Guy Hater

by Ethan Asher

  “This shithead thinks he can go five miles over on my highway? Get out of here.”

  “Five miles over,” I repeat, rubbing my eyelids after finally buckling in. These are exactly the kinds of stops I didn’t want to make, but with Maddox in the driver’s seat, I’m at his mercy. Just this once. Because that seat will be mine before the end of this stop. My phone buzzes one last time before Maddox pulls behind the black Camry in front of us.

  Charleigh: We’re taking Franny because I don’t want to die.

  Guy: Franny’s just as old.

  Charleigh texts again, but I don't have a chance to look at it. Maddox has the Camry stopped and is about to leap into action.

  “Let’s do this,” Maddox yells after clapping his hands.

  I groan, wondering what in the world I did in my past life to get a partner like Maddox.

  You know those moments when you have absolute clarity? It’s like the whole world dissolves around you as a singular thought comes into focus. It’s happening to me right now. I’m lying on my back on a bench, my elbows locked while I extend my arms in front of me as I try my best not to let the over 200 pounds of metal come crashing down on my chest.

  The only thought in my head is this: This was a terrible idea.

  I’m in the middle of my last set of bench presses, struggling to eke out the last reps. Maddox talked me into going with him to the gym. I tried to decline because my muscles were already exhausted from spending most of my nights at my house doing demo work. But he wouldn’t stop whining about it for most of our shift. Eventually, I relented. Whatever. It’s just one workout.

  It’s easy to think that when you’re not holding 225 pounds over your head. I finish the second to last rep and move on to the next. Maddox is trying to motivate me in his own way, but being called a pussy or a little bitch isn’t exactly helping right now.

  “Oh fuck,” Maddox says as I’m struggling to push out the last rep.

  "Little. Help?" I cough. I sputter. I can feel pressure building in my face and neck as I strain myself. I've stalled out, which is a typical signal to a spotter that you need assistance. But Maddox isn't your typical spotter, or human being for that matter, but that's a whole other conversation. Right now his eyes are focused on something in front of him and not on the hundreds of pounds of steel that gravity is pulling down on my chest.

  “Look at that hottie who just walked in.”

  “MADDOX FUCK!” is all I can get out as my arms begin to wobble.

  “Oh shit.” Maddox grabs the bar and helps rack it. “Sorry, bro.”

  "Holy shit," I say as I sit up, panting as I try hard to not only catch my breath but fight the urge to leap on Maddox.

  “You can’t blame me for that, though. I mean, just look at that chick. She’s fine as fuck.”

  I need a new partner. I repeat the thought in my head like a mantra.

  “I’m gonna go talk to her.”

  "Whatever." I head for the water fountain. After taking a few long, refreshing drags from the fountain, I look around for Maddox. "You've got to be kidding me."

  There’s a sharp feeling just below my sternum when I spot Maddox. He’s talking with Charleigh. Although Maddox is routinely crude in the presence of other guys, he’s capable of laying on the charm in front of women. I’ve seen him do it countless times at coffee shops, always getting numbers or casual dates with women in minutes.

  And as I’m watching Charleigh’s face light up, I can see he’s laying it on real thick right now.

  I continue with my workout alone, doing my best to ignore Maddox and Charleigh. I don’t have my earbuds with me so it’s more difficult to do, especially when my mind wants to single out Charleigh’s voice and laugh. No matter where I go in this gym, her voice cuts through the noise.

  I power through the last reps of my last exercise with ease. I don’t know where this strength is coming from, but I feel adrenaline pumping through me like crazy. I was sore before, but now I hardly feel any pain in my muscles.

  I hear Charleigh laugh once again as I head to the locker room. After showering, I head to my locker and change into my clothes. As I’m putting on my shoes, Maddox appears.

  “Holy shit, dude. That girl is fire. And not because she's a redhead. Man, I wonder if the curtains match—”

  “Maddox!” I raise my hand. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Jesus, dude. What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired from lifting actual weights. You know, that thing you were supposed to be doing?”

