Guy Hater: A Romantic Comedy

by Ethan Asher

  “Anything.”

  He turns around and looks behind us. Guy’s leaning against the hood of his truck, staring us down. It’s a little unnerving that I didn’t hear him come back.

  “Don’t let him back in here unless I’m here to supervise him.”

  “I can deal with that. In fact, I’ll go ahead and break the news.”

  I can feel the anger building again. It’s a warmth that’s spreading from my chest, and the closer I get Guy, the warmer it gets. I’m not letting Guy off the hook for this. I’m not backing down. I’m taking control of this renovation whether Guy likes it or not.

  15

  Charleigh

  So this is what a standoff feels like. My eyes are focused on Guy's and his on mine. Neither of our faces shows any form of emotion, but there's no need. Our annoyance with each other radiates from our bodies, the air shifting around us as though we've stepped inside a greenhouse. Neither of us has pulled the trigger yet, feeling each other out. I have a few choice words circulating in my mind, but I'm waiting for Guy to make the first move before I unleash hell on him.

  “What?” Guy says.

  An interesting choice given the circumstances.

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  Guy keeps his arms folded across his chest as he pushes himself off his truck. He looms over me. “If you’re looking for an apology, you’re not going to get one. I saved you time with the amount of work I put in. What did you expect when you kept me in the dark for weeks?”

  I square up to him. He might have nearly a foot on me, but I’m not backing down. “I expected you to be an adult, but now I realize how incredibly shortsighted I was.”

  He raises his eyebrows, looking at me as though he’s thoroughly bored with me. If he wants to act like a brat, fine by me. I’ll treat him like one.

  “I’m telling you how things are going to be from here on out. First, you’re not living here until the renovation is over. Both for your safety and my peace of mind.”

  “You worried about me, Charleigh?”

  That one gets a dumbfounded stare, followed by a hearty chuckle. “Worried about you? I’m worried that the next time I drop by, the house will be in ruins and you’ll be tap dancing over the rubble.” I take a deep breath and then continue. “Second, you’re going to hand over your keys to the house because from now until the renovation is done, this house belongs to me. You do not come near it unless I’m present. You don’t so much as think about it without my permission.”

  “Can I dream about it?”

  “No.”

  “Paint it?”

  “Do you even paint?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you asking me?”

  “I just want to make sure I’m following all of your rules.”

  What in the world did I do in my past life to deserve a client like Guy? Was I a professional puppy punter? Kitten kicker? Someone who took off their shoes and socks in an airplane? I hold in my sigh because I don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he's successfully annoying me.

  I reach out my hand, palm up. “Just hand them over.” For a moment, I’m not sure he will. He seems to balk at my request, but finally, he obliges, taking the key from his key ring and placing it in my palm.

  “Thank you. Now get your stuff and get out of my sight.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Guy brushes by me and heads up to the house, sharing an awkward greeting with Ryder before he disappears inside. Ryder gives me a shrug and turns around, following Guy inside to make sure he doesn't jackhammer the foundation or take a hatchet to a circuit breaker. You know, the kinds of things Guy seems to think are essential to keeping this project running on schedule.

  I walk around the property to clear my head and remind myself why I’m doing this. This house has so much potential. It’s the sort of project designers dream of, and I’m not going to let Guy ruin it for me. By the time I make my rounds and reach the front of the house again, Guy’s truck is gone. And the house is still standing. Thank Jesus.

  I head back inside to find Ryder and figure out the damage.

  “Charleigh,” Ryder booms when I walk inside. He’s leaning against the stone wall that surrounds the fireplace, his black cowboy hat on the mantle next to him. He grabs his hat and heads toward me, crossing in between the steady stream of workers clearing debris with ease.

  “So what’s the damage?” I ask when he stops in front of me. That easy smile of his is on his lips again, and it reaches his eyes as he looks at me.

