts scattered here and there but short of a fire hose or picking them up by hand, there was no way to get them all. Hey, it was an improvement.

Then, because I was nosy, I decided I was too hot to sit in the sun anymore, and I went into the house and started opening kitchen cabinets. There was an assortment of plastic tableware, gas station soft drink tumblers, and chipped coffee mugs. I had already discovered that the flatware was in a drawer next to the sink and that the spoons I used to eat my yogurt would bend if you were even at all aggressive with your scooping. I figured this was definitely an education in how to live on the cheap, and I might actually need the knowledge someday.

Welcome to the real word, Jessica Sweet.

Though I couldn’t claim that seeing how real people make ends meet had anything to do with my going down the hall and peeking in to Riley’s bedroom. That was just pure curiosity. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Porn scattered all around? Some sort of visual insight into Riley Mann? All I saw was a dark room with a towel draped over the window, the bed frame an eighties black lacquer monstrosity that looked like all the members of a hair band should be sprawled on it in leather pants making metal horns. It so didn’t look like anything that Riley would actually buy, and it was borderline creepy. But then I spotted the framed picture on the dresser, an eighties prom portrait, the aqua blue dress with poofy sleeves swallowing the petite brunette with the balloon arch behind her, and I realized this must have been Riley’s mom’s room.

Feeling guilty for spying, I retreated, heart pounding in fear that I would get caught and something else I couldn’t quite interpret.

There were lighter squares on the paint down the hallway, showing that at one time pictures had hung on the walls, and I wondered what it had been like in the house twenty-some years ago, when Riley’s parents had been young and in love, wanting a place to raise their family. What had happened? Or were they ever in love? Were my parents in love? Did love even exist?

I wasn’t sure. It just seemed like lust led to love, which led to unhappiness.

Unable to be alone anymore in a space that wasn’t my own, I texted Bill.

What are you doing?

Then I immediately hated myself for poking. What was so hard about being in my own thoughts? And why did I need reassurance that Bill still liked me even though he didn’t want me to stay in his apartment?

It also reminded me that Riley was actually being pretty damn nice to let me stay with him.

I decided I needed to do something to say thanks. There wasn’t a lot I could offer him that he would accept. If I offered money, he would say no. He was too proud for that. If I offered him payment in beer, he might say yes, but that was a guy gift. I wanted to do something that was girly, that he would remember had come from me. And okay, maybe it was just a compulsion to improve the grossness of the house, but I wanted to de-gross it. Or at least one room. The living room looked a little overwhelming since there was no way I could replace the dirty furniture or the carpet. But a peek under the corner of the carpet showed hardwood floors under there. The kitchen seemed easier to tackle. It basically just needed some paint and accessories. A nice masculine update. Fresh paint alone would kill some of the smoke smell.

The kitchen table was an old oak rectangle, and I had noticed on day one that at some point, the boys had started writing on it with a Sharpie. There were random notes to each other like “Buy milk,” and brotherly slurs such as “Tyler sucks dick.” There were doodles of faces and animals, and there was even a recipe for cheesecake, written in Rory’s handwriting. I envied her for belonging here with them, a weird little camaraderie, and I envied them for having the freedom to write on a piece of furniture in permanent marker if they wanted to. Not that they hadn’t paid the price for it—I knew that. But there was something about their brotherhood that made me feel left out.

Made me want to put a big old “Jessica was here” across the room.

I texted my friend Robin, the only one of our girlfriends who was spending the summer in Cincy. Want to go to the hardware store with me?

Is that a new club?

I snorted. No. I mean for real hardware store. For paint and stuff.

Oh. Sure I guess.

An hour later we were strolling down the aisles of the hardware store, looking very out of place among the shuffling elderly couples and workmen dressed in grubby clothes eyeing us with naked curiosity. It might have been Robin’s skintight bright blue tube dress. It didn’t exactly scream home improvement. Personally I felt like I should be wearing steel-toed boots instead of flip-flops, but I was going to make the best of it. I just wanted paint samples for the kitchen and a brush to test them on the wall.

“So why are you doing this exactly?” Robin asked, her earrings jingling as she leaned over to pull a hot-pink paint chip card out of the shelf.

“I just want to do something nice for Riley since he’s letting me stay there.”

“You could have sex with him. It would be easier and more fun.”

I had no doubt of that. “It would also put me right on the edge of being a whore. Sex should never be as a favor or a thank-you. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“That’s a shame,” she teased, going for another paint chip. “Look, this one matches my nails. You’re picking all the boring colors.”

