Nix
I sit outside of Emily's apartment for a good twenty minutes to make sure her ex-douche doesn't come back. It occurs to me I don't even know his name, and I obviously don't give a shit. Ex-douche is good enough for me. Once I'm satisfied he won't return, I head back to Linc's place to take a shower and do some laundry. Then I load Harley up in the truck and we head out to my dad's place.
I usually try to spend most Sunday's with him. My pop is the only one, other than Linc, who knows the real me.
Hank Caldwell is a great father. At sixty-two, he's a little bit older than my other friends' parents. Well, when I say other friends, I mean those I had in high school. I really don't have any friends now, other than a few Marine buddies that I keep in touch with via text and email.
My father had a previous marriage that had faltered then disintegrated before he married my mother. That marriage had lasted for eight years before it ended in a bitter divorce. I don't know all the details but mom told me once, before she died, that dad had wanted lots of kids and his first wife didn't want any. That was apparently a recipe for disaster in a marriage.
Dad met and married my mom, Carolyn, just a few years after his divorce and I came along a scant nine months later. My dad apparently didn't want to waste any time in the baby making department. Linc came along two years later.
My mom died of ovarian cancer when I was just ten. My memories of her are fuzzy but they are warm. Dad raised us on his own after that, never falling in love again. He said he'd never find another woman like his Caro.
My dad provided a solid home for me and Linc. There may not have been a lot of money, but there was a lot of love and a lot of happiness. Dad worked his ass off to support us, putting in sixty plus hours a week at the shipyard. The crazy coot still works there. Linc and I have been on him trying to get him to retire but he won't listen to us. I think he's afraid that if he stops working, he'll die or something.
I pull into dad's driveway...my childhood home. It hasn't changed much over the years. Dad keeps it spruced up with help from me and Linc. It's a small, two bedroom bungalow that sits on about a quarter acre of land. The paint on the eaves and shutters is fresh, thanks to a working party we had last summer. The siding is clean and free from mold thanks to my dad's favorite tool...a portable pressure washer.
Harley runs to the front door before I can even get the door to the truck closed and barks. My dad opens it up, giving Harley an affectionate squeeze. He holds the screen door open for me and we give each other a half hug with lots of back pounding as I walk in.
I follow dad back to the living room and he already has two boxes of Giovanni's pizza on the coffee table and a cooler of beer sitting beside it. I reach in and pull out a bottle, grab a slice of pizza and sit on the couch. Dad is in his recliner that looks like it's about a hundred and fifty years old. Linc was going to buy him a new one a few years ago and he chewed Linc out for even thinking about it. He loves that old beast of a chair like it's one of his own kids.
We spend the next few hours watching the Jets get pounded by the Patriots so we are both left in a semi-bad mood. Dad doesn't help things when he asks, "Are you going to go back to see Dr. Antoniak?"
I try not to stiffen up because I know my dad is only asking because he cares. But he and Linc both know this is a touchy subject with me.
"I don't think so."
Dad stays silent and I can tell he's debating whether to push the subject. He decides to leave it alone but comes circularly at me.
"How about Paul? Have you talked to him lately?"
Fuck! Why can't he leave this shit alone? But I take in a deep breath and exhale it slowly through my nose. My fingers absently rub Harley's head as he sits beside me on the couch. I respect my dad too much to let loose on him. It's not a privilege I give anyone else, including Linc.
"No, Pop. He's called a few times but I've been busy."
My dad doesn't hold back. "You need to call him back. Better yet, get off your ass and go see him."
I sigh. "I know. I'll call him, okay?"
Sitting up in his recliner, my dad leans forward. He has that serious look on his face and he's staring me dead in the eyes. I want to turn my head, to avoid what he's going to say, but I won’t puss out.
"Son...you need to do something about this. I'm worried about you. You know I only push at you because I love you, right?"
I smile at my dad. It's ghost thin, but it's still a smile. "I know, Dad, and I love you too. I'll get up with him. Don't worry."
"That's my boy. I'm proud of you, Nix. So damned proud."