  "It's not as bad as it looks, honestly. Certainly, there are a few snags here and there, but nothing major. Guy did a surprisingly good job. Saved us some time, to be honest."

  “Seriously?”

  Ryder holds his hat over his heart. “Seriously.” There’s a brief pause before he motions to me. “Follow me, and I’ll give you a rundown.” He sets his hat on his head, turns around, and starts walking.

  We spend the next hour or so reviewing the damage and outlining a course of action. As much as I want to deny that Guy did a good job, I can’t. Apart from taking down part of a load-bearing wall, Guy saved us time and money. But that doesn’t change anything. He did it all without my approval.

  “So,” Ryder says as he leads me around a pile of rubble. “You and Guy. How’s that working out?”

  “Look around you,” I say, twisting my body to take in the destruction at all angles. “Just swell.”

  “The immovable object meets the unstoppable force. I’m surprised there isn’t more damage.”

  “Which one am I?” I ask.

  “Whichever you want to be.”

  "I'll go with the unstoppable force. I like momentum. I hate standing still." I glance at my phone. "Speaking of which, it's time for me to go."

  “I think we’re done here for the day too. Everything else can wait until Monday.”

  I sigh. “Thanks for your help, Ryder.”

  He nods and then heads over to address his crew.

  I walk to the porch and plop down on the swing, rocking myself as I watch Ryder and his crew pack up and begin to leave. Rather than focus on everything that went wrong today, I formulate a plan to make the rest of my day and weekend better.

  I need to work out to get my endorphins going and improve my mood. Hell, I might even grab a scone on the way home too. That always does wonders for my mood.

  Once everyone leaves, I take one last tour of the house. It’s a mess, but it has so much potential. After taking my time looking around for more surprises, I head outside, lock up, and then head for my car. I’m in far less of a bad mood by the time I reach my car. There’s nothing like a good plan to make things right in the world. Until that plan crumbles to pieces right before your eyes.

  My car won't start, and no amount of coaxing or sweet talk will help it. I let my head fall against the wheel as I groan. Why? It's the only word that comes to mind as I sit inside my broken-down car. After a few moments of despair, I call Ryder, but he doesn't pick up. I call him a few more times, but again he doesn't answer.

  Neither Jamie nor Marissa answer either. Great. Finally, I call my mom and she answers. "Oh, of course, sweetie. I'll be over shortly. And you can use my car until we get yours fixed. I don't use it much anyway."

  “Thanks.”

  “But I have one request.”

  I sigh from exhaustion. “Anything.”

  “You’re not running off as soon as you drop me off. You’re going to have dinner with your mother.”

  "Sure. Fine. No problem." After a day like today, I could go for a home-cooked meal.

  “Great! I’ll see you in about half an hour.”

  We hang up and about twenty minutes later I see headlights appear on the road and then turn into the drive. There’s an odd feeling in my stomach as I watch them creep slowly down the drive. That’s not my mother’s car. That’s…

  No.

  I hop out of my car just as Guy pulls up next to me.
<
br />   “I thought I told you not to come back here without me,” I yell into his window.

  He rolls it down. “I heard you needed a ride. Get in.”

  “I’m not getting in the same car as you.”

  “Fine. Stay here all night.” He begins to roll up his window. When it’s about halfway up I open the door and get in.

  This is going to be the car ride from hell.

  16

  Guy

  Why did I ever think working with Charleigh would be a good idea?

  The ride back to Deanna’s place is what I expect: awkward and tense. Every time I change the radio, she sighs. Each time I ask her a question, she closes her eyes. She might as well plug her ears and repeat “la la la” over and over while she’s at it.

  “This wasn’t my idea. Deanna felt faint and couldn’t come.” The last thing I wanted to do is spend nearly half an hour in an enclosed space with Charleigh. “Fine. Don’t respond.”

  I know she’s pissed, but so am I. I need her to communicate with me. It’s my house, and I have the right to know what’s going on with it.

