The Grumpy Landlord, page 13
"The silence is the problem!" I shouted.
The outburst echoed off the siding of the house.
Willow flinched.
I took a step toward her. I forced myself to lower my voice. To rein in the panic that was clawing at my throat.
"I spent ten years trying to make everything quiet," I said. "I thought if I could just organize the world, if I could just control the variables, the noise in my head would stop."
I ran a hand through my hair.
"But it didn't stop. It just got lonely."
I pointed at the guest house.
"Then you showed up. With your cat and your paint and your ridiculous yellow cardigan."
"Hey," she muttered, a tiny spark of indignation flaring. "I like that cardigan."
"It's hideous," I said. "And I love it."
She blinked.
"What?"
"I love the cardigan. I love the paint on the floor. I love that your cat tries to murder my prize roses."
I stepped closer. I didn't touch her yet. I needed her to hear me.
"I walked into that empty cottage today, Willow. It was clean. It was orderly. It was quiet."
I swallowed hard. The memory of that emptiness felt like a physical weight.
"It felt like a grave."
Willow’s arms dropped to her sides. Her expression softened, just a fraction.
"Ethan..."
"I don't want the quiet," I said. "I want the noise. I want the color. I want you, chaos and all."
She searched my face. She was looking for the lie. She was looking for the crack in the foundation.
"What if you change your mind?" she asked. "What if you wake up tomorrow and the noise is too much?"
"Then I'll buy earplugs."
A laugh bubbled out of her throat. It was a wet, shaky sound.
"That’s not funny."
"I'm not joking."
I closed the distance. I took her face in my hands. My thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, smearing the charcoal dust she hadn't washed off.
"I can't go back," I told her. "I can't go back to the black and white. You ruined me for that."
"I ruin a lot of things."
"You fix them," I corrected. "You take broken things and you make them art."
I leaned my forehead against hers.
"Make me art, Willow. Please."
She let out a breath that shuddered through her whole body.
"You're asking for a lot."
"I'm asking for everything."
"I'm messy, Ethan. I leave caps off toothpaste. I sing off-key. I feel things too much and too loud."
"I know."
"And I'm scared," she admitted. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm scared that I'm not enough to keep the ghosts away."
"You don't have to fight the ghosts," I said. "You just have to hold my hand while I do it."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were shining with tears.
"I can do that."
"Then stay."
"I'm here."
"No," I said. "Stay. In the house. In my bed. No more guest house. No more borders."
Her eyes widened.
"Ethan..."
"I want to wake up and trip over your boots," I said. "I want to find paint in the sink. I want to know you're there."
"Are you sure?"
"I have never been more sure of anything in my life. And I have defused bombs."
She smiled then. It was tremulous, fragile, but it was real.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. But if you try to kick me out again, I'm taking the espresso machine."
"Deal."
I kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the tentative exploration of our first kiss, or the desperate hunger of last night.
This was a collision.
It was angry and terrified and relieved all at once. It was a seal on a contract written in adrenaline and hope.
I crushed her mouth to mine. My hands tangled in her hair, messing up whatever was left of her bun. I pulled her body flush against mine, needing to feel every curve, every breath.
She kissed me back with equal force. Her hands gripped the front of my shirt, bunching the fabric. She made a sound in her throat—a low, desperate hum—that vibrated against my lips.
We stumbled backward. My back hit the side of the truck.
I didn't care.
I lifted her. She wrapped her legs around my waist instinctively.
"Inside," she gasped against my mouth. "Take me inside."
"Yes."
I carried her.
I walked past the dark guest house. I walked up the steps to the main house.
I kicked the door open.
We spilled into the hallway.
I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need them.
I pressed her against the wall. I kissed her jaw, her neck, the pulse point that was fluttering like a hummingbird's wing.
"I'm sorry," I murmured against her skin. "I'm so sorry."
"Shut up," she breathed. "Just... don't let go."
"Never."
I let her legs slide down until her feet touched the floor. I kept my hands on her waist, anchoring her.
She looked up at me. Her chest was heaving. Her lips were red and swollen.
She looked fierce.
She placed her hands on my face. She held me there, forcing me to look at her. To really see her.
"I'm not running anymore, Ethan," she said. Her voice was steady now. Steel wrapped in velvet.
"Good."
"But you have to promise me something."
"Anything."
"You have to let me in. All the way. No more locked doors. No more hiding in the dark."
I looked at the shadows in the corners of the hallway. The shadows that usually whispered my failures.
Tonight, they were silent.
"I promise," I said.
"Prove it," she challenged.
"How?"
She reached down and took my hand. She interlaced our fingers. Her grip was tight. Strong.
"Show me the ghosts," she whispered. "And let me paint over them."
I looked at our joined hands. The charcoal on her skin mixed with the callous on mine. It was messy. It was imperfect.
It was right.
"Okay," I said. "Let's start with the bedroom."
