The Co-op

Chapter Thirty-Six

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

L A RYNN

It’s amazing how quickly time passes under the monotony of being busy, yet the moment you’re free and a little listless, it slows to a glacial pace. Since we’re at an almost-standstill on house progress, I’ve taken up trying to teach myself to cook, have finalized our shower tile choice (something that was quite literally keeping me awake at night), and even found the grands’ old pottery wheel and kiln buried in the garage. I’ve dedicated a good amount of thought toward potentially trying that out soon, too.

A few days after I mentioned it the first time, Deacon and I have the conversation about where we’re at on money and what we need to do about it.

He scratches the back of his neck in discomfort when I bring it up. “I can’t pull anything out of my retirement without a pretty hefty penalty,” he says.

“No, no. I don’t want you to do that anyway,” I urge. “We just have the new walls to drywall, then have to match texture and paint. What else?”

“Floors,” he grouses and I lift a brow.

“We have floors.” I nod to the boxes containing the planks. “We just have to install them.”

His face falls into a pout. “We also need to install hardware for everything. Hot mops and tile. Hook up the bathtub. And the new doors. And—”

“Okay, okay. So, a lot. ” Neither of us mentions that we could technically sell it as is right now if we had to pull the plug. With the new layout, the plumbing and electrical up to code, plus the updated cabinets and appliances, we’d do just fine. Someone else could come in and finish it. I’ve looked into what multiunit homes are going for in the area, and even with Sal’s place remaining mostly outdated, we could very easily each clear a million dollars. “So, we just take our time. No biggie.” I shrug.

“Exactly. Look at us, continuing to be agreeable.” He flips me a thumbs-up like a cornball and I shake my head.

Agreeable and fucking adorable.

“Why are we so weird whenever we have one of these chats?” he asks, and I have to toss my head back and bark out a laugh.

“I listened to a podcast interview with a comedian once,” I say. “And she said that sometimes making adult choices and even advocating for her own career felt like doing an impression of someone else until she got used to it. Maybe we’re just not very good at our impressions yet.”

He chuckles back, the sound warm and pleasantly rough. A memory echoes distantly in my brain, that rumble vibrating against the inside of my thighs. I look away and wipe my palms down my skirt.

“I’m still glad we’re trying,” he quietly replies.

I try to pivot the subject. “Have you thought about what you want for your birthday at all? Make it cheap. Ideally free.”

A look slips across his features and I can almost hear the old, flirty reply he’d have given me once. Instead he goes with, “Pretzel pie.”

“Pardon?”

“Pretzel. Pie. That’s what I want. The peach kind.”

“What in God’s name is peach pretzel pie?” I ask dubiously.

“My nana never made it for you? She called it pretzel Jell-O, but—”

“Hold on. There’s Jell-O involved?!”

“I can’t believe you never tried it! Cece loved it, too. Nana made it for everything.”

“You’re telling me that my grandmother, with her very French roots, loved an American dessert called pretzel Jell-O pie?”

“If you can’t make it it’s fine, Lar,” he teases.

I laugh through my nose at his proud little pout. “That’s really what you want for your birthday? Baked goods from me?”

The pout morphs into a veritable frown. “You’ve been cooking a lot. I think you’re great.”

I roll my eyes. He’d eat the plate if I told him he could. “For like a month. And I undercooked pasta. ” I paw my hands through the air to brush it off before he can say something placating about the crunchy spaghetti I made us two nights ago. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t mind making you your… very delicious-sounding dessert.”

His mouth curves in a goofy smile and he rubs his palms together gleefully. “You’re gonna love it. Make enough for leftovers!”

There are two more days until his birthday, August 22, but I decide I’ll look up recipes today, and I promptly take the bike to go get everything from the store while Deacon’s off picking up the shower tile we ordered.

I take the long loop home so I can watch the sunset. Surfers dot the water like peppercorns in foam, ice plants spread over the sandy cliffs, their flowers already gone for the summer. And when I pass the lighthouse on West Cliff, an idea hits me—a cost- free idea—for our next team-building day.

Deacon’s back and unloading boxes by the time I pull up beside the garage.

“You free tomorrow?” I ask him after I take off my helmet and grab a load to help.

“I can be,” he says with a grin.

“I figured since we got behind before, maybe we could do another team-building day sooner to make up for it. I could plan our next one, too. Two for two.”

The retreating day casts him in an orange glow and makes his eyes look like honey. The breeze picks up a lock of his floppy hair as he smiles. “Time and place, Lavigne. Just name it.”

The following morning feels like the curtain has been peeled back on autumn for a few hours. Fine hairs rise on my arms when I step onto the chilly balcony off the living room, tendrils of steam curling up from my coffee. I reach back inside and snag the flannel Deacon’s left draped over the chaise, pull it tight around myself before I rest my elbows on the dewy railing and clasp the mug in my hands.

Only, when I lean forward and take a deep inhale of the dawn, I catch Deacon on the other side of the wall, on his respective balcony, doing the same thing. We laugh in synchrony, three feet and a wall between us.

“Morning,” he says, his voice gritty with sleep. The happy expression fumbles when his eyes land somewhere near my collar.

“Oh, sorry,” I say when I look back down at the jacket. “It was cooler than I realized and I just saw it—”

“It’s fine,” he rasps. “It’s—good. Totally okay.” Nods and clears his throat. “What time do you want to head out?”

“Half an hour okay?”

He nods his agreement. “Meet you at the landing.”

I hand him a travel mug of coffee at the landing twenty-nine minutes later, and we head out on our walk, side by side.

