Guy Hater

by Ethan Asher

Charleigh turns around, her heels clicking against the concrete floor as she heads toward the door at the end of the parking garage. Hips swaying, hair bouncing—it's hard not to gape, but I force myself to turn away and begin putting away the jumper cables.

  It doesn’t stop the thoughts, though. I can’t get her out of my head. Everything about Charleigh is intoxicating and addictive. Her laugh. Her groans. The smattering of freckles along the bridge of her nose.

  Even though it’s been over a month since we kissed that night in The Lookout, I can still feel her lips on mine—their softness, the way they taste. I want more, but I’m not sure Charleigh does. There are moments when she’s at ease with me. But that’s all they are: moments. Fleeting.

  “Guuuuuuuuyyyyeeeeeeyyyyyy!”

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  I don’t even have to turn around. I could recognize Andrea’s voice anywhere. I shut the trunk to my car as she comes strutting toward me, waving one arm as her oversized purse dangles precariously in the other. It’s so large that I’m surprised she doesn’t topple over. Maybe if there was a strong enough breeze. She’s hardly fifteen feet away before her cloying perfume hits my nose.

  “Hey, Andrea.”

  “Guy!” she repeats, keeping her mouth wide open as she approaches. “What are you doing here?”

  Her entire body appears to vibrate as she talks.

  I nod at Charleigh’s car. “Charleigh’s battery died.”

  She reaches out and places her hand on my arm. “And you came all the way out here? That’s so sweet!” Her tone shifts to saccharine, but I can sense a tinge of annoyance under it. “We really should walk through your house again, Guy. I was looking over some of the elements of Charleigh’s plans, and I think she missed out on some great opportunities to make your place really pop.”

  I don’t want my place to “pop,” especially if that pop means a pink and purple accent wall with glitter highlights—the kind of design I imagine is Andrea’s specialty.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, folding my arms across my chest, her hand falling away in the process. “Charleigh and I worked on the plan together, and I’m confident in it.”

  “Oh.”

  Andrea speechless. Imagine that.

  I hear Charleigh’s rapid gait behind me, and there’s a slight twitch in one of Andrea’s eyelids as she notices Charleigh too. The hint of her scowl is replaced with a wide smile as she turns her attention back on me. She leans in and places her arm on mine once again.

  “Well, there’s always room for improvement,” she whispers into my ear. She pauses for a moment, her breaths still warm on my skin. The sound of Charleigh’s heels against the pavement is growing louder and then stops as she stands behind us.

  “Good morning, Charleigh.” The shrill, saccharine, and not to mention faux-friendly tone reverberates in the concrete garage.

  “Morning, Andrea,” Charleigh replies bluntly.

  Charleigh’s face is impassive, but her fidgeting hands in front of her belie her otherwise calm exterior.

  “It’s so nice that Guy was able to come all this way to help you out.”

  “Yup.”

  I choke on a laugh at Charleigh’s response. Andrea snorts, clearly wanting to escalate whatever it is that’s going on between the two of them. But with me here, she decides against it.

  “You two have fun together,” she says, brushing by both of us.

  “So when’s the boxing match between you two?”

  Charleigh snorts. “Is it that obvious?”

  “No more obvious than a sledgehammer to the hand.”

  Charleigh makes a face at me. “I’m not sure I know what the means, but okay.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “We should probably drive separately. I don’t want us to get stranded if my car dies.”

  “Probably a good idea. Where are we headed to first? The Elm Barn?”

  Charleigh laughs. “The Elm Barn? In what world does that even make sense?” She shakes her head and I get to see that smile again. “I’ll meet you at West Elm. I need to make a quick detour first.”

  “Alright, just remember to keep your car running.”

  She presses her lips together and then blows out air, making a flapping noise.

  “Just making sure,” I say before hopping into my truck.