  We spend the rest of the drive listening silently to the same terrible pop and rap songs every single radio station plays over and over. She damn near tucks and rolls out of the car before it comes to a complete stop. By the time I turn off the ignition, Charleigh’s already in the house. When I reach the front steps I hear the tail end of her argument with Deanna.

  “—force me into the same car? I’ve already dealt with enough today.”

  “Honey, I just couldn’t make it.”

  “You seem fine now.”

  I can’t help but agree with Charleigh. When I left, Deanna was sprawled out on the couch, acting as though she was on the verge of death. Right now, she’s bouncing around the kitchen like a pinball.

  “I am,” Deanna says. “Now that my two favorite people in the world are here.”

  Charleigh groans. “I’ll be in my room. Let me know when dinner’s ready.”

  A few seconds and a handful of heavy footfalls later, Charleigh blows by me without a word. The door to her bedroom slams just as I enter the kitchen.

  “So I see that dizzy spell of yours passed,” I say to Deanna as I walk by her and resume the baking project I’d started before she sent me to pick up Charleigh.

  “Oh yes,” she says, ignoring my thinly veiled sarcasm. “They come and go like the wind. Strange, really. I should get it checked out.”

  “I think you should.”

  Deanna settles in her chair at the kitchen table and begins flipping through Martha Stewart Living. A few seconds later, she sets it down. “You know, Guy, this is nice, isn’t it?”

  I pause mid-air measuring out the vanilla. “What’s nice?”

  “Having everyone back in this house. Jamie and Marissa earlier today. Now you and Charleigh. It’s been so lonely without Michael and—” She pauses for a few seconds. I look back and see her smiling at me. “I’m so glad to see you all together.”

  I take a deep breath, forcing the shitshow that is my relationship with Charleigh out of my head. "It's good to be back. For a few months, at least."

  When Deanna heard that Charleigh forced me out of my house, she wouldn’t hear of me going anywhere else but her spare bedroom. Which just so happens to be Charleigh’s old room because the beds have been cleared out of every other room.

  "Three or four months should do it," Deanna fires back. "You need to account for setbacks. There are always setbacks in renovations. You should know that by now from all of our research." Deanna hums to herself as she settles back into her magazine. "What are you making?"

  "Chili for dinner. And then there are brownies."

  “Brownies?” Deanna asks, eyeing me over her magazine.

  "A peace offering for Charleigh." I clear my throat roughly. "I might've crossed a line."

  Deanna turns back to her magazine. “Possibly.”

  I take the brownies out of the oven to cool a little early because I know Charleigh likes them slightly undercooked and gooey. Thirty minutes later, I cut out a couple of the center pieces and place them on a plate.

  “Wish me luck,” I say to Deanna as I grab the plate and head toward the stairs.

  Deanna swipes a brownie off the plate as I pass by, takes a bite, and moans. "Oh, you won't need luck. These are divine."

  I head upstairs, pausing in front of Charleigh’s door for a moment. There’s a little movement behind the door, but otherwise it’s quiet. I knock on the door and the movement stops. I try the knob but it’s locked.

  "Charleigh," I mutter into the door. "I think we should talk." Silence. Each second that passes feels like a minute, stacking together into eternity. "If Charleigh's not there, could I speak with Emma then?"

  A groan. Progress.

  “I’ve got a brownie. Homemade. Triple chocolate. Still warm and super—”

  The door cracks open. Charleigh reaches through the gap and snatches the brownie off the plate, shutting the door before I have the chance to finish. The lock clicks back into place.

  “Gooey,” I finish. Well, there goes my bargaining chocolate chip.

  I knock on the door again. “You realize that we have to find a way to work together.”

  Charleigh says something but it sounds like gibberish with a mouthful of brownie. I sigh. This might be a little more difficult than I thought.

  I lean back against the wall and slide down to the floor, one leg pulled toward my chest, the other flat against the floor. I look around, glancing down the empty hallway at the closed bedroom door in front of me, all of it triggering memories I thought I'd forgotten. I can't help but laugh when one in particular pops into my head.

