And in fact, when Jared opens the door he finds a Gil in seventh heaven standing before him.
“Good morning!” I happily greet him.
“Always on time, even on a Saturday,” he remarks, his eyes still half closed in sleep. At least it doesn’t look like he’s in a foul mood. He’s still wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and a pair of jeans, his dark hair is tousled, and the living room behind him is shrouded in darkness. Windows and curtains closed, not even a sliver of light.
“My biological clock wakes me up at six thirty. You should be thankful I didn’t get here sooner; in fact, you should thank the fog,” I try to infect him with some of my excitement, with little success I must admit. Too bad I’m not the type of person who gives up after the first attempt.
He looks at me for a moment, as if he were deliberating whether to surrender to the idea of having to permanently leave the couch or slam the door in my face.
“You promised,” I remind him before he chooses the second option.
“I know, and I’m not the type of guy who backs down. I was just thinking that you have to give me a couple of minutes. Don’t snoop around and wait for me here, I’m going to get changed,” he says, pulling away from the threshold and letting me in. I follow him in, closing the door behind me, and he disappears into the sleeping area. So I decide to open the windows. The view from here isn’t bad at all, but I don’t dwell on it too much – the second floor is a little too far up for me if I look down. It doesn’t escape my attention, though, that the fog is lifting, so I can almost make out the road with a few cars traveling along it, the shops, and the café, which is already open. Of course, the café! I rush out of the apartment and down the stairs until I am standing in the street. I reach the café: a middle aged man with a black apron tied around his waist is serving his only client who is perched on a stool in front of the counter.
“Good morning,” I greet him to catch his eye.
“Good morning, Miss, what can I get you?”
“Two coffees, one regular and one latte, take away, please,” I order stepping up to the counter. It takes the bartender a minute to oblige. They’re really fast here, at Wade’s I would have had to wait for eons, interspersed with random chitchat. That’s how it works at his shop, first you chat, then you work. I thank him and return to the house. As I mount the stairs, I consider that I should have left Jared’s door ajar. Ok, that’s not a problem. I’ll just ring the bell again. I pile the coffee cups one on top of the other and ring the bell. This time it only takes Jared two seconds to open the door.
“Where did you get to?” he asks with a slightly alarmed expression. He is still wearing jeans, a little less faded than the previous pair, and an olive green sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks a lot more awake.
“I went to get coffee,” I explain raising the hand holding the paper cups. “I thought you needed some help this morning,” I taunt him playfully. I don’t know why, but I like the idea that he was worried about me. “What is it? Did you think I’d jumped out of the window?” I say, stepping into his apartment once again and sitting down on the couch.
“I wouldn’t have been at all amazed if you had. I suspect I should expect anything from you,” he makes fun of me as he settles down next to me taking one of the two cups of coffee. “How did you get it?” he asks, beginning to lift the plastic cover.
“Not knowing how you take it, I got a regular and a latte, choose whichever you prefer.” Jared stops, his hand on the top, without even peeking inside. He looks up at me and stares at me for an instant. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking.
“How do you take it?” he suddenly asks.
“Usually latte, why?”
“Give me the regular,” he says, instead of answering the question. Without thinking, I open the cover of the cup I’m holding and peek inside. I have the regular. I hand it to him and he takes it, passing me his. Then he begins to drink it.
“What were you thinking before?” I really can’t take my mind off of it.
“Before when?”
“Before a moment ago.”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I don’t know, it didn’t look like nothing to me.”
“Nothing in particular,” he cuts me off, finishing his coffee and getting up from the couch. I hurriedly gulp mine down too and follow him into the kitchen to throw the cups into the trash. I’d say nothing has changed in here. Still nothing edible around, a trash bag full of take-away food boxes, and not as much as a glass in the sink.
“Come on, let’s go,” he urges me. “You don’t want to waste this one off opportunity,” he observes ironically.
“Absolutely not,” I laugh as we both head for the door. I suspect it will take a lot more to decipher him to my satisfaction. It doesn’t matter, I have plenty of time.
Once we’re in the shop, I see him glance around with curiosity. I have to admit that his interest in something that concerns me pleases me more than I care to admit.
“We have to finish applying undercoat to these two walls and then we can begin to paint this one,” I explain, pointing at the walls that will occupy our day.
“What color have you chosen?” he asks, continuing to pivot, his gaze wandering over every corner of the room.
“I’ve chosen a wonderful pale yellow,” I reply with satisfaction. I’m sure it will go very well with the wooden doors and will also liven up this place which has spent too much time buried in cobwebs and dust.
“I should have imagined you would have chosen a warm color,” he states, as if it were natural for him to know me well enough to guess a detail like that.
“It’s not only warm. I chose a color full of light – I wouldn’t have liked it red,” I reply stubbornly, mostly because I don’t like the idea that he won’t allow me to know him as well as I let him know me.