  Maddox slinks down on the bench next to me. “I was working just as hard. Just in a different way. That girl is something else.”

  “You get her number?”

  "That's the thing, man. She said some weird girl shit about fate or something. Wouldn't give it to me."

  I smile. “You get a name at least?”

  “Emma.”

  I laugh. I underestimated her. She saw right through Maddox.

  “What’s so funny?” Maddox looks at me as I stand up.

  I grab his shoulder. “Nothing, man.”

  “She gave me her email, but I’m pretty sure it’s fake.”

  “What is it?”

  “Emmabammatheslammajamma@gmail.com.”

  Holy shit. How the hell did she keep a straight face while saying that? I completely lose my shit as Maddox’s face begins to droop as the realization sets in.

  "Damn it, dude." Maddox leans forward, covering his face with his palms.

  I clap him on the shoulder. "Yeah, I think you're right about that."

  I leave the locker room, letting Maddox stew over his rejection. As I scan the room, I find Charleigh on the treadmill. I grab my phone and send her a text.

  Guy: I see you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Maddox.

  Guy: Emma.

  I watch her as she looks down at her phone, picks it up, and then looks around her. She turns down the speed.

  Charleigh: You’re here? And you know that person?

  Guy: He’s my partner, unfortunately.

  Charleigh: I’m so, so sorry.

  Guy: And yes, I’m here. Heading out though. Have a good workout. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.

  I walk by the treadmills on my way out and wave at Charleigh.

  “Night, Emma,” I say.

  “Night, Sebastian,” Charleigh replies.

  Maybe things have finally reached a turning point between Charleigh and me.

  14

  Charleigh

  Why did I think this would be a good idea?

  We’ve spent over an hour at the granite supplier but we still aren’t any closer to finding a match. Guy’s acting more like a twelve-year-old kid with ADHD than a full-grown man. He’s wandering off on his own, darting in between slabs of granite, and overall making this entire process more difficult than it needs to be.

  “It all looks the same to me. Just pick what you like.”

  I will not get mad. I will not get mad. I will not. Get. Mad.

  I take a deep breath to calm myself down before telling him, “We’ve tried that already. You told me, and I quote, ‘They just don’t speak to me.’ I’m not sure if you think you’re some granite whisperer, but I need you to make some decisions.”

  “Okay.” He darts behind another slab of granite. Jesus Christ. It’s like I’m playing whack-a-mole without a mallet. He pops out one side, disappears, and then reappears somewhere else a few seconds later. This is aggravating beyond words, and slowly, I’m beginning to reconsider my choice to suck it up and be nice.

  “How about this one?” Guy raps his knuckles on an almost pure black slab of quartz.

  “That’s not granite. And it’s not even close to the color scheme I’m going for.”

  “Well, it speaks to me.”

  "No, it doesn't. You just want it because it's the complete opposite of what I'm trying to do."

  Guy looks at me, arms folded together under his chest. “I’m trying to get
you to relax. You’ve been so tense this entire time.”

  “You’re sure taking an odd route to make me relax.”

  “Well, you’re an odd person, Charleigh. And that means odd measures.”

  I repeat the “I will not get mad” mantra in my head a few more times until I have a small epiphany. “Okay. How about this. We each grab our own samples, and then we’ll take them back to the house and figure out which mixture works best. Sound good?”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  I should've done this earlier, but for some reason, I thought including Guy in the process would've been more fun for him. But as I watch him bouncing around between the various stones, it seems like giving him a task rather than having him follow me around was a much better idea. But after spending this long inside this store, I'm not even sure if I'll be working with granite anymore. I won't know until we're back at the house.

  We spend the next fifteen minutes perusing the stone. I have my top three choices and Guy was able to come up with three himself, one of them matching a selection of my own.

