The Co-op

Chapter Thirty-Five

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

DEACON

“Okay, but do you like Sand Dollar White more, or do you like White Sand more? And are you absolutely certain you don’t like Greek Villa?” LaRynn asks me.

I look back at the wall with numerous white stripes painted on it. If I’m honest, I don’t think I can tell the fucking difference between a single one. I think the paint place might be screwing with her and giving her all the same sample. I scrub my palms up and down my face hard enough to see spots. Don’t tell her you don’t give a shit. Don’t tell her you don’t give a shit. “Rynn, honestly, I do not give a shit.” Recover. “I mean, I trust your judgment.”

She tips her head my way with an unimpressed look.

“I’m sorry,” I say, laughing. “I’m trying, I swear. I truly can’t tell the difference. You want to go with a different shade of white for every room? We can always do that, too.”

She cocks a hip and a brow. “Are you making fun of me?”

I hold up my palms and laugh some more. “Not at all. I just genuinely can’t tell.”

She sighs and her shoulders slump, ponytail slipping over her collarbone with the movement. “Good. I can’t take another man thinking I’m crazy over this.” She swipes an arm at the wall.

“Oh, don’t get it twisted, I definitely think you’re crazy, but you already know I kinda like it,” I say. For a second I think she’s going to play back with me again and spar. Instead she just politely laughs and I feel my shoulders slump. Damn. “Who else is making you feel crazy?” I ask.

She growl-sighs. “The paint guy at the shop you recommended. Howie of the Howie’s Paints establishment. Grumbles about every sample I ask for and rolls his eyes in a way that lets me know he thinks I’m a monumental pain in the ass.”

I make a noncommittal noise and file that in my brain to address later.

“Alright, I’m off to work,” she announces.

“Are you gonna do it today?” I ask, and she groans. “Quit being chicken and just start the conversation with her, LaRynn.” She has yet to talk to Elyse about any potential partnership plans.

“I don’t want to bug her at work about it.”

“You’re not bugging her, you’re talking about investing in her business.”

“I just want to approach it outside of work. And we haven’t been doing much outside of here lately.” She spins in a circle for emphasis before she starts walking away. “I didn’t even come through on planning a music night.” She visibly shakes off her own regret, walks across the landing, and grabs her apron off the room divider. “I was actually thinking we should plan something for your birthday, though. So maybe I’ll bring it up then?”

I feel my face pinch into a frown, before I can’t stop a persistent smile. “You remember my birthday?” I ask in surprise.

She slips on one of those athletic-wear jackets, the zipper pressing her cleavage in together before it’s concealed. Folds her arms across her middle. “I do,” she says, tilting her head. “I had to get it on all the bank paperwork, remember?”

Oh. So she doesn’t just remember it because it was the same day she told me she loved me. “That’s right.”

“So I know we’re just about broke, here, and I’m sure we need to have a conversation about delaying everything else so we can get caught up. But we could still do something to celebrate, don’t you think? Something that doesn’t cost much?” She grabs her purse and steps toward the door.

It pleases me more than it should, how it doesn’t seem to upset her that we’ll have to slow down. Because she’s right—we are nearly broke and we both will have to work to come up with the money to pay for the rest of the renovations. But she doesn’t seem upset by the idea of living here together longer, and that makes me feel like we’re succeeding in some way, even if we’re failing in terms of the budget.

“Sure,” I say. I feel like I swallowed a bucket of something bubbly. “Nothing big. Maybe have some dinner and some beers.”

“We could go to the campground since we can’t exactly host anyone here?”

That warmth simmers at how much she uses we.

“I’d like that,” I tell her.

Her mouth bends into a smirk. “Sounds good. I’ll see you later.”

I putter around the house aimlessly for a bit but can’t seem to focus on a single task, so I eventually decide to go for a drive, thinking of going on a nice hike through Henry Cowell park or something.

But right as I get to the edge of town, I see the paint store.

I screech into a parking spot and head in, only to find an exasperated-looking man frowning at me. “I take it you’re Howie?” I ask.