A pit forms in my stomach at those words. Why does he have to say things like that? There's nothing to be proud of here. The fact that he tells me he's proud only makes me more shameful. Acid churns and I can feel the beer and pizza wanting to make a re-appearance but I push it back down. Luckily, dad doesn't say anything else and the subject is dropped.
I stick around and watch half of the Pittsburgh/ Baltimore game before heading out. Dad gives me a hard hug again, holding on a little longer this time. I take in a deep breath and smile inside at the hint of Old Spice aftershave. It's one of the smells I remember from my childhood. Back when things were simpler.
Harley jumps in the truck and we head back to Linc's place. He's still out of town and won't be back until tomorrow. Which I'm glad. I think he and dad are in a conspiracy to get me to talk about old wounds. He always grills me after I come back from dad's, wanting to know what we talked about.
I take Harley for a walk around the block and let him do his business before we head in. I'm dreading what I need to do and I decide a little fortification is necessary. I only had two beers at dad's so I need something a little stronger. I pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels from Linc's bar and pour a shot. I toss it back swiftly, enjoying the burn as it goes down. I stare out the window as the night sky darkens, mesmerized by the twinkling lights of Manhattan across the river. I wonder what Emily is doing right now.
Shaking my head from thoughts of the dark haired beauty, I pour one more shot and slam it back. The burn is equally as pleasant.
Walking into the living room, I bring the bottle and shot glass with me. I sit down on the couch, drink one more shot, and then put my implements on the coffee table. I pull out my cell phone and dial Paul's number.
It rings four times and I consider hanging up but then he answers. "It's about fucking time you called me back, you prick."
I smile. Only Paul.
"I've been busy, man."
"So damned busy you can't call your best buddy back? Oh, and did I tell you, you are a prick?"
I laugh. "I get told that every day by someone. I don't need you to confirm it."
There's silence there for a minute. Both of us waiting for the other to say something.
I go first. "So, how are you doing?"
"Freakin' peachy keen, jelly bean. Got my new walkin' legs last month. Of course, you'd know that if you ever called me back."
I grimace and my stomach churns. I'm in danger of losing the Jack all over Linc's living room carpet. "That's great. Do they put Lieutenant Dan's to shame?"
He busts a gut laughing at me. "They sure do, Forrest. Titanium steel. Actually, they have these new spring mechanisms in the knee joints that really take a lot of pressure off my hips and lower back. It's like walking on a cloud of air."
I lean back into the couch cushions, close my eyes and listen to Paul talk. He tells me all about his new prosthetics, he tells me about starting college, and he tells me he's going to ask Marie to marry him. He's happy, and well adjusted, and I want to vomit listening to it. Because I'm afraid he's putting on an act just to make me feel better.
And because it's my fault he lost his legs.
We talk for about an hour, and I doubt I hear ninety percent of what he says to me. I promise I'll come visit him soon, but we both know it's probably a lie.
After I hang up, I pour another shot of Jack and drink it down. I stare at the empty glass. It's how I feel. My instinct is to hurl it across the room as hard as I can and watch it shatter into a million pieces. But just as quickly that thought is gone because it just seems like too much work. Instead, I set the glass gently on the coffee table and stand up. I take the bottle of liquor back with me to the bedroom.
I'm not done with it yet. And it doesn't escape my notice the next time I tip the bourbon up to my lips that it's the same color as Emily's eyes.
Emily
It's Friday and I can't believe I'm actually going to be painting Nix’s house today. It's not that I mind. Heck, I owe him money so I'll work it off however I can. And part of me is sort of excited to try this. I've never painted anything before. I imagine what my mother would say and I practically cackle with unfettered glee.
I hope I don't screw his walls up too bad, but if I do, that's his problem. I'm just doing what he tells me and if he wants to hire an amateur, so be it.
And while I don't mind doing any type of manual labor at the behest of my employer, what I do mind is the fact that Nix has been a grumpy bastard all week to me. I think he's having me paint inside his house to keep me out of his workshop. And that sort of hurts my feelings.
