Better Than Home: Better Than Good Novella

I had a bad feeling about inviting her while we were in the middle of renovating. “She’ll be in the way and she’ll complain about…everything.”

Aaron disagreed. “Maybe, but she’ll also get to see it at its worst so when we’re done, she’ll be wowed. Plus, if my mom makes a comment five years from now about remembering how awful the bathrooms were before we retiled them, your mother will be offended that she didn’t see them, and I’ll be the one who gets the cold shoulder. So for my sake, grin and bear it. You never know, Matty…this might not be so bad.”

To be honest, it wasn’t awful. But…she couldn’t help herself.

“I hope you’re painting the exterior. That’s a very unwelcoming shade of beige.”

“Yeah, Mom. We are,” I replied, ushering her inside the house.

Mom dropped her carry-on bag on the floor in the living room and set her hands on her hips.

I studied her as she cast a critical gaze around the space. She’d turned sixty last year and she looked amazing. She was fit and trim, wore minimal makeup, dressed conservatively, and had an understated elegance that most women worked hard to attain.

When I was little, I’d thought my mom was the most beautiful woman in the world. I still did, but she wasn’t easy anymore. She could be ruthlessly judgmental about the strangest things.

I found myself holding my breath, hoping for the best when she finally spoke.

“This is…nice. Bigger than I’d thought it would be,” Mom commented cryptically.

She pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear as she wandered to the bank of windows and stepped onto the deck, releasing a hum of approval before turning to check out the kitchen.

I leaned against the wall dividing the living area and kitchen, listening as Aaron highlighted the changes we’d made so far and the items still on our to-do list.

“The tile and cabinet re-do are in progress. And of course, we need to paint.” Aaron pulled out a tile sample from a small box on the counter and a paint swatch, then set them side by side. “What do you think of this combo?”

Mom ran her finger along the edge of the new quartz countertop and picked up the tile. “It’s rather plain. I don’t love it. Do you?”

And here we go.

A weekend of this was going to be a fucking riot.

I raised my hand like an overly eager kid in a classroom. “I do. I love it. What’s not to love? We spent a lot of money on that plain shiny tile.”

My mother tsked. Actually tsked. “Budgeting is so important, boys.”

Aaron flashed an amused half smile my way that clearly said, “Gee, I wonder where you get it.”

“We know, Mom,” I grumbled.

“We’re doing well on that front,” Aaron piped in, sounding a million times more patient than I was. “But I think the key to making the tile pop is paint…and we could really use your help there.”

Mom pursed her lips as if trying to contain a satisfied grin. “I’d be more than happy to help.”

“Excellent.” Aaron beamed and motioned for her to follow him. “Come this way. I’ll show you the bedrooms, then we can go paint shopping.”

Okay…so, I was wrong. Aaron’s idea to include my mom in the design process was a good one.

By the end of the weekend, she’d claimed to love the house, the location, and all of our remodel plans. She even warmed up to the plain kitchen tile and admitted she was impressed with…everything.

For some reason, her acceptance and obvious pride felt significant to me. I’d thought I’d outgrown the need for parental approval, but you know…it was nice. Really nice.

A couple of weeks later, the house was finally coming together.

The floors were finished, the deck was sanded, and the garden wasn’t a scary jungle. The tile company and cabinet maker had work to do, though…and we still needed to paint.

I set my briefcase on the floor in the foyer, inhaling the “new home” scent as I rolled up the sleeves on my oxford shirt and moved into the living room.

“Hey, honey, I’m home,” I called, sitcom-style.

The last of the early evening sunlight dappled through the open window leading to the outdoor deck. The sound of chirping cicadas drifted on the summer breeze along with the hum of a lawnmower. A single lawnmower. That was it. No sirens, no horns, no buzz of a conversation amid the endless city cacophony. Just quiet.

I fucking loved it. More than I ever thought I would.

“I’m here, Matty.” Aaron spread his arms wide and twirled on the gleaming light hardwood floors. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“Gorgeous. Yes. You’re gorgeous.” I pulled him to me, nuzzling his neck, and stealing a kiss.

He beamed, laughing as he pointed out the RuPaul T-shirt and skimpy ripped jean shorts he’d been painting in. “Thanks, but I’m tragic at the moment. That molding, however, is perfection. And check out this floor…dreamy!”