She grinned. The impish, chaotic light was back in her eyes.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Home Again
Willow
The wall was a blank canvas.
It was a pristine, white expanse in the living room that screamed Ethan. Clean. Sterile. Unyielding.
I stood in front of it, tapping a paintbrush against my chin. Drop cloths covered the dark hardwood floors like a sea of canvas. My tubes of paint were lined up on the coffee table—a rainbow army ready to invade.
"You're staring at it like it offended you."
I jumped.
Ethan stood in the doorway. He was holding two mugs of coffee, the steam curling up around his forearms. He wore a fresh gray t-shirt and jeans that fit him a little too well.
"It didn't offend me," I said, taking the mug he offered. "It challenged me. It's too... quiet."
"I like quiet."
"You used to like quiet," I corrected. "Now you like noise. Remember?"
He took a sip of his coffee, his blue eyes watching me over the rim. The corner of his mouth quirked up.
"I remember saying I'd tolerate noise. I didn't say I wanted it permanently etched onto my drywall."
"It's not permanent. Well, it is, but we can paint over it. If you hate it."
I set my coffee down on a safe, tarp-covered spot. I walked over to him. I put my hands on his chest.
"Trust me?"
He looked down at me. His gaze was heavy. It felt like a physical touch.
"I trusted you with my car keys," he rumbled. "And my heart. I suppose the drywall is the least of my worries."
"Good. Because I have a vision."
I led him to the wall.
"Okay, here's the plan. You like structure. Lines. Angles. Order."
"I do."
"And I like... everything else."
I picked up a roll of painter's tape.
"So, we combine them. We tape off a geometric pattern. Sharp lines. Perfect angles. That's you. That's the frame."
I picked up a tube of gold paint and a tube of deep, stormy blue.
"And inside the lines? We pour the color. We let it bleed. We let it be messy. That's us."
Ethan looked at the tape. He looked at the paint. He looked at the wall.
I could see the hesitation. This house was his sanctuary. It was the one place he could control. Giving up a wall—even one wall—was a surrender.
"You want me to help?" he asked.
"I can't do the lines," I admitted. "My hands shake when I try to be straight. I need your surgeon hands."
He let out a breath. He set his coffee down.
"Fine."
He took the tape from me.
"But if this ends up looking like a kaleidoscope threw up in my living room, you're repainting it white."
"Deal."
* * *
The next two hours were a study in contrasts.
Ethan worked with terrifying precision. He measured. He leveled. He applied the tape in long, straight lines that intersected to create a complex web of triangles and diamonds. He moved with an economy of motion that was mesmerizing to watch. No wasted energy. Just focus.
I, on the other hand, was vibrating.
I mixed colors. I hummed. I danced around the drop cloths, testing shades on a scrap of cardboard.
"You're crooked," he said, without looking away from the wall.
"I'm organic."
"You're vibrating the floorboards."
"It's the coffee."
He finished the taping. He stepped back, wiping his hands on a rag.
The wall looked like a blueprint. It was stark. beautiful in a mathematical way.
"It's perfect," I said.
"It's orderly," he agreed.
"Now comes the fun part."
I handed him a brush. A big, fat one.
"Pick a color."
He looked at the palette I had prepared. Blues. Golds. Teals. A violent slash of crimson.
He dipped the brush in the dark blue. The color of the ocean at night. The color of his eyes when he was brooding.
"Where?"
"Anywhere," I said. "Inside the lines. But don't just... paint it flat. Give it texture. Give it life."
He hesitated. The brush hovered over the wall.
"Ethan," I whispered. "It's just paint. You can't break it."
He touched the brush to the wall.
A streak of blue appeared.
He frowned. He did it again. Harder this time. The bristles fanned out, leaving ridges in the pigment.
"Like that?"
"Exactly like that."
I grabbed my own brush. I dipped it in gold.
I started on the section next to his. I didn't paint carefully. I slapped the color on. I swirled it. I let it drip.
"You're making a mess," he noted.
"I'm making art."
We worked in silence for a while. The only sounds were the slap of brushes against the wall, the wet squelch of paint, and our breathing.
It was intimate.
Standing side by side, creating something new out of nothing.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was focused, his brow furrowed. But his movements were loosening up. He wasn't painting like a surgeon anymore. He was painting like a man letting go.
He finished a section. He looked at me.
"Your turn," he said.
He pointed to a triangle near the top.
"I can't reach that."
"I'll lift you."
My heart skipped a beat.
"You'll get paint on you."
"I'm washable."
He stepped behind me. His hands gripped my waist. Big. Warm. Solid.
"Ready?"
"Yeah."
He lifted me effortlessly. I felt weightless.
I painted the top section. Teal. Bright and loud.
"Hurry up," he grunted. "You're not light."
"You bench press small cars, Ethan. Don't pretend I'm heavy."
"You're heavy with artistic genius."