  “I guess it spoke to us,” Guy says.

  “Don’t—” I stop myself. As much as I don’t ever want him to say that phrase again, I bite my tongue because things are slightly better than where they were before this little exercise. So instead, I smile and say, “I guess so.”

  It takes us another hour to finish hitting up the rest of the stores, but finally, we're back in Franny. With paint swatches, granite, tile, and more in hand, we head back to Guy's house to see how they all look in place.

  “I had a nice time today, Charleigh.”

  I smile for a brief moment before catching myself. I don’t want to give Guy the satisfaction. Not right now.

  Although frustrating at the start, this wasn’t so bad. I’ve had much worse days at work and have dealt with much worse clients. If today is an omen of what’s to come, then things just might turn out okay.

  I park Franny in front of the house, and before I have the chance to turn her off, Guy tells me, “I can’t wait to show you what I did to the place.”

  There are certain things designers love to hear from their clients. What just came out of Guy’s mouth is not one of them. It’s the sort of statement that fuels my nightmares, and I’m trying my best not to freak out right now.

  “What?” My voice wavers as I look at Guy. I haven't seen him this thrilled with himself before. He's glowing, actually glowing from whatever he wants to show me. A few moments later he opens his door and heads to his house without answering me.

  “Guy?” I call after him as I watch him run to the front door.

  There’s an uneasy feeling the size of a bowling ball resting on my chest as I remember those texts from the other day. Which wall are we tearing down again? Oh God, please tell me I’m wrong. I hop out of Franny, unsure of what I’m about to walk into.

  Guy’s leaning against the door, one hand on the doorknob, cracking the door open. It’s not a large enough gap for me to look inside. My eyes jump back to Guy. He pushes the door open and aside to let me pass. “After you,” he says with a bow and arm flourish.

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I’m frozen in place out of fear for what I’m about to see. I look inside, but it’s too dark for me to see much.

  Guy prods me to head in, and eventually, I do. And what I see is the exact nightmare that flashed through my mind when Guy told me he couldn't wait to show me what he did. I can't believe the complete and utter destruction in front of me.

  Floorboards are splintered and cracked. Dust and debris are everywhere. It's like a bomb went off, followed by a tornado, hurricane, and avalanche all at the same time. In other words—destruction in apocalyptic proportions. But the most astonishing part of it all is when I turn around to ask Guy what in the hell he did, I find him smiling like a five-year-old girl who has just been gifted an actual unicorn.

  “I know demo isn’t supposed to start until this weekend, but I couldn’t help myself.”

  I open my mouth, but I can’t bring myself to say anything. This is the reminder I needed. The teenage Guy is still in there.

  “I made sure only to remove things we talked about. The sinks, some floor, countertops, part of the wall.”

  A record scratches in my head as everything around me freezes.

  “Part of the what?” I ask, hoping I misheard.

  Guy cocks his head like a confused puppy that can't understand how the ball I obviously threw a few seconds ago ended up back in my hand. I'm not sure whether I want to scream at him or curl up into a ball and cry myself to sleep. If Christiana finds out that I can't control my client—or worse, if Andrea finds out—I can kiss my chance at becoming a lead designer goodbye.

  This cannot get out.

  Guy shatters any hope that he misspoke as he leads me to the wall I knew in my gut he was talking about. Well, what's left of it. And as I stand there, staring at the rubble on the ground, I look up and find my worst fears realized.

  “Get out!” I grab Guy’s arm, dragging him back the way we came. He yelps as my nails dig into his forearm, but I don’t care. We need to get out of here now.

  When we’re outside, I proceed to unleash a tongue lashing that will be talked about for years to come because what he did was one of the most dim-witted, idiotic things anyone could have possibly done.

  “That’s a load-bearing wall, Guy,” I say, finally taking a breath. “What were you thinking? You aren’t a contractor. You aren’t handy. ”

  I level a harsh gaze at Guy. I’ve never felt so mad before. Guy’s standing there like he doesn’t know what to do, shifting uncomfortably every few seconds.