He grunts. “Yup. Can I help you?”

“I referred a woman here. Tall, long dark hair.”

He shrugs through a bored look.

“Uh—” I guess I’ll continue. “—six foot. Bright green eyes. I’m talking eyes you’d remember.” Small constellation of freckles, a smile that’s rare and sweet.

“No idea.”

I refuse to describe her other parts to this asshat. “Hang on.” I scoop my phone of my pocket. Find a picture of her dead asleep on the ground, white paint swatch tiles scattered on her chest. One second she’d been holding them aloft, kicking a socked foot and humming along to Leon Bridges. Her hair was spread around her, tank top creeping up her waist. And the next minute she was out like a light, softly snoring with her mouth open. I had to pick her up and carry her to bed, and in some cruel Freudian slip nearly accidentally put her in mine before I spun around and carried her off to hers.

On second thought, it’s probably not the most flattering picture of her and it might only be cute to me. “She comes in asking for white paint,” I charge on. “Like, all white. Different shades of it.”

Howie’s lips pale and thin and his glare narrows. “That broad is a pain in my ass.”

I slip my phone back into my pocket and slowly place my hands on the counter.

“I referred her to you because you’re a local shop, and I figured you’d be grateful for the support.” I cock my head and return his glare. “And she pays for those small samples, does she not?”

“Sure, but she takes over an hour every time she waltzes in here asking for this one or that one. It’s goddamn white, tell the chick to pick one already.”

I look around the empty store. “Seems she’s doing you a favor.” He gives me an incredulous look, and I blow out a breath. “Here’s the thing, Howard. She’s bringing you business. I also do all my business locally as a contractor. Either you can be nice to the lady and appreciate her money and the other money you’ll surely go on to make when I send more people this way, when I buy my paint from you in the future, too. Or I can make it my personal goal to tell everyone I do business with what a miserable prick you are. You following me, Howie?”

He blinks and nods.

“Now I don’t care if she comes in here and asks you to mix Sand Dollar with Moonbeam and two parts Bichon Frise, even if she turns around and asks you to reduce it to seventy-five percent or add yellow to it or some shit, I expect you to do it with a smile in the future. Sound good?”

A muscle contracts in his jaw and his face purples a bit, but his shoulders drop, resigned. “Understood.”

“Thanks, Howie, appreciate you.” I rap my knuckles on the counter before I smile and leave.

And instead of going for a hike, I turn the Bronco around and jam back into town because I have the sudden urge to visit my friend at work.

Maybe I should tell her so she can have a laugh, but it feels too close to bragging, or like I didn’t think she could handle it herself—dealing with someone unpleasant. The truth is, I know she can hold her own better than most, but I also know, on some level, that she’d do the same for me—for anyone else—before she’d ever stand up for herself.

When I walk into the side entrance of the café, I spot her from a distance, and am immediately transfixed by the sight of her. She’s bopping around behind the counter, her hair swinging, smiling softly to herself as she straightens mugs so that their handles are all at the same angle. Some deconstructed version of “Friday I’m in Love” plays through the speakers as she sings along.

Jesus, she looks… she looks so at home here. It’s the first time that I let myself acknowledge the full scope of sadness that I know I’ll feel when she’s gone, when a roof and a contract aren’t binding us closer. Not gone, I remind my skipping heart. Just not in a house with me.

I believe we’ll stay friends—I think we’re doing that well enough now, but I also know she’ll be more distant based on logistics alone. And I already miss her, even though she’s standing yards away.

She still doesn’t notice me as a customer walks in, the bell tinkling over the door. Instead she turns and fucking beams at them. A smile I’ve only been able to see a handful of times since she came back, the one that’s been rare even in the last month. Her full lips stretched, the apples of her cheeks filling. Fuck. For a stranger?!

I feel something unraveling, peeling up at the ends. I’m back to feeling like two people, one that’s happy to see her so pleased, who loves seeing that easy joy. And another man who feels immediately possessive of that look. My home, my girl, my pain in the ass, my world. That fucking force of nature. I want her on my side, that formidable, fierce woman.