“Too energizing?” he teases me.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see the adverts? Colors convey sensations. Blue and green are soothing colors that convey peace and precision; red is usually associated with activity, it stimulates the production of adrenaline, it’s the color chosen by energy drinks,” he explains, as if he were discussing a subject with which he is extremely familiar.
“What about yellow?”
“Yellow is the color we associate with the sun, with light. It’s a cheerful color, summery I would say, but it also has the traits of all warm colors: a focus on the vitality of things. For sure it captures your attention.”
“Oh… so it’s a good choice?” At this point it’s best I know. If I have to paint everything light blue the sooner I know the better. Jared looks around and then returns his emerald eyes to me. I bet he has noticed the spark of apprehension in my eyes, but he maintains an obstinate silence. “Would light blue be better?” I try to get the information out of him. He continues to remain silent, but I see the mischievous look that he’s trying to conceal. “Come on, cut it out! It a serious matter,” I point out, coming closer to make him see the deadly seriousness of the issue.
Instead of replying, the expert in colors and marketing glances around once again, as if there were who knows what hidden corners to be found to be able to get a general idea of the place. I snort noisily. I’m not enjoying this game. I have two containers full of paint in a color that might not be right, and what does he do? He looks around? I don’t think so.
“So? Is light blue better?”
“Sure, if you’re planning on opening a hospital light blue is better,” he calmly confirms.
“A hospital? What are you talking about?” I scold him, annoyed. He’s the only one enjoying himself with that smirk on his face. “I’m talking about a hat shop. Hats, you know? Those things you put on your head, elegant and refined…” I remind him, accompanying my words with the proper dramatic gestures, to be sure he doesn’t miss a word. Then my gaze involuntarily alights on his jeans and sweater and I exclaim in exasperation, “What do you know! You’v
e never seen a bow tie in your life and you’re always wearing those jeans…”
“What’s wrong with my jeans?” he asks, pretending he is insulted. As if I’d fall for that.
“Nothing. They’re fine for painting walls in,” I say, placing a paint roller in his hand and pointing at the container that will keep him company this whole morning and part of the afternoon, if he’s lucky.
“Yellow is an excellent choice,” he finally concedes, trying to stifle a laugh while he sets to work. Well, that’s good, I’m not crazy about light blue.
We spend half the morning painting, him with the roller and me with a smaller brush for the corners and the areas above the skirting boards and the door frames. Odd but true, with his help we’ve managed to finish the job in record time. I thought it would take the entire day to apply the undercoat to the remaining walls, but it’s only eleven and we’ve already finished. At this rate we might manage to get the first coat of yellow on the walls I did yesterday.
“Well? I’d say we’ve made good progress,” Jared’s satisfied expression is priceless. Who would have thought that passing a roller over the walls would have the power to please him to this extent? I always said that spending all those hours in front of the computer wasn’t good for him.
“Really good progress,” I agree, infected by his optimism. “If we continue at this pace, we’ll get the first coat of yellow on these walls,” I point at the two that have already been treated.
“You really want to exploit me,” he teases me with a mischievous smile on his lips. Wow, I’ve never seen him in such a good mood.
“You should paint walls more often, seeing the effect it has on you. You almost look like a civilized person.”
“Oh, is that so?” he threatens me, reaching me with a couple of feline leaps, lifting me over his shoulder and beginning to spin on himself.
“Jared!” I exclaim in alarm; the world is spinning a little too fast for my taste. “Put me down!”
He stops but isn’t about to let go of me. “Are you going to take back what you just said?”
“What am I supposed to take back? It’s true that you looked like a civilized person,” the use of the past tense seems appropriate at this point.
“I’m always a civilized person,” he insists, trying to keep his voice serious, but I still perceive the laugh he is trying to stifle.
“Civilized people don’t sling defenseless damsels over their shoulders as if they were a bag of potatoes,” I scold him. “Put me down.”
The logic seems to baffle him, so much that he can’t find a brilliant retort and bends forward a little so I can set my feet on the floor, but as soon as I touch the ground I notice an enormous spider scuttling happily near my foot. An involuntary scream slips through my lips.
“Hold me up, hold me up!” I yell, clinging as best I can to his shoulders.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he asks straightening his back and distancing me from danger. It is evident he hasn’t seen what I saw.
“A spider!” I exclaim, increasingly alarmed, trying to indicate the unwanted guest sitting there as if nothing were amiss while trying not to lose my grip on his shoulder. It’s horrible, enormous, and disgusting.
“It’s just a little spider,” he says dismissively.
“Just? Little? It’s enormous!”
“You’re afraid of spiders, huh?” Wow, straight As for his deductive skills.
“I’m not afraid, it’s just that I don’t like them. Get rid of it, I don’t want it here.”
Jared sighs – typical attitude of someone who’s trying to be patient – and he raises a foot to squash the intruder under his shoe.
“Noooo!” I stop him before there’s no turning back.
“What’s the matter now?” he stops, annoyed.
“You can’t kill it, it’s too big, it would be murder,” I try to get him to see reason.
“What’s this foolishness?”