  Ten minutes later I get a text from her. She turned off her car when she parked in front of Common Grounds, and go figure, the battery died again. I’m not exactly sure why she needed to pick up scones after having eaten at least four donuts. But then I remember who I’m dealing with.

  She’s something else.

  CHARLEIGH

  I’ve read that the first step of recovering from an addiction is admitting that you have one. I don’t. I could quit sugar anytime, but why in the world would I do that? Life without sugar is like living in a world without color. So I’ll deal with the sideways looks Guy gives me when I go out of my way to pick up three decadent chocolate chip scones. He’s getting one out of it, which if anything, shows how much I care about his kind gestures. I never share sweets with anyone.

  Can I get some of those M&Ms, Charleigh?

  Make a grab for them, and you’ll lose a finger or two.

  I’m not sure when my sweet tooth first appeared, but I know it’s a part of me that will never go away. Not without a fight to the death, at least. Or a diabetes diagnosis. One of the two. But hey, I work out like a fiend, so it all evens out, right? Right?

  After jumping my car battery for the millionth time, we finally head out for our day of furniture shopping. I’m amped up, not only because of the sugar rushing through my bloodstream, but this part of my job is my favorite. And I sort of enjoy spending time with Guy now. He’s funny (kinda), sweet (kinda), and extremely easy on the eyes (oh boy…).

  I’m not sure what happened in the intervening years between him leaving and returning, but it’s obvious that he picked up a few weights. Repeatedly. His arms are a thing of beauty, both hard and soft at the same time, two opposites in conflict with each other. Sort of like my mind when I’m around him.

  I don’t know how I feel about him, but I do know that I can’t get him out of my head.

  “How about this, Charleigh? I think it would be a great conversation piece.”

  Oh. My God.

  For the past fifteen minutes, Guy has picked up the most random objects he could possibly find and asked me whether or not they'd be good conversation pieces. He knows the answer: no. But he just learned the term, and he's on a mission to annoy me by using it ad nauseam.

  But I’m not going to let it get to me because overall this day has been wonderful. I’ve browsed West Elm and Pottery Barn and World Market. I’ve hit up every single thrift store and flea market in between. I’m pretty sure that there isn’t a single piece of furniture left in Boulder that I haven’t laid eyes on. I’ve carefully noted each one—price, location, and placement for Guy’s house—in my notebook for when we’re further along in the project, and I’m one hundred percent certain that the pieces will have a home.

  So now that I think about it, I’m surprised that Guy has lasted this long. I’m pretty sure any other man would’ve tucked and rolled out of their car long ago.

  “I think we should have a conversation about never talking about conversation pieces ever again.”

  I finally drag my attention away from the steamer trunk in front of me and glance at what Guy’s brought me this time. It’s an octopus. It’s purple and gold and very, very shiny. There are gemstone embellishments embedded along each tentacle—I think it’s supposed to be a lamp, but I have no idea.

  “What is that?”

  “See? It’s already working.”

  I glare at Guy, but it’s not enough to remove that annoying smirk from his face.

  “Do you think you could find a place for it?”

  “Sure. We could test out how it fits in the new pull-out trash bin I’m going to install in the kitchen. Or ma
ybe use it for fuel in the fire pit.”

  Guy puts on a mask of mock surprise. “You wouldn’t do that to Octavian.”

  “You’ve named it already?”

  It's clear that we've been at it this for far too long and Guy is on the verge of losing his mind. Or maybe I'm losing my mind, hallucinating this entire encounter.

  “And what kind of name is Octavian anyway?”

  Guy pets the bulbous head of the octopus. “Only the best kind.”

  Unfortunately, I’m unable to persuade Guy not to buy Octavian. I hang around the front of the store, browsing the random knickknacks and candy, pretending not to know Guy as he waits in line to purchase his newfound friend. I make the mistake of glancing up as Guy grabs one of the tentacles and waves at me.

  Dear lord…

  “This will be perfect on your nightstand,” Guy says as he approaches me.