I plop down next to someone at the end of the bar, my eyes still stuck on LaRynn.

“Hey, Deac,” comes a voice from my right. I turn and recognize Rafe.

“How’s it going?” I ask offhandedly before I turn back to LaRynn. She and Elyse laugh together and it’s her big-ass cackle I almost never get to hear. The one she belted out on the stairs before our night together weeks ago. I feel like I could climb the walls.

“I see you’ve spotted our newest addition here,” he drawls. I slowly swivel my head his way. I barely know the guy—a local surfer, played a few pickup games on the beach with him in the past. An oily feeling pours through my skull at the familiarity in his tone, though.

“Let me warn you now, my dude,” he continues, looking pointedly in LaRynn’s direction again. “That right there is an exotic, but highly venomous creature. Not sure the bite is worth it if you catch my drift.”

My teeth clamp together. I can actually feel my blood pressure in my fingertips. “Is that so?”

He looks back her way and jolts in his seat. I follow his eyes and find her now staring back, scowling at him from the other end of the room.

“Yeah, that’s so,” Rafe replies.

I keep my eyes locked on LaRynn as I talk to him. “She doesn’t like most pet names. Don’t call her ‘sweetheart’ or ‘babe’ or any of that shit. And don’t gesture for her. It’s not a full-service restaurant. It’s not a cocktail bar. If you need something, you’ll have to get up and go to the register like anyone else. She can’t stand feeling like she’s being summoned because she’s not your butler or your maid.”

I see him whip toward me in my peripheral. “How the hell would you know?” he asks.

LaRynn starts marching our way, scowl only growing more fierce, more breathtaking the closer she gets. I can’t help but grin, stupid heart floating around like a helium balloon in my chest.

“Because that’s my wife.”

I get up from the bar and intercept her halfway so she doesn’t have to come the rest of the distance.

“Hey, love,” I say, before I lean over the counter and kiss her cheek. Soft, smells like coffee and burnt sugar. Maybe something coconut today, too. I would wax Rafe’s surfboard just to wrap her closer right now. “Just go with it. It’ll make him stop bugging you,” I whisper, full of hope. I clock the goose bumps on her arms and slide my hand along her wrist, noting the way her frown whisks into a smile.

She chuckles breathily, the tiny sound like lightning in my veins. “He looks like he’s seen a ghost,” she says, her hand dusting nothing from my pec.

“I love it when you scare people.”

Oh fuck me, it was the wrong—or right —thing to say. She bites into her lip happily and I zero in on it. On the places where her teeth leave little indentations. I want to make my own. Everywhere. To watch the skin pale before blood rushes back to it. She traces her palm up my bicep and I resist the urge to flex under it, track her black-polished nails as her fingers spread.

And then she leans over and kisses my shoulder through my shirt in such a soft and familiar way that something fractures inside me.

I have the asinine thought that I want to curl up, have her cradle me against her chest or hold my head in her lap. A thought that’s immediately followed by a booming inner voice that screams She’s not yours, though. You are not really hers, either. This is temporary. You didn’t want this. She didn’t want this. Someday she’ll intertwine her hands, her life, her soul with somebody else, and you’ll have to stand by and be happy for her.

And while we joke about our dysfunction, and high-five on our better communication these days, I feel like I have to continue to show her I value her in my life, even in a painful capacity. That even if I want all of it—all of her —I need her to understand that I would go on being grateful for all the pieces she’s given.

When we were young we shared our bodies. We shared an angsty, sarcastic view of the world, a false roof over us for shelter. Now that we’re being real, that self-preservation’s all stripping away, and I’m fucking terrified that I’ll mess this up somehow and lose her altogether. The idea of being without her when I’ve only just got her is enough to make me wrangle the hope back down.

A kiss on the shoulder and a smile undo me this way, I guess.

But then her eyes land on my throat, my jaw, then meet mine. “I’ll see you at home,” she says.

Home. Home. Home. Three months together in a ripped-up building and nothing’s ever felt more like it.

“I’ll see you at home.”