I was staying in the steel gray and blue-gray family, wanting to do something modern and chic and masculine without veering into man-cave territory. “It’s a house of four guys. I can’t do a lemon yellow kitchen.”

“I don’t see why not. Yellow is a happy color. Are you going to put this in your design portfolio?”

“I probably should.” I hadn’t thought about it, but it was the perfect before-and-after design on a dime. “But I’m not planning to spend more than like seventy-five bucks so I’m not sure how much impact it will have.”

“Think of it as a design challenge. Let me know if you want some art. I can do something for you.” Robin was also in the design school with me, though she was focusing on visual arts. Her love was painting, but she was being practical by getting a dual degree in graphic design and art.

Nothing about my double-major was practical unless you asked my mother. I was getting degrees in both Religious Studies and Interior Design. So basically I was majoring in Future Preacher’s Wife. Their vision for me was that after graduation, I could stencil Scripture passages on the wall of my husband’s dining room for fund-raising dinner parties. But agreeing to their course of study was the only way they had been willing to let me attend a state school instead of a private Christian college.

I did love design, both interior and fashion. But it made me feel guilty because it seemed so freaking frivolous. Kylie wanted to teach grade school. Rory wanted to be a doctor. And there was me, wanting to rid the world of shit-brown carpet and spandex. Not exactly life changing. Then again, in some cases it arguably could be.

“That would be awesome,” I told her. “Something with typography. Maybe food related . . . just like a big piece that says ‘EAT,’ or ‘YUM YUM,’ that sort of thing.”

“You want me to paint YUM YUM for the kitchen wall of the Mann brothers? Now that is singularly amazing.”

I laughed. That did seem a little creeper. “Maybe EAT is a safer bet.”

“Oh, hell no. Where is the fun in that? Just let me know what colors you want and I can do it in like an hour.”

“Cool. Okay, I’m going to get these samples and then we can go.”

The reaction when Riley came home was not what I was expecting. I had painted four squares on the blank kitchen wall and was studying them as they dried, trying to decide which I liked best. Frankly, any would be better than the yellowed and dingy white walls with dozens of scuffs and stains on them.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Riley asked me, by way of greeting.

He looked sweaty and hot and tired, his nose sunburned. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was about as filthy as the kitchen walls, his tool belt in his hand. I’d never seen myself as a girl who dug a man with power tools, but there was some kind of just automatic response my body was having to the belt and the work boots. It was like an animal instinct that I knew in a zombie apocalypse I would have a better chance of survival with Riley than a marketing major.

“I’m choosing a paint color. Which one do you like best?”

“They all look the same to me. But there is no way you’re painting this kitchen. It’s fucking pointless.” He dropped his belt on the table and went to the fridge, dried mud crumbling off his boots as he walked.

“Why? It’s a very cheap way to refresh a room.”

“Thanks, Martha Stewart, but I’m not spending a dime on this house. Another six months the bank will be kicking us out. It’s a waste of money.” He pulled a beer out and popped the tab.

“Oh, and you never waste money?” I asked, looking pointedly at the beer in his hand.

His eyes narrowed before he took a long swallow. He let out a lip-smacking sound of satisfaction. “Ah, that tastes awesome. And did we get married when I wasn’t looking? Because you sound a hell of a lot like the nagging wife I swore never to have.”

He might have a point. But so did I. “Look, it’s simple psychology. Our environment affects our mood. This is a depressing environment. An investment of seventy-five dollars spread out over the six months you may still be living here is barely three dollars a week and it can have a huge impact on attitude.”

“Are you for real right now?” He shook his head. “If this is such a depressing environment you don’t have to stay here, you know. You can go climb on Nerd Boy and talk him into putting up with you.”

That stung. Wounded, I lashed back at him. “Don’t be an asshole. I’m trying to do something nice. And for the record, I wasn’t expecting you to pay for the paint, it was supposed to be a gift.”

“I don’t need your damn charity and I don’t need this kitchen painted.” Riley put down his beer, and he went over to the one blank wall where my fresh paint squares were drying. I jumped when he kicked the wall with his heel, denting the drywall. “This house should be burned to the ground. It’s a fucking cesspool, and before the bank kicks us out I’m taking a sledgehammer to everything in it.” He kicked twice more, finally succeeding in putting his heel into the wall. “This is me not giving a shit about this house.”