  I turn around and begin heading out of the store. “That thing is not going into my room.”

  Guy shushes me. “He’s sensitive.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that you need to get checked out. You’ve got a screw or ten loose.”

  "It could happen to anyone who spends this much time with you." Guy ruffles my hair, leaving a tingling sensation across my skull, which then spreads down my neck and spine. I shake it off as we head to our cars.

  “I had a good time today, Charleigh.”

  There’s an easy smile on Guy’s lips. That dimple on his left cheek is on full display, and for a moment, I remember that kiss we had. It feels so long ago, yet I can still remember every detail as though it’s been imprinted on my memory.

  “It wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t so good, either.”

  I can’t let him know how much fun I had. Even with the whole Octavian business. It’s kinda cute. A little scary but kinda cute.

  “What’s the plan now?”

  "Ryder's supposed to be finishing the demo today. They'll be doing the cleanup for a few days, and then after that, it's just a matter of getting everything built, installed, and inspected. Everything's ordered and scheduled. It's just a matter of hoping everything arrives in time and in one piece."

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Not really,” I say as I hop into Franny.

  Guy rests his forearm across the top of the doorframe and leans in. His scent seems even more intoxicating now than it did earlier in the day. Thankfully, I’m sitting down. “Don’t be a stranger. Deanna would love for you to come over one of these nights.”

  “I’ll try. Work is going to be hectic. These next few weeks especially.”

  Guy smiles at me one more time and then pushes away from the car. I watch him walk away in the rearview mirror and disappear into his truck.

  I grab my phone out of my purse and find a text from Marissa.

  Marissa: How was shopping with Guy?

  Charleigh: We need to talk.

  Charleigh: Now.

  21

  Guy

  Common Grounds is packed by the time I arrive. The smell of coffee is so strong that I’m pretty sure I’m getting a caffeine buzz from breathing. I edge by a mother downing a double shot of espresso, her daughter in tow behind her, as I make my way to the counter.

  Jamie waves at me from our usual spot in the back corner. I nod from the line and then glance at the display of pastries. I don't usually have a sweet tooth, but what can I say? The scones look good. I think Charleigh might be rubbing off on me.

  I grab my coffee and chocolate scones—yes, two of them—and head for our table.

  “Scones?” Jamie raises his eyebrows. “This is new.” He reaches out to snag one, but I move it just out of his reach as I sit down.

  “That’s cute. You think one of them is for you.”

  He laughs. “You’re just like Charleigh.”

  I raise a brow. “Because we both like scones? Not exactly a groundbreaking similarity.”

  He drinks his coffee, his eyes focusing on me from over the rim. "Okay," he says, setting the mug down. "Point taken."

  I tear off a piece of the pastry and pop it into my mouth.

  “How’s it going between you two now? You’ve still got your head attached, so that seems like a good sign.”

  I take a sip of coffee. With my tastebuds primed for sugar, it tastes more bitter than usual. Maybe I should’ve cut it with some cream. “It’s been going fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “Yep.”

  I take another piece of scone. Damn. These things are good. I don’t know where these things have been my entire life, but I understand Charleigh’s love for them. I wash it down with another drink of coffee, sigh, and then set the mug down.

  “I heard something different from Marissa.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  What is Marissa talking about? And what is Charleigh telling her? Are thing’s not fine between us and I just don’t know it? Shit. I thought we were on steady ground. Over the last few weeks of the renovation, things have been professional and friendly, both of us completely capable of interacting together without ripping each other’s head off. Maybe I’ve had it all wrong.

  “Nothing. I just heard a different story.”

  “A story that you seem reluctant to tell.”

  “It’s not mine to tell.”

  “But it’s yours to bring up?”

  Jamie laughs. “Point taken. I’ll say this.” He leans forward, his shoulders hunched as he slides his forearms against the table. “Things seem to be better than you’re leading me to believe.”

