The Co-op

Chapter Twenty-Five

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

L A RYNN

“It’s the land of your people!” I declare, proudly sweeping an arm toward the aisle.

He doesn’t spare me a scoff, only side-eyes me. Deeply exasperated, it would seem.

“You said you wanted to continue to be more involved from now on, mon amour, ” I remind him in the face of his glare. “And since you spend so much time on them, I figured you’d be the expert opinion on the commode.” I flutter my lashes his way.

“You nearly used up our entire exterior budget yesterday on countertops. I feel I need to be involved in order to keep things on track,” he grumbles.

“It was not the entire budget.”

“You hardly even cook.”

“I might cook more when my kitchen serves my needs!” I try for a light tone, but it comes out a bit shrill instead. “For the time it’s ours, at least. For the time that we are living in it,” I clarify. “And we did not end up going with those countertops, anyway, so drop it.”

“Only because I stepped in.”

“One: you also almost knocked over an entire display shelf of sample tiles because you can’t keep your hands off things.” I swipe a paintbrush out of his hand and push a drawer of knobs closed that he’d immediately opened. “And two: don’t give yourself that much credit. You were also under the marble’s spell briefly. I seem to recall the word ‘beautiful’ even being thrown around.” I halt and turn back to him again. “Three: you sure like to talk a big game as far as the budget goes, but don’t think I don’t see you enjoying the expensive pillows, Deacon Leeds. Buying your fancy overpriced socks every other day. That blanket you like to drape yourself in whenever you watch whatever you’re watching on your laptop was a very spendy blanket—”

“Don’t tell me how much. Please.”

“My point is,” I say, lifting a lid on one of the toilets, “you like luxury and your creature comforts. As long as they’re yours, or you get to use them.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle and relax before he gives me a sidelong grin. “Alright, Lar. Let’s pick out a shitter.”

I make a very French-sounding, disgusted noise as he proceeds to step up onto the display shelf and sit his big body on the first option.

“Deacon,” I hiss.

“What?” he asks innocently, pulling out his phone and pretending to scroll. He leans back and forward again.

“Get off that,” I implore again.

“You’re right. This one doesn’t mold to my ass quite right.”

“Deacon—”

“Wait, I know.” He points a finger in the air like he’s had a revelation. “Silly me. I can’t get an accurate read this way. Need to make it more true to life to get a good sense.” He lifts the hem of his shirt, exposing a sliver of tanned skin, a peek at a dark trail of hair. I’ve seen him nude or shirtless numerous times in the last month—could probably identify him by the path of one particular vein that trails down a section of his lower abs alone—but something about that little gesture, the way he unhooks his belt, the zip of his jeans… it slips a knot in my core and tugs, heat gathering behind it. His jeans hit the ground with a small clink as he dashes a crooked smile at me.

My face feels tight with the effort not to smile back. “You’re going to get us kicked out and banned from this store.”

One shoulder kicks up in a shrug. “Eh, there’s another one a few miles away.” And then he sits. “Come on Larry, live a little. Try the toilets with me.”

I turn away on a laugh, pathetically happy to have this playful version of him back. Enough that I’m going to indulge him. “My leggings are staying on.”

“They’re so thin and adhered to you I imagine the difference won’t be noticeable,” he mutters. I have to smother another grin.

We sit in mock contemplation, adjusting ourselves and snickering like kids. I catch a glimpse of him shuffling over to the next one in the row, the one right beside mine, his pants still around his ankles.

“You know this is ridiculous, right?” I ask him.

“Having a toilet-fitting for a house we don’t actually intend to live in? No. Seems like a vital use of our time.” He smiles, but I notice that it’s weaker and falls more quickly than normal. Like he’s reaching for that former edge we had, just as unfamiliar with this filed-down feeling between us.

I think about him the other day—that sad look in his eyes when he told me about his dad, when he said I’m angry at the parts of him I’ll never get.

“Did I…” It feels only fair to show him a piece of me. A piece for a piece. “I’m not sure if I ever told you, but I’ve sort of done this whole thing before.”

“Marriage?!” he blurts.

I bark out a laugh. Only he could think sitting on toilets together at a big box store was related to marriage more than home renovation. “No. Not marriage. This house stuff, kind of. Picking out things for a house you won’t even live in long.” I look down at my toes. “I don’t think I ever told you, but we moved every couple of years, from when I was nine or so. Almost like clockwork, while I was growing up. Usually just far enough that I’d have to switch schools, but not every time.” I take a deep breath and find him watching me closely. “I don’t even know why, because I rarely showed strong emotions as a kid. But I’d thrown a fit the first time—I’m talking screaming, crying, trying to stage a sit-in in my own room. The next house was nicer or maybe it was bigger, I don’t even remember.” I look down and away, remembering. “And it’s not like I had a ton friends, so I don’t really know why I cared… but… I accepted that the tantrums wouldn’t work after that, and my parents would pacify me by letting me pick whatever I wanted for a new room.” I sigh. “I knew it was a payoff, but eventually, when no one listens to you or considers you, you just take what you can get.” I force a hollow laugh. “They didn’t even care when the requests got ridiculous. When I wanted a hand-painted mural wall or a built-in bunk system. And believe me, I know how spoiled and privileged I sound, okay? You don’t have to tell me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says. Too gently. The corners of his mouth turned down.

“Please don’t do that, either,” I say, looking away again.

“Do what?”

“Don’t pity me. I’m not trying to make you pity me,” I say, more venomously than I mean to, but I can’t stand the thought of his pity. Not for me in my pretty rooms while Glenda was in her shanty.

“There’s a difference between feeling sorry for someone and being angry for someone, LaRynn. You should know,” he replies firmly.

