Page 19 of Come in with the Rain
“Yeah?”
“Is that seriously how you answer your phone?” Dani says in my ear in that smoky voice of hers.
“It is when it’s you. What’s up, Dani?”
“I’ve got a girl for you.”
I glance up at Stella, just a flicker of my eyes, then back down at the tile. “I’m not interested.”
“You always say that.”
“That’s because I’m always not interested. Is trying to set me up the only reason you called?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the way Stella’s hands stop moving, her head tilting slightly in my direction. My stomach gives a jolt of awareness.
“Shockingly, no. Ford asked me to call. He decided this morning to set up this fundraiser for the gym so we can put in some benches. Wants to know if you’ll help out.”
“Help out how?” I can’t remember the last time Ford asked me to “help out” and it didn’t end in a trip to the emergency room. Ford is a magnet for things and people that’ll make you bleed, and it’s almost always never his fault.
“He told me not to tell you because then you’ll definitely say no.”
“Oh. In that case, no.” I’ve stopped trying to set the tile now, sitting on my knees in the middle of the kitchen, with my back straight and my phone pressed to my ear. I’m looking right at Stella, watching her fingers move while she tries to pretend she’s not listening to our conversation.
“He also told me to tell you that you owe him.”
I stare down at the tile, a generic grey linoleum that looks way more expensive than it is. I want to give Stella the best I can, but my parents’ life insurance money can only go so far, and I’ve already sunk a huge chunk of it into this business. “What? How?”
“Says you never paid him for helping you rip up some countertops.”
I stare at the countertops in question. I groan, and Stella openly stares now, one eyebrow raised. I’m starting to think she’s been able to hear everything on both sides of the phone this whole time. Ford is right. I never paid him. Forgot all about it in the heat of everything else that happened. “Tell him I’ll pay him.”
“I think he wants you to do the fundraiser instead.”
“Put him on the phone.”
There’s some shuffling and some quiet conversation on the other end of the line, and then Danika is back. “He’s refusing to speak to you. Fundraiser is next Saturday night at eight. See you there!”
I stare at my phone until the call vanishes and then I’m just staring at the background that came with the phone: a geometric pattern in primary colors. “Sometimes having friends isn’t worth it,” I grumble.
Stella chuckles. “I know exactly what you mean.” She finally puts down the necklace she’s been working on. Her eyes are gentle and kind when she looks at me, and it loosens something that’s been twisting tight in my chest since last week. We’ve spoken, and she’s been perfectly cordial and professional, but she’s also been too busy to make an attempt at small talk. Seeing as how I’m shit at starting conversations, it’s been a quiet few days.
“So, you’re almost done in here, right?” she asks. “Where are you working next?”
I brush my hands off on my jeans and look around. Stepping into the living room, I assess what all will need to be done. Baseboards, paint, replacing the book shelves, painting the fireplace. That’ll be a big job. I step over to the bathroom and switch on the light. I’ll have to order tile and fixtures. That could take a little while.
My eyes land on the door of her bedroom. She’s always kept it firmly closed, either because I’m here or because it’s some sort of pre-established habit.
“I guess,” I say, turning to her, “the bedroom would be the easiest. It’s probably just painting and baseboards. I could knock it out in a day or two. Maybe replace your windows.”
When I mention the windows, Stella stops, halfway out of her chair. “My windows? Is anyone really going to notice my windows in pictures?”
I pretend to assess her living room windows. I tap the glass with one angled knuckle. There’s nothing wrong with her windows, other than some holes in the screens. They’re outdated, but pull the curtains and no one would ever know or care. Except me.
New windows are sturdier. They cut the heat in the summer so her electricity bill will be smaller. Less chance of a bad storm tearing right through them and flooding the place, or worse, hurting her. So I say, “These crossbeam windows make the place look ancient. And I have to show potential clients that I can replace windows. That’s a specialized job.”
She’s standing beside me now, one hand on the glass, fingers splayed. Her nails are a deep plum color. “And you know how to do that?”
“I do.”