The silence is comfortable, in spite of the conflicting emotions that have been gurgling their way through me lately. It’s a great thing to be his friend. I want so much more, I won’t lie to myself about it. But I would accept whatever he’d give me just to keep him in my life.

“Before I forget,” he starts after we’ve cleared our first block. “Mom keeps hinting at coming by and seeing what we’ve done with the place.” He sighs wearily. “I gather that she’s already under the impression that you inherited the money to fund it since she hasn’t asked, but I, uh… I didn’t want you to think you had to keep lying to her. If it comes up for any reason, I want to tell her the truth.”

I scuff my shoe against the pavement. “That’s fine. It was inherited. We don’t have to share any of the terms or anything… That’s our business anyway, right?”

Something about that seems to delight him. He turns to search my face and smiles with a nod. So open and pretty it hurts.

“Yeah. Our business,” he says.

We continue on, passing the lighthouse on West Cliff before we round the corner where the road continues.

“Alright,” I say with a happy sigh. “Pick one.” I jut out my arms toward the row of homes. Multimillion-dollar homes, each with an eclectic style all its own. Some have a partial view of the park off to the side in the distance, but all of them have a view of miles and miles of ocean out the front.

“What do you mean?” He laughs, his head canting to the side.

“I used to play this game when I was little where I’d pick the house that looked like it was meant for me. Since we moved so much I think it was something I could do to stay positive about it, maybe?” I say. “Like, maybe it was green and green was my favorite color at that time, or maybe because it was a tall, lanky-looking house it felt like I should live in it because I was lanky and tall. Maybe it was fancy and had a big wrought iron gate out front and I thought I was fancy. I want to know which one you see yourself as.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I want you to pick it for me.”

I dip my chin and glance up at him through my lashes. “That’s cheating.”

“You pick for me,” he says firmly.

“Fine,” I reply with a long sigh. I chew my lip and study them as we continue walking along, before I stop and act like I’m deeply considering the singular less-than-gorgeous house on a corner. It’s painted a Pepto pink and has eight wind chimes hanging on the front porch.

“Really?” He groans, and I laugh before I keep going.

“Hey,” I chide, “every house deserves someone to love it.”

At some point we come to my favorite house—the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen. It’s one I remember from my childhood here. The cedar shingles that cover it have weathered a bit, but to me it only makes it look more homey. It’s set back farther from the road than most of the others, so it has an expansive green lawn out front. There are thick white casings on all the windows, and flower boxes brimming with spilling vines. A lofty brick chimney hugs its side, with billowing hydrangea bushes along the porch that have begun to patina for fall. A black bench-swing lined with fat, cushy pillows rocks gently on the porch. Five bicycles lie scattered on the right half of the lawn: two adult-sized and three smaller ones. A playhouse and a slide on the other.

It’s warm, inviting, cozy. It’s the kind of house that no one ever wants to leave or move away from, the kind that everyone gravitates back to, a North Star for home. I’d bet anything that there’s a concrete square somewhere with an entire family’s handprints molded into it. I imagine it’s loud and lived-in. With fighting and laughing and everything in between.

The one to the left of it is what I pick for Deacon, and it’s just as lovely in its own way. It’s a craftsman style, with oversized paneled windows, rounded dormers, and stacked fieldstone around the base. Ferns and boxwoods and everything in shades of green. Something sturdy and substantial, well-crafted and charming.

He looks back at me, surprised when I point it out. Grins smugly and taps a finger against his stubble as he considers it. “That’s a damn good-looking house,” he says.

I laugh through my nose and roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, it is.”

“Which one is yours?” he asks.

Two more homes down stands a newer build. It’s a stunning dark gray, with black-framed windows and modern, sleek finishes. All sharp angles and lines. Out front is a rock garden—minimalist, with only a few tall cactuses jutting up. It’s polished, with a black painted gate closing off the driveway. It is likely the most expensive one on the entire strip.

“That one’s probably mine,” I say, pointing to it.

He frowns. “ That’s your favorite? Really?”

I pause and squirm, suddenly a little uncomfortable with this game that I chose. “It’s more about which one looks like it would be mine. Like I belong to it. Not just my favorite one.”

“So, not the one you were mooning over a few houses back, then? You think this one feels more like you?”

I flap my hand at the modern mansion. “I mean, that’s an extremely luxurious house, Deacon,” I say, forcefully cavalier. “Anyone would think this dark one was more my style. No one would guess that the storybook home was mine. No one else would think that one looks like me.”

He shakes his head and drags his eyes my way, something hardening in his expression. “It looks like you to me.”

God, I know it’s a stupid game. Poor little rich girl daydreaming of a new home and a new life. I know that in terms of relativity, I have way too much in this life to be grateful for, and I used to hate myself for feeling like I wanted something else, for not just being happy with what I did have. And even though I’ve started being a little easier on myself, and I know it’s silly… I still can’t get a full breath at the idea that Deacon could see me as that lovely home. The one that looks like people belong to it as much as it belongs to them.

“You could see me with the flowers and the porch swing?” I ask. “Not just some cactuses and rocks?” I feel like I’m always so jagged and sharp. I want to be someone’s safe place and someone’s comfort. I don’t know why this matters so much to me.

“Hey, don’t knock cactuses. They’re incredibly resilient. Hard to kill,” he says. He turns away from me and closes his eyes, his face tilted up to the sun. “But I could see you with a whole garden of them, and flowers everywhere, too. With the lawn and the swing and all of it, Lar.”

The warmth of the morning starts to burn through the fog, bathing my cheeks. I close my eyes and let myself imagine that for a minute, too.