I laughed. I swiped the brush down, finishing the shape.
"Down."
He lowered me slowly. My back slid against his chest. I could feel the hard wall of his muscles. The steady thump of his heart.
He didn't let go when my feet touched the floor.
I turned in his arms.
We were covered in specks of paint. There was blue on his chin. Gold on my forehead.
"It looks..." He looked over my head at the mural.
"Chaotic?"
"Alive," he said.
He looked down at me. His eyes were soft. The walls he usually kept up were gone, dismantled by tape and acrylics.
"You did this," he murmured. "You brought this here."
"We did it."
I reached up to wipe the blue smudge from his chin. My thumb brushed his jaw.
He caught my hand. He turned his face into my palm and kissed the center of it.
"I missed this," he said. "The creating. I forgot what it felt like."
"To make something instead of fixing it?"
"Yeah."
He let go of my hand. He grabbed a tube of paint from the table. Red.
"This needs more red," he decided.
"Bold choice, Doctor."
He squeezed the paint directly onto the wall. A thick, glossy line.
Then he used his fingers.
My mouth dropped open.
Ethan Rourke, the man who ironed his socks, was finger-painting on his living room wall.
He smeared the red into the blue, creating a deep, bruised purple. He looked at me, a challenge in his eyes.
"Well?" he said. "Are you going to help, or are you just going to stare?"
I grinned.
I dipped my hand into the gold.
"Oh, you are on."
The painting session devolved.
It stopped being about the wall and started being about the feeling. The tactile, messy joy of color.
We painted with our hands. We painted with rags. At one point, I think I used my elbow.
We were laughing.
Ethan was laughing. A deep, resonant sound that shook his chest and made my knees weak. It was a rusty sound, like a gate that hadn't been opened in years, but it was beautiful.
"You missed a spot," I teased, pointing to a tiny white patch near the floor.
"Where?"
"There."
I lunged. I swiped my gold-covered hand across the spot—and accidentally across his thigh.
He froze.
I froze.
I looked at his jeans. There was a massive, shimmering handprint on his thigh. Right near the... important area.
"Oops," I whispered.
He looked down at the handprint. Then he looked at me.
His eyes darkened. The laughter died away, replaced by a sudden, intense heat.
"You missed," he said softly.
"I slipped."
"You're clumsy."
"I'm expressive."
He took a step toward me. I backed up. My heel hit a paint can.
"Careful," he warned.
"I'm always careful."
"Liar."
He reached out. His hand—covered in blue and red—gripped the front of my overalls. He pulled me to him.
Our bodies collided.
Paint smeared.
My chest pressed against his. I felt the wet, cool slide of acrylic soaking through my shirt.
"Your shirt," I gasped. "Ethan, your shirt."
I looked down.
The pristine gray t-shirt was ruined. A kaleidoscope of my colors was smeared across his abs. Gold. Teal. Crimson.
It looked like a galaxy had exploded on his chest.
"It's ruined," I said, horrified. "That was a nice shirt."
"It was a gray shirt," he said. "I have ten of them."
"But the stain... acrylic doesn't come out once it dries."
I reached up. I tried to wipe it.
Bad idea.
My hands were covered in paint. I only made it worse. I smeared the colors together, grinding the pigment into the cotton.
"I can fix it," I stammered. "If we get it in water right now. Cold water. Maybe some dish soap."
My hands were moving frantically over his chest. Rubbing. Scrubbing.
I felt the hard ridges of muscle underneath. The heat of his skin burning through the damp fabric.
My movements slowed.
The rubbing turned into... touching.
My palms flattened against his pectorals. I could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my hand. Thump-thump-thump.
I looked up.
Ethan wasn't looking at the shirt. He was looking at me.
His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the blue iris. His breath was coming in short, harsh rasps.
"Willow," he warned. His voice was a low growl.
"It's not coming out," I whispered.
"Forget the shirt."
"But..."
"Take it off."
The command hung in the air. Heavy. Electric.
I stopped breathing.
"What?"
"Take it off me," he said. "Before I rip it off."
My hands went to the hem of the ruined shirt. My fingers were slick with paint.
I pushed the fabric up.
His skin was hot. Fever hot.
I lifted the shirt over his head. He raised his arms to help me, his muscles bunching and shifting.
I tossed the shirt onto the drop cloth. It landed with a wet thwack.
He stood there. Shirtless. Magnificent.
And covered in paint.
The colors had soaked through. There were streaks of gold and blue on his skin. A smudge of red right over his heart.
He looked like a warrior painted for battle. Or a god painted for worship.
He looked at me.
He reached out and touched the strap of my overalls.
"Now you," he whispered.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"We're painting," I said weakly.
"We're done painting the wall."
He popped the clasp of my overalls.
Click.
The strap fell.
"Ethan..."
"You promised me," he murmured, stepping closer, crowding me against the colorful, chaotic wall we had just made. "No more borders."