Emotion twists in my throat and I pick at some invisible lint on my leggings until I can swallow it down. “I just—I just wanted you to understand why maybe it’s easy for me to get carried away with this. Why I end up accidentally going with things that I’d choose for my home, or if I take it too seriously. I know it’s not—I know it won’t be mine. I’ve always known that for every place, but I’ve always tried to make it feel like mine… for a little while. And yeah, I want us to keep doing this right. For them. For our grands.” I meet his eyes. “They always talked about the house like it was something magic that brought them together, you know? And it felt like that for me when I was younger, too.”

Deacon searches my face for longer than is comfortable, sitting here on the display shelf toilets. “That’s why everything at Cece’s—everything here —was so important to you, why you were so annoyed by me back then.”

I feel my brows pinch together and nod, even though everything in me wants to deny it, doesn’t want to be entirely too transparent. Not to him. Don’t want to be seen so clearly only to be rejected again.

“Did you think I’d ruin it for you?” he asks quietly.

You did ruin it for me, I almost say. Almost hand him my humiliation on one of those silver platters again. I let you ruin it for me because I tricked myself into believing it was my favorite place and that I belonged here more than anywhere, then. Where not just my grandmothers and Sally and Elyse—people that loved me—lived, but where someone else cared for me when they didn’t have to, without familial ties, and despite being difficult to love. Cared for me in such a way that he snuck in every free minute he could with me, sex or not. Because I’d believed that being horny young adults was never what we were about—at least not all that we were about by the end of it. He’d made me laugh, made me want to try things. He’d seemed like he wanted to try with me.

The trying was what it was really about. I’d begun to believe that trying was its own love language. Trying to understand a person, trying to make them happy, trying to make yourself happy, too. My relationship with him is what made me believe that.

And he’d proven that I still didn’t know anything , really.

After that summer, all I could think about was another home that went on without me, another place that wouldn’t miss me. Where a happier family could exist, with people who were less damaged.

“For the second time today, don’t give yourself that much credit, Deacon.” I huff out a sigh. “I should’ve visited more, regardless. I was fine after everything,” I lie. I get up and step down.

This suddenly doesn’t feel fun or nice or like a game I stand a chance at winning anymore. It feels like I’ve handed him my last little puzzle piece. Like he’s got me solved and could promptly crumple me up and shove me away again. “We were young and dumb— especially me—and it meant nothing.”

“LaRynn, wait—”

“Sir, you need to get down from there,” a woman in a bright orange apron says, her hands balled at her sides.

“Yeah, okay I’m—” His belt clangs against the shelf as he stumbles up and nearly trips.

“ Sir, you need to pull up your pants, immediately!”

“Alright, alright. ” He gets up but looks to me and doesn’t rush to scoop up his pants.

The woman stamps a foot. “I’m going to ask you to leave the store.”

“Happily,” I reply on his behalf. And then I briskly stride through the doors and into the parking lot.

But I find out when I get to the car that it’s locked, and I’m forced to stand by stupidly and wait for him to follow. I pace alongside it like I’m caged.

“Here,” he suddenly says to my left. “You drive.” He throws me the keys, and I catch them reflexively.

And maybe it’s just because I want to prove I’m fine, not sure whether to him or to me, but I squeeze them in my fist and walk around to the driver’s side.

“Don’t even put your foot on the gas right away at first,” he directs me when I pull myself into the car. “After you start it and put it in reverse, just slowly let off the clutch so that you can get a feel for when it grabs.” He nods. “It’ll start to roll.”

I do as he says and feel what he describes. But when I try to put on the gas and let off the clutch all the way at the same time, I end up stalling out.

“It’s alright, just start it again. Don’t try to let off so fast at the same time. Smooth and slow and steady,” he says patiently.

This time I get it, and I pull out of the space smoothly before flipping it back into first.

I go at a snail’s pace, but I make it out onto the street, downshifting and shifting accordingly. I stall out again when we get to a stop sign, but restart and pick it back up.

My focus begins to divide and sharpen between the driving and his presence. I flick my eyes his way to find his inky gaze spilling over me, bleeding through everywhere it lands. I can practically feel the blots of color left in its wake. Everything behind that knot from earlier surges, and occupying my hands and mind with the drive becomes paramount. His eyes never waver, his chest rising and falling steadily in my peripheral, my own matching the rhythm after a bit.

I’d rather he fight with me than give me this space, rather he give me an excuse to fight back. I don’t want to be the one who cares more, who’s hung up enough on some fling to drag it all out into the open.

We’re even right now, matched up in terms of the vulnerabilities we’ve conceded these last weeks, and I am terrified to be the one to give up more ground.

I don’t know how to do this, how to have a discussion where feelings are involved. All I know is fighting and retreating, passion eclipsed by resentment. I saw Grandma and Helena and their healthy relationship, but that always felt like looking at a snow globe: something lovely to enjoy through the glass for a short period every year, before it was stuffed away in a closet for the remainder.

I’m trembling by the time we pull into the garage. My clammy hands leave damp spots on the steering wheel.

I slam the car door and swiftly walk inside, him at my heels.

My steps take to the stairs in rapid succession, my breath shuddering in and out of me like I’ve run a marathon. My foot slips on the final ledge and his hands are there, steadying me from my ribs. He lifts me up to the landing, turning me in his grip and stepping in front of me in a singular, smooth movement. His palms find my waist as my back gently presses into the framing.

“It meant something,” grinds deeply out of him, sending shivers up my arms and heat to my ears. His breath gusts a strand of hair from my face as I study the skin pulsing at the base of his throat. At the same time my eyes finally clamber their way up to his, my chest presses against him on a pant.

“It meant something,” he says again, this time nearly a whisper. And I don’t know if it’s because I needed to hear that or if it’s because I want to stop him from saying more… but I press my mouth to his and kiss him.