“Come on, just send it away,” I insist, getting a better hold of him, since to get rid of the unwanted guest he will have to move and I don’t want to fall.
“What is this? A new vegan theory?”
“I’m not a vegan.” What do my eating habits have to do with it?
“Oh, so you eat fish and meat and you think that killing a little spider would be murder?” he looks truly confused.
“I’m worried about your soul,” I say simply. And I know it doesn’t make sense, but what can I do about it? They don’t kill the animals I eat in front of me, otherwise I don’t think I would let it happen. Out of sight, out of mind, isn’t that what they say?
“Sometimes you’re really strange,” he concludes, complying with my wishes.
At least the spider is out of my shop now.
“Strange is interesting,” I point out, finally setting my feet back on the ground, though I wasn’t so badly off on his shoulder after all.
“No, strange is strange.” Never mind.
“A coat of yellow?” Better change the subject.
7
“Gillian, sweetheart, you had better get up if you don’t want your father to find you still in bed,” Grandma Natalie’s muffled voice rises up from the ground floor. Today I’m having a really hard time waking up. Yesterday I got home at ten thirty and it took me eons to get the paint off my hands and arms. I wasn’t able to get to bed before midnight and the worst part is that I wasn’t able to fall asleep until three. I spent the whole time thinking about the day that had just gone by; working with Jared was so… fun? I don’t know, but the fact is that I didn’t notice time going by until I got a frantic call from Grandma Natalie who was afraid I’d gone missing. When I got home she was careful not to ask any questions; luckily – because I honestly wouldn’t have known what to say. I just know that I enjoy Jared’s company more than I had expected and he makes me lose track of time.
“Gillian.” There’s the voice of my conscience again. I’d better get up. I stretch until I hear my bones crackle and I get out of bed. A healthy breakfast is what I need to begin the day. Downstairs Grandma Natalie has set the table as if it were Thanksgiving Day.
“Are we expecting an army?”
“No, just your father, which is more or less the same thing,” Grandma Natalie replies with a smile. She will never admit it to her son, but she is always very happy when Father comes to visit her.
“Oh, well, then I’d better eat my share in a hurry if I want to put something in my stomach,” I joke, taking my place at the table. Grandma Natalie chuckles and shoots me a good natured glare. Of course, she barely has time to take a seat next to mine, when we hear the front door open. “Mother,” my father calls from the hallway. “We’re here!”
“We’re in the kitchen,” Grandma promptly replies, then furtively, her mouth close to my ear, “Remember that business about your sister, Gil.” Oh, right. Grandma is worried about Lillian’s proximity to Zach. I don’t know exactly what bothers her, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to get my sister to tell me enough to assuage her fears.
“Good morning!” Father enters with Lillian in tow. He seems radiant and very much awake, unlike my sister who maybe would have preferred to sleep ‘till noon today, a habit she has had to abandon since she started working for Zach. I stand up in a hurry and run to embrace him; then I give Sleeping Beauty a kiss.
“Coffee?” I offer, trying to stifle a laugh while Lillian abruptly sits down, grabs a cup, and holds it out with the expression of a parched traveler emerging from the desert.
“You’re really stubborn, I told you there was no need for you to come this morning,” Father scolds her after kissing Grandma and sitting down at the table.
“Necessary or not, I promised my little sister and I always keep my word,” Lillian insists before taking her coffee and gulping it down as fast as she can. “I just need caffeine, a lot of caffeine.” It’s best to oblige.
“So, how are things going, Gil?” Father asks while he helps himself to a
generous cup of coffee. I bet Grandma’s made an industrial quantity of it knowing the demand would be high. It’s not as if it were 5 o’clock in the morning, though!
“Fine. Yesterday we gave the first two walls a coat of paint. We’re getting on well, I’d say.”
“We?” Lillian is curious. Why? Did I say “we”? Ok, I said “we”.
“Yesterday the second floor tenant gave me a hand, that’s all,” I play down the event; first of all because I can afford to, since neither Lillian nor Father know how difficult our relationship was at the beginning of the week and so they don’t realize how exceptional the event was; and secondly because I don’t want to rush things, I don’t know much about Jared yet or the reasons that keep him nearly segregated in his apartment, in which he refuses to make himself at home, details which are too important to be ignored.
“It was very nice of this guy.” Now her gaze is exceedingly interested. Sometimes I suspect she has a radar for these things.
“He’s not a guy, his name is Jared, and yes, it was nice of him,” I confirm, trying to display a lack of interest in her innuendo. The day’s off to a fine start!
The smell of paint is still powerful as we step into the shop. Father doesn’t waste any time and immediately begins his reconnaissance, while Lillian comes over to me and whispers furtively, “Well? When are you going to tell me some more about this guy, Jared?”
“When there’s some more to tell,” I retort. “Rather, tell me about you, how are things going with Zach?” Better take advantage of the bait, since she set it herself.
“What do you mean?”
“What should I mean?”
What a Girl Wants Page 9
