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Eat me. Drink me.
If I hadn’t been so mortified, I probably would have laughed at the adorableness. If a random guy had left the notes, a date even, I probably would have taken a picture and sent it over to our girls’ group chat. But it wasn’t a random guy, it was Liam. Who I could no longer pretend didn’t affect me in so many unmentionable ways. He had me in the palm of his hand, and after that night, it was clear he’d caught on to it.
I was losing control of my feelings. They were slipping, along with the walls I’d spent so many years building and fortifying. He’d spent the last month taking a hammer to each one, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep them in place.
I had picked up my phone, which had been plugged into its charger and set on my nightstand, ready to text Layla and ask what in the world was I supposed to do from here. But when I unlocked the screen, I found a message waiting.
Liam: Like it never even happened.
Good. So he wanted to forget it too. That was good.
I think.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since.
Now, though, it was Wednesday. Our workday. And there would be no escaping him.
Our wooden cutouts were all laid out in front of me.
A hippo with a pink tutu and ballerina flats.
A giraffe with a top hat and a magic wand.
A lion in a hula skirt and coconut bra holding a small hoop the kids would try to hit the ball through.
A zebra wearing a party hat and sunglasses and pointing to the last hole.
All weekend, the boys had tried to get a glimpse of them. They’d scoured the house and the garage, searching for them. Luckily, they hadn’t thought to check the attic. It was awful up there, full of cobwebs and ghosts, for sure. But it was worth it. This was going to be the best surprise ever. Even if we didn’t win the Hershey Park trip, which we ought to, just seeing the boys’ reactions to this setup would be enough to keep me slogging through life as a single parent for the next decade.
Liam wasn’t due to arrive for another hour, and I’d gotten up early to knock out several things on the agenda so I could hopefully get him in and out of here in less than fifteen minutes. Then we could go our separate ways. Because that’s what we needed, right? To be separate.
At least I’d thought so. Lately, though, he’d been so gentle, so sweet. Like my old Liam. And suddenly I wasn’t sure what we needed. Because as much as I’d tried to ignore the feelings, stuff them down and lock them away, I’d missed Liam these last couple of days. It was utterly ridiculous but also unstoppable. Especially when the boys wouldn’t stop going on about him like he was a superhero.
Mom, you should have seen how fast Dad came running outside.
And he carried you like it was nothing.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Only the day before, I’d told Liam that I’d agreed to the date with Hank because he’d saved a kitten from a tree. And there Liam was, saving me in a similar manner.
This morning, I’d awkwardly pulled the wooden cutouts from the attic with one hand and laid a large sheet of plastic film on the ground outside. Then I’d gotten all my old paints out of the garage and cleaned up my brushes. With a fresh cup of water to rinse them, I was ready to get these animals painted.
The doc had told me not to put weight on my wrist, but that was more of a suggestion than a requirement. What I hadn’t taken into consideration, though, was that I was right-handed. Meaning my painting hand was stuck in a wrap that made it difficult to even brush my teeth. That meant my usual painting technique was off the table.
I stood above my last-minute setup, tapping my wet paintbrush against my chin, running through my options.
I held up my left hand, fingers splayed.
“Listen,” I said to my palm. “We’ve had our differences. Painting our nails, writing our name on the ER forms, that one time the pointer finger of my right hand was stuck in a Chinese finger trap and you were no help. But you are going to have to work with me here. We’re doing this for the boys. So let’s just get it done.”
I gave myself a high five, which I supposed was more of a single clap. Though the responding sound was pathetic, seeing as how I was still wearing the brace.
“Let’s do this.” Crouching down, hunched into my typical painting position, I cracked the knuckles on my left hand and dipped my brush straight into the pink paint. In that instant, just as it always had when I channeled my creativity, every ounce of stress left my body.
For the first time in a long time, I let myself think of the memories Liam and I had made. Specifically those that revolved around painting. With every brush stroke, my mind wandered farther.
To the days when he would read, mostly studying, while I painted close by. Sometimes I’d turn his way and catch him staring at me, wearing that cocky little grin. And that single look would turn into the two of us being covered in paint. Greens and blues and purples smeared down our arms and legs, our bodies becoming canvases.
Or our first Christmas together, when Mama B and Jerry had bought me an overly expensive, and greatly appreciated, painting set. To this day, that was still my favorite Christmas. I cried, and Liam and his brothers laughed at me. Calla hugged me and told me how happy she was to finally have a sister.