I thought we were opening up some doors of friendship this past weekend, particularly after he sort of...maybe a little...well not really, opened up to me. But he had engaged in honest conversation and I was wise enough to know when to back off. And he had genuinely been interested in me, too. All of those things had helped to ratchet up my attraction to him.
Now, I didn't feel so shallow. I was attracted to more than just his body. The thought amused me greatly.
When I had come in to work on Monday, it was with utter disappointment that I found the original, brooding and somewhat offensive Nix Caldwell. I can only assume that something happened to put him in a really bad mood on Sunday. He didn't even bother to try to be polite. He just barked orders at me and then shut himself off in his welding room. He never came back out, even though I loitered around a good fifteen minutes after I had finished my tasks for the day. I thought maybe he was just busy.
But when I returned on Wednesday, I was met with the same thing. He apparently didn't have any welding to do but he practically told me to keep my mouth shut and not bother him while he was working. So I watched him a lot while I worked on setting up vendor accounts in his new Quick Books program on the laptop.
He was meticulous in his work and utterly focused. That I could understand and respect. It was even sort of cute when he was really concentrating hard on something, sometimes the tip of his tongue would stick out from between those generous lips of his. His eyebrows would scrunch together. And when he completed the delicate work he was doing, it was a joy to watch his face smooth out and a small smile curve his lips.
It was practically hypnotizing and difficult to tear my eyes away from him. He actually caught me staring at him once and glared at me with venom. I immediately dropped my head back over the laptop, and typed furiously on the keyboard.
The second time he caught me looking at him, he snapped at me, "What the hell are you looking at, Burnham?"
He didn't even have the grace to call me Emily. He freakin' called me Burnham.
Asshat.
Just before I was preparing to leave that day, he told me to wear old clothes on Friday. When I asked him why, his smile was almost evil when he told me I'd be painting inside his house.
I wasn't about to let him see that I was bothered by this news. First, the only thing that bothered me was that he clearly didn't want me in the same room with him. But if I showed him that I was bothered, he would think I was nothing but a spoiled, brat, and I had worked hard the last few years to shed that image.
Hell, I even volunteered with Danny two weekends a month at a homeless shelter. The old Emily Burnham was hopefully nothing more than a faded, somewhat embarrassing, memory.
So here I am. Standing in Nix’s living room, watching him lay out all of the painting supplies. And, of course, I'm admiring the way the muscles in his back bunch and ripple underneath his t-shirt as he lifts a bucket of paint up. Or the way his jeans mold to his ass when he bends over to lay the drop cloth on the floor. I shamelessly ogle and I don't have an ounce of guilt. Especially since he's been a jerk all week, it appears the only thing that is appealing about him right now is his body.
I will never admit this in a hundred years, but when Nix told me he wanted me to paint his living room, I did have a moment of panic. I may not have ever done this type of manual labor before, but that fact alone would not fully ease my conscience if I really screwed his walls up. The fact of the matter was, I hated failing at anything. So, I actually diligently studied up on the subject. I read a few articles online and then I went to the god of all internet teachings...YouTube. You'd be amazed at how many videos there are on how to paint walls and trim.
So while it's true I've never done this before, I now actually feel a little confident that I will at least not look like a complete buffoon.
Nix has everything laid out and he stands up straight to look at me. He tersely points out all of the materials and tells me that the walls have already been primed. I can tell that because the faint odor lingers in the air.
He shows me how to use a screwdriver to pop the lid off the paint can, and stirs it up with a wooden stick. Wiping the excess off, he lays it on a corner of the drop cloth. And while I don't need the instruction—again, thank you YouTube—I very much enjoy watching him bending, stooping and straightening back up as he demonstrates to me the finer points of how to use a paint roller versus a paintbrush.
When he's finished, he asks if I have any questions.
"Nope."
His gaze rakes over my body, and he sort of sneers at me, "I told you to wear old clothes because you will get paint on yourself. And that's the best you could do?"
I look down at myself and I can see a little of what he is saying. It's not like I had a pair of paint coveralls in my closet so I'd worn my oldest and most casual clothing. A pair of old khaki cargo pants, a white tank top and flip-flops. I tell him this, although I leave out the part that I painted my toenails the night before a lovely shade of pink, because it goes well with khaki.
