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
“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
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