  I reach into my purse and grab my cell phone. With my hands shaking from the adrenaline, it takes a few moments before I’m able to find my contractor’s number.

  I press my phone against my ear. “Hopefully, Ryder can fix this mess,” I say as I turn my back to Guy and begin walking to the other side of the porch.

  “Ryder? Ryder King?”

  Guy doesn’t deserve an answer. I ignore him and keep walking.

  Ryder grew up with us—the youngest of the five that make up the King family. They're a wild bunch, but Ryder's the wildest. He and Guy were actually good friends at one point, but like almost everything in Guy's life, their relationship fell apart once his parents died.

  It's ringing. Hopefully, he has his phone with him. Although he's a great contractor, he's difficult to reach because he hardly ever carries his cell phone, especially when he's out working on his family's ranch. And when I check the time, that's most likely what he's doing.

  I’m about to hang up when he answers.

  “Charleigh Holiday.” Ryder’s rough, raspy voice rings in my ear. “To what do I—”

  “Ryder, I need you. Now.” I cut in because there’s no time. I turn on my heel and begin pacing.

  “That’s a little forward, Charleigh, but I like a woman who knows what—”

  “Ryder, shut up. Just shut up and bring the crew to Guy Finch’s place. I’m pretty sure he knocked down a load-bearing wall and I need you to get here before the second floor collapses.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Hurry up. Bring everything. I have no idea what else he’s done.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You got it.”

  Ryder hangs up and I sit down on the porch swing. What in the world was Guy thinking? Obviously, he wasn’t, because no one in their right mind would do something like this. I don’t pull people over or bust criminals because I’m. Not. A. Cop. But for some reason, Guy thought he was just as knowledgable as a licensed contractor.

  I don’t know what to do besides stare blankly in front of me. The view from the porch is usually calming, but it’s not doing anything for me. I hardly even notice it with the tornadoes rampaging in my head. But the thing that’s pissing me off more than what Guy did is what he’s doing now. He’s leaning against the porch railing stewing without any shred of remorse. />
  “In what world is tearing down a wall by yourself a good idea?”

  He snorts. “What? I saved you time and money by doing that work. And it wasn’t an entire wall. Only part of one.”

  I jump to my feet and charge over to him. “And you think that makes it any better? You think that saved me time and money?" I point behind me. "What you did was the complete opposite of that."

  "It's not my fault you're uncommunicative. I waited for weeks to get an answer on whether I could help with the demo. And even longer to find out when it was happening."

  “What, so it’s my fault you took a sledgehammer to your house?”

  He shrugs.

  I laugh. The nerve of this man.

  “I’m done.”

  I wave him off and head back to the porch swing.

  Charleigh: Don’t count on me for lunch.

  Guy leaves the porch and disappears around the house.

  Marissa: …so how’d everything go with Guy?

  Charleigh: Imagine your worst day ever and then double that. Twice. That’s how everything went.

  Marissa: ???

  Charleigh: I’ll fill you in later. I have so much to fix right now and Guy’s being a baby about it all.

  Fifteen minutes later Ryder and his crew appear with their caravan of trucks and SUVs. Guy’s still MIA but I could not care less right now. Ryder hops out of his truck, spots me, and waves. He’s wearing his usual outfit: well-worn, light-blue Wranglers paired with boots—steel-toed, rather than cowboy—a red and black checked flannel.

  Ryder saunters over to me, as much as a six-foot, two-hundred-something-pound man can saunter. "Howdy, Charleigh," Ryder says, flashing his megawatt smile.

  I’m so mad that I can’t even bring myself to speak. I just shake my head and motion to the open door. Ryder keeps his eyes trained on me for a few moments but then takes a few steps toward the door. The boards of the porch creak under each footfall. He places one arm on the doorframe and leans his torso inside.