“Fine,” I retorted. “Do that in six months. But maybe in the meantime everyone else who lives here would like to enjoy their surroundings.”

“You don’t live here,” he said.

Like I needed reminding. Like I wanted to. “I meant Tyler, Jayden, and Easton.”

“You’re really annoying.”

“And you’re stupidly stubborn. It’s like you’re determined to be miserable.”

“What do you know about miserable, princess? What do you know about having your mother stoned out of her mind nailing you in the head with a frying pan, huh? What do you know about walking in and seeing your eight-year-old brother eating moldy bread and drinking spoiled milk?”

“Nothing,” I said, frustrated with him. Frustrated that he didn’t respond to me the way other guys did. Why couldn’t he just accept that I was trying to be nice? Why did no one think I was capable of being nice and then when I was it was rejected? “But when Rory comes over here and bakes cookies, does it make you mad?”

“No.”

“Do the boys like it?”

He bit his fingernail and looked at the floor. “Of course they like it. They’re cookies.”

“So what’s the big deal about a little home improvement? I promise it won’t be girly. It will look like four dudes live here.”

There was an enormous pause, and I waited in anxious anticipation. This was important to me, for whatever reason.

“Fine. For the boys.” His jaw worked, but he even managed to say, “Thanks.”

I grinned, relieved that he had given in. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to need your help. I have no freaking clue how to paint a room.”

He snorted. “So your gift is causing work for me?”

Oopsie. It was a bit of a Kylie move. “It will be worth it,” I promised. “I just need some advice, not actual man power. Though I’m determined to spend as little as possible, so I might need some minor construction help now that I think about it.” I gave him a pleading look. “Please?”

Riley shook his head. “Unbelievable. I swear, you’d test the patience of a saint.”

“If not a saint, definitely I test the patience of a preacher. Just ask my dad.”

“Your father is a preacher?”

“Yes.” It had to come out sooner or later, so I figured I should just get it over with. Let the jokes begin.

But Riley just nodded. “I guess that makes sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I can see now why you might not want to go home for the summer. It’s probably tough to deal with all those expectations. You have to be a good girl, right?”

Suspicious, I nodded. This wasn’t the normal reaction I got. Usually guys made cracks about preachers’ daughters being the most fun and how if you had sex with one it made you closer to God. The usual crude and stupid comments.

“You don’t think I’m a good girl, do you?” I asked, already knowing the answer. No one really thought I was a good girl, even though I didn’t think I was a bad girl. Where was the label for the morally ambiguous? Nothing I ever did hurt anyone else, but I can’t say I was contributing a whole lot to the greater good of mankind. But I figured that could wait until I was on my own, when I wasn’t walking this fine line of pleasing my parents while still having enough space to breathe.

Riley handed me his half-finished beer, confusing me. But before I could ask why, he looked me in the eye and said, “Jess, I’ve got no business judging anyone. But I can offer you some advice if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” Though my palms started to sweat anticipating what he might say.

“Never ask someone to tell you who you are. You tell them.”

The irony was, I had thought I was doing that when I’d come to college, but I realized Riley was right. My message of who I was wasn’t clear to anyone, not even to me. A hot taste of dissatisfaction filled my mouth. “Yeah, I get that. But it’s not so easy with my dad.”

“I’m sure it’s not. But you’re on your own now, right?”

I nodded and took a sip of the beer. “I’m drinking this.”

“That’s why I gave it to you. And if you want to offer me advice right back, here’s your chance. I opened the door.”

He leaned on the kitchen counter, crossing his ankles and his arms, a sly smile on his face. I wondered what he thought I would say. He certainly looked like he thought I was predictable. It was hard to study him, because I didn’t understand my reaction to him. Annoyance was still there, simmering under the surface, wanting to smack his arrogance off his face, but there were more complex feelings there now as well. An odd sort of kinship, attraction, definitely, and maybe something that if the thought didn’t make me want to throw up a little, tender.

It was that last one that prompted me to say, “Yes. I do have some advice. Use sunscreen on your face tomorrow. You don’t want to end up losing half your nose at forty from melanoma.”

First his eyes widened in surprise, then he laughed, even as his finger came up to stroke over the red skin on his nose. “I didn’t see that one coming. Thanks, Mom. I’m going to go take a shower.” On his way out of the kitchen, he casually tapped the paint sample on the far left. “I like this one the best.”

That simple gesture made me feel a little gooey inside. So after he went to bed, I put my odor-free sunscreen bottle on the counter in the bathroom with a note that said Safety First <3.