“I could help fill the nail holes?” I offer. I don’t know what all that entails, but it doesn’t sound too difficult.
“If you want, sure.” He shrugs. “It’s tedious but not hard.”
“I can deal with tedious. I’ll change, and then you can show me what I need to do.”
“Sounds good.” He grabs another board, and I head to my closet.
I grab a pair of yoga shorts and a tank top—which seem like a reasonable outfit to wear for filling nail holes. I can’t imagine it being an exceptionally dirty job. Not like painting walls.
I shove a towel in the hole where the doorknob will be so I can change. I check my reflection, apply extra deodorant, and resist the urge to dab perfume behind my ears; otherwise it means the bugs will eat me alive later. I learned that the hard way the first time I came to visit Van.
I wait until Aaron has finished nailing the board he’s working on before I interrupt again. “Okay. Ready to be put to work.” I clasp my hands behind my back so I’m not tempted to fidget.
He sets his nail gun down facing the wall and heads for his toolbox. He produces a small container, what looks like a metal spatula, and a rag.
“Come on over, and I’ll show you what you need to do.” He pats the floor beside him, and I drop down and cross my legs.
He rests one knee on the pad and opens the container, explains how to fill the hole, and lets me try a few times, giving me pointers and explaining that we’ll give it a light sand after it’s dry, followed by a finish coat of paint.
He nails the final baseboards and starts filling holes on the other end of the wall. Now that he’s no longer using a nail gun, I don’t have to shout to ask him questions.
“How did you get into this?” I ask.
“Construction?”
“Mmm, and working with the Stitches.”
“I always had jobs working with my hands growing up. I’m not big on sitting behind a desk.” He shifts his knee pad over and moves a couple of feet in my direction.
“Did you go to school for it? Is that how you knew it was what you wanted to do?” I’m fishing for information. Trying to fill in the missing pieces from what I’ve learned this morning.
“I went to college, but not for this.”
“Oh? What did you go for? Did you realize it wasn’t for you?” I ask, thinking I’m going to find out why he dropped out in his final semester.
“I got in over my head. What about you? Did you go to college?”
I’m not surprised he’s deflecting and decide not to push, since this is the first time we’ve had a conversation where he hasn’t seemed put out by the fact that he has to talk to me. “Yup. Sure did. I took business administration and public relations.”
“You have two degrees?” He seems mildly surprised by this.
“I double majored.”
“Seems like a lot of work.”
“I have insomnia, so I don’t sleep much. It kept me occupied instead of staring at the ceiling all night, wishing my brain would shut off.” That and I couldn’t decide which degree would be the better option, so I did both at the same time.
He looks my way, and for a few seconds his expression is pensive. “So why are you here working all these odd jobs at random places?”
“The abridged version is that I didn’t like my job and I wanted a fresh start, and to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.”
“Seems a bit like an existential crisis. What’s the unabridged version of that story?”
“You don’t want to hear it. That’s what therapists get paid for.” I haven’t been to see one since I was a little girl. My dad took me a few times after Mom died, but I didn’t like it, and he didn’t want to force me to go.
“I’ll listen to your woes for muffins,” Aaron offers with a grin.
I chuckle and shuffle across the floor. I’m close enough to Aaron that I can smell his deodorant and the faint salty scent of sweat. His jaw is covered in a dusting of scruff, as if he couldn’t be bothered to shave over the last couple of days.
“I don’t know that muffins would be adequate payment.”
“Why not? You seem like you’ve got it pretty together. What made you decide to leave the city and live here?”
“My dad’s girlfriend moved in with him last week, and until Sunday, I lived with him.”
He stops filling holes to look at me. “You two don’t get along, you and this girlfriend?”
“It’s not that. She’s nice, and I think she’s great for my dad. He’s been alone for a long time, ever since my mom died. I can’t even remember him trying to date or get over her. I don’t know how much you know about my family or our situation, but he spent a lot of years burying his grief and putting our family in a lot of debt.”