Rebbecca
"White subway tiles are an excellent choice," I say. "Very clean and timeless. They age extremely well."
"Great. Let's talk about colors." Angela says.
"Muted, neutral tones. A lot of black and white, with articulation colors, like earth tones, mostly wood shades." I say.
"And fixtures?" Angela says.
"If you really want that industrial look, black galvanized 1/2" to 2" od pipe will do it," I say.
"That's what I want," Angela says. She reaches into her black, Balenciaga tote and removes a tube of La Mer hand treatment. She generously massages the rejuvenation and tightening serum into her palms and backs of her hands. "I have such dry skin. I have tried everything. Nothing worked and believe me when I say I've tried them all. I've tried everything from L'Occitane to TOCCA and nothing worked for me. It wasn't until a friend of mine gifted me the La Mer skin treatment set that I realized my life had been missing Miracle Broth." Angela offered me a dab.
"Thank you," I say and rub the lotion into my skin.
"It was actually a very sweet gift, he was a very sweet boy. Slightly too young for me, I had 20 years over the strapping lad but that's wasn't the problem. I mean he came from a good family and Harold approved, but I found the relationship maintenance exhausting. The boy was too needy, he was always texting and messaging and chatting and it was just too much of a nuisance. It was a shame too, the boy was built like a Grecian God and he could last for hours. Darling, trust me when I say it felt like he was going to break my hips. Once, my vocal revelry matured with such intensity that Harold intervened for fear of internal damage, which to be fair was understandable considering the boy's situation, if you understand? But it wasn't a total loss, as I now have discovered the only ointment that has ever worked on my incredibly dry skin. And Harold approves, he thinks my skin has never felt softer." Angela says and adjusts the giant shades on her face. "So when can we have all of this ripped out?" She waves her hand overhead. I turn to Tom who's been taking notes and quietly listening.
"We're prepared to start demo immediately," Tom says.
"Wonderful, and be sure to save as much material as possible. All the appliances and cabinetry, doors and windows can be donated to our foundation, Homes for the Homeless." Angela says.
"I will personally make sure they know," I say.
"Very good. I have to leave now darling, I have a meeting with a new client. This one is slightly older." She says and leaves.
Tom and I walk through the loft once more. The high vaulted ceilings are lined with windows.
"This is a brand new loft," Tom says. He shakes his head slightly.
"I know," I say.
"What some people do with their money," he says. We stand there looking at the gray Seattle skyline and I can't stop thinking about how sad I feel. I should be happy but I can't kick it. I can't stop thinking about Andrew and I and how we've been lately.
"Are you okay?" Tom says.
"Oh yeah, I'm fine," I say. I try to smile it all away.
"You have never been a good liar Becca," Tom says and smiles. "You're just too honest."
"No, it's just life shit," I say.
"You're a great designer," he says, "you have an eye for this. You should feel proud."
"Thank you," I say and for a fraction of a second feel the smallest fragment of joy. We stare at one another and the moment drifts into uncharted water. I can feel his vulnerability escaping and it disarms me. He looks through my eyes to some deeper place and my heart flutters. It's a language different than words but speaks louder than any sound. I become aware of our body proximity and suddenly feel every thought passing between us. I smile and back away.
"You're very nice Tom," I say and avert my eyes back to the city.
"Its good to have you back," he says, "I'll start running numbers and get them over to you before Friday."
"That would be great," I say and outstretch my hand. He smiles and we shake.
"Why don't you take off?" He says, "I know you need to pick up Lucy and Tommy. I can lock up. I have some measurements to get anyway, so I'll be here for a little while."
"Sounds good. Thank you, Tom," I say and leave.
I stop at the grocery store and pick up fixings for chicken fettuccine alfredo, then grab Tommy and Lucy from daycare.
I unload the kids and grab the plastic bags. Andrew's BMW is still in the driveway and I check my watch. We are home a little early. Thank god. My feet hurt and all I want to do is rest. But my list of to-dos is far from done for the day. Dinner, laundry, dishes, play with the kiddos for a half an hour before its teeth brushing time, then jammies and off to bed.
We walk through the garage door into the laundry room and the kids go right to the rec room. I drop the bags off in the kitchen and start a pot of water for the pasta.
I flip on pandora and soft, classical piano plays. The kids laughter floats up from downstairs and I forget about the chasem between Andrew and I. I flip through pinterest on my phone and start a new board for the Hughes Project. This is the part I love, the inspiration and creative part. I pin lots of industrial photos, some neutral color palettes, and all kinds of industrial pipe shelving and stands. There is so much to look at that I don't hear Andrew walk up behind me. He wraps his arms around me and it's startling.
"Hi there," he says and kisses my cheek. It's been a while since he touched me and it feels off.
"Hi," I say trying to mask everything unspoken between us but the words fall flat off my lips. I know he is trying to be affectionate and I can appreciate the attempt.
"I'm trying to be loving," he says deffensivly.
"I know," I say, "I touched your arm."
"Why does it always have to be like this?" He says, "I was trying to start the night off right. You just got home, I wanted to come downstairs and show you some love, because I know you like it when I hug you, so I tried to hug you."
"I know," I say, "and I didn't do anything. I said Hi, that's all."
"Yeah but you are still angry," he says, "you still haven't let it go." I don't answer. I don't want another fight, so I turn my attention back to cooking. "That's it?"
"I don't want to fight anymore," I say.
"God, you are such a bitch sometimes," he says walking away then stops. "I wasn't trying to fight."
I stand in the kitchen alone and listen to the kids roar with laughter when their father enter the room. My stomach twists into knots as the emptiness in my heart consumes me. I will myself to cry but the wetness in my eyes never produces tears. It's sad. I'm sad and I don't know what to do.
Later that night, after everything was done and the house was asleep, I lay in my bed and dream of a different life. I dream of a happy one.
TO BE CONTINUED
YOU ARE READING
The Babysitter
Teen Fiction"Falling in love with a married man wasn't what I wanted but it happened." - Samantha "Finding love again was all I wanted with him, but I had to find myself first." - Rebecca Love and lies collide in this riveting tale of adultery, as two women fig...