  “That’s news to me.”

  I mean it, too, because Charleigh’s the master of hiding her feelings from me. Unless they’re on the opposite end of the spectrum, then it’s right there in my face. Thankfully, there hasn’t been another blowup like the one I endured for the wall mishap.

  “Alright. I won’t push. You’re holding your cards to your chest. I get it.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not holding any cards to my chest because I don’t have any. Seriously. I don’t know what Marissa told you, but from what I can tell, things are just fine between Charleigh and me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Jamie shrugs and then moves on to a different topic of conversation. “So how’s the renovation going anyway? Everything still on schedule?”

  I chew on my scone while I chew on the previous topic: Charleigh. I want to know what she talked about with Marissa. What am I missing? I swallow it, along with my scone. I’ll deal with it later.

  “Yup. Ahead of schedule, actually.”

  I take out my phone and show him all the progress pictures I've taken since the start, including the ones of me tearing down the load-bearing wall. He's in tears when I tell him my reasoning behind tearing it down.

  “Come on. I don’t watch COPS and think I could be a cop. What in the world—”

  I raise my hand to stop him. “I’ve already heard it all from your sister. I don’t need to hear it from you.”

  Jamie’s cheeks are bright red, puffed up as he tries hard not to laugh again. Thankfully, he takes a sip of his coffee and settles down, and I continue showing him the pictures.

  “It’s incredible how fast they’re moving,” Jamie says as I show him the progress they’ve made on the kitchen and a couple of the bathrooms.

  “Ryder’s got quite the team,” I say.

  “Oh yeah? I didn’t realize Ryder was working on the project.”

  "Yup. Apparently, he's Charleigh's go-to contractor." I take a sip.

  "I bet." There's something about Jamie's tone that's annoying, and that grin on his lips tells me he knows it. "You know he's going to be at the joint bachelor-bachelorette party, right?"

  “Am I supposed to care? Why are you bringing it up?”

  Jamie leans back in his chair. “No reason. Just thought you might want to know.”

  “When is the party again? A few weeks, right?”

  “You realize you’re my best man, right?”

  �
�Yeah, things have been a little hectic lately.”

  And thank God Marissa’s sorority sisters are in charge of planning the party instead of me.

  “Nothing’s as hectic as planning a wedding.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “No worries. Just messing with you.”

  He fills me in on all the wedding planning, from the color scheme to table arrangements and everything else in between. By the time he finishes, I've been done with my coffee for ten minutes.

  He checks his watch. “Shit. I’m late. You ready to head out?”

  “Yup.” I wrap the second scone in a napkin.

  “I knew you wouldn’t finish it.” Jamie reaches out to me, palm up. “Hand it over, Finch.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not for you.”

  If Jamie raised his eyebrows any quicker, they’d have shot right off his face.

  “Well, isn’t that cute.”

  CHARLEIGH

  “Excellent work, Charleigh.”

  Excellent?

  I’m not used to hearing that word come from Christiana’s mouth. Good, fine, okay—sure—but excellent? I’ll take it.

  We're having our weekly one-on-one meeting. Usually, by this point, there's a sinking feeling in my gut, a general sense of dread or despair because my work has just been put under a microscope and dissected bit by bit. Mistakes laid bare. More work added to the pile. But this is different. Excellent? I could get used to this.

  I’ve just finished showing Christiana the progress pictures of Guy’s house, and she loves them. Well, she thinks they’re excellent which is close enough because I don’t think Christiana is capable of loving anything.

  Maybe her cats. Yeah, probably her cats. Angelica (Angel) and Penelope (Penny). Two fluffy white cats featured in EVERY. SINGLE. FRAME. In her office.

  "Ryder should finish installing the new island today, along with the rest of the cabinets."

  “Should be?” Christiana looks at me over her glasses.

  “Will be,” I correct myself.

  Christiana removes her glasses and then leans back in her chair. “Good.”