"I don't mind getting these clothes messed up." I try to sound jovial but I sort of want to slap him upside the head for being such an idiot the last few days.
"Whatever. I'll be in my shop working if you need anything. But please...try not to need anything."
"Fine." I snap at him and I do see a little flash of guilt in his eyes but it only makes a brief cameo appearance before it exits stage left. He doesn't respond and walks out the door.
I huff a little to myself over the entire conundrum that is Nix Caldwell as I step up to the task. I don't recall whether YouTube said to do the main wall with a roller or do the trim with a brush first, so I go ahead and opt to start with the roller.
I recall with vivid memory dipping the roller into the pan, pulling it back and rolling it on the slope back and forth to get it evenly covered. I make my first strokes, rolling in diagonal crisscrossing patterns, enjoying the work.
I let my mind drift. It would be nice right now to just reflect over the hotness of Nix, but I'm actually a bit more occupied with the fact that my parents are coming to dinner tomorrow night. This lovely news was just sprung on me this morning when my mother called me.
I was running late for class, something that did not happen often, when my phone started ringing. I wasn't thinking and I pulled the phone out to answer before even looking at the Caller ID.
"Hello, Emily."
I felt guilty that my stomach dropped upon hearing my mother's voice. Plus I was still smarting over the fact she kyboshed my trust just because I dared to declare Journalism as my major. So, it was no surprise I went in for an early kill.
"Hi, Mom. What's up?"
I could hear my mother suck in her breath just a bit. She hated the title "Mom". I had grown up always calling her "Mother", clearly educated to do so from an age so early I don't remember receiving the edict. But I made the mistake of calling her "Mom" one day several years ago and I got a fifteen minute lecture on the proper title of a parent.
My mother, Celia Thorne Burnham, is where the old money comes from in our family. Oh, my father made great money as a trial lawyer before he went into politics, but our insane coffers come from my mother's family and goes back generations of Thornes. Thorne Enterprises, run by my Uncle Jim, is a conglomerate of corporations that dabble in everything from shipping to manufacturing to research and development.
In fact, my Uncle Jim is the one that years ago talked my parents into amending the trusts for me and Ryan so we could have full access to them when we turned twenty-one. Until that time, they were controlled by my mother, which is why she had cut off my monthly allowance.
And the funny thing is, outside of not being able to pay Nix the money I owe him, I don't miss the damn thing at all. I didn't use it for anything but buying clothes and trinkets.
Heck, I was kind of enjoying being one of the frugal, working masses now. I had even told Uncle Jim that earlier this week when he called to check in on me. He laughed so hard when I said that, he started choking and coughing. The memory of his amusement makes me smile.
Finally, my mother found her voice. "You know I don't like that, Emily. Please call me Mother."
"Yes, Mother," I dutifully said but I know I didn’t sound repentant at all.
"I wanted to let you know that your father and I will be in New York tomorrow and we've made reservations at Le Bernardin for dinner. You need to be there at 7:30pm."
I gritted my teeth that she assumed that I would be available on such short notice. Even though I was. "Okay, Mother. That will be fine."
"I'll see you then."
I hung up and ruminated about the conversation the whole way to class. This conversation would have not bothered me a few years ago. It would have been...normal. But I won't lie...it hurts my feelings that the conversation failed to include her asking how I was, or how school was, or even that she missed me. Living in the real world and out of my sheltered environment, I have come to learn how cold and sterile my family could be. If it wasn't for Uncle Jim, who called me every week just to check in and see how I was doing, I would probably lose my faith in parenthood altogether.
My heart actually clenches up a little thinking about this. It's not like I ever had this type of relationship with my parents. My mother was always there, but emotionally distant. My father was emotionally closer, but never physically there. I wish they could be more normal.
And I wish it didn't hurt so much that they weren't.
Enough of this subject!
I'm getting depressed. I decide to put those thoughts aside for I am now in a mood to turn my attention to the hotness of Nix Caldwell. I am finding the movements of painting to be relaxing and the perfect environment to slip into a sexy daydream about him.