  “Do you remember the first time we met?”

  Charleigh doesn’t respond, but I don’t mind. I know she’s listening. She always eavesdropped when we were younger. It used to get her in trouble.

  I drag a finger lazily along the smooth grain of the wood floor. “It was the first day of kindergarten. We were finger painting. You were sitting next to me. I was watching you out of the corner of my eye as you drew a dog. It was great. You were always great at drawing and creating.

  “Anyway. Your finger painting reminded me of my dog Boomer, and I decided to add him into the whole green field and house I had going. I was so into it. Mixing all the colors just right. I remember I was so focused.” I shake my head, a grin growing on my lips. “Do you remember what happened next, Charleigh?”

  More silence.

  “You turned to me and asked if it was a giraffe.”

  Charleigh lets out a muffled laugh.

  "I was so mad that I grabbed your painting and ripped it to shreds. You stood there, glancing between me and the painting, your face growing redder by the second. I thought you were going to cry. I thought I was going to get in so much trouble. But then you grabbed a bottle of paint and dumped it all over my painting. You always had to one-up me. There was no chance of salvaging it after that."

  I run a hand through my hair.

  “That’s when you started to bawl, and I joined you because I didn’t want to get in trouble. We weren’t allowed to sit next to each other for the rest of the year.”

  Even though we were separated, I always kept my eyes on Charleigh from across the room. She made me so frustrated, but I couldn't help myself. Even though I was so mad at her that day, I ended up fishing out the pieces of her painting from the trash and keeping them. I had no idea why I did it. It was like that with Charleigh, though. There was something about her that made me act in strange and irrational ways that only made sense a while later.

  “I kept your shredded painting in a box underneath my bed. I’d look at it every now and again, wondering why I kept it. But then the night before our last day of kindergarten I took the box out and pieced the painting back together. I even spent hours making you a card. I gave them both to you the next day. You hugged me and then ran off, leaving me more than a little confused.

&
nbsp; “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I know I’ve done some stupid things. And okay, fine, tearing down that wall is one of them. And I hope that someday you can find a way to forgive me. Or tolerate me. Or if not, that’s fine. I just want to try to put all of this behind us and move forward because I want to work with you. It was wrong, and I won’t do it again.”

  After a few moments of silence, I stand up.

  “Would you like another brownie?”

  I can hear her rustling around. After a few sighs, she responds in the affirmative.

  “And a glass of milk.” A brief hesitation. “Please.”

  I snort and make my way back down into the kitchen.

  “How’s it going up there? I think the chili’s ready.”

  “It might be a few more minutes, but I think I’m whittling down her resolve with brownies.”

  Deanna laughs. “She’s always had a sweet tooth.”

  “Like mother, like daughter,” I say as Deanna chews her second brownie.

  I pour a tall glass of milk, grab two more brownies because I know Charleigh well enough, and then head back upstairs. I knock on the door again. This time when she opens the door, I’m ready. I slide my foot in the gap and then hold onto the edge of the door.

  “We’re not doing this again. If you want these brownies—yes, plural—you have to let me in.”

  She groans but lets go of the door. I follow her into the bedroom, breathing in the light scent of coconut that trails behind her. She sits down on the bed, her body language as closed off as possible. Arms and legs crossed. Red lips pursed. Brow scrunched as she watches me set the plate of brownies on the bed beside her and the milk on the nightstand.

  She waits until I step away before she reaches for a brownie and takes a bite.

  “How do you like the brownies? I made them myself.”

  She spits out a mushy black clump onto the plate, dropping the brownie onto it seconds later. She claps her hands, wiping off any stray crumbs.

  "That good, huh? I guess I should save them for someone else."

  I reach over and grab the second brownie off the plate. She’s trying hard not to show it, but I can see a little part of her die inside when I take the first bite and then another when I grab the glass of milk and down it to her shock and horror.