I Can Fix That

Prologue

GRANT

Today marked a year since the worst day of my life. An entire year. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five days.

I had spent the last year with my head down, focused on work entirely, and shut the world out around me completely. I did anything and everything to keep busy and distract myself from the tortuous scene that constantly played on repeat in my mind.

Some days were easier than others. I could manage it most days, as long as I could keep my hands busy with my latest house project. However, the holidays, birthdays, and special occasions made my stomach churn like the day my life had been turned upside down.

I wandered down the aisles of Cooper’s Hardware Store. The scent of fresh-cut lumber and sawdust whiffed through my nose. The smell brought back memories of working in new construction on hot summer days, sweating from sunrise till sundown. My shapeless, well-worn boots smacked against the cracked concrete flooring of the store, kicking up dust in my stride.

I walked in circles and passed by the light fixtures at least twice. I pulled off my ratty Braves cap and ran a hand through my long hair. I typically kept a short buzz and neatly trimmed scruff. However, I stopped caring about my appearance lately.It wasn’t like I had anyone to impress here anyway.

Come on, Grant. Why did you come in here?

My thoughts were drowned out by the sound of an angle-grinder cutting sheet metal in the back of the store. I stopped in the middle of the aisle so I could focus. I ticked items off today’s long, never-ending list of things to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.

Paint the trim at the Madden house.

Replace the gutters for Mrs. Thelma.

Repair dishwasher in the Main St. apartment.

The sound of two kids squealing as they ran past me shook me back to the present.

I had lost track of time, and I was ready to collapse on my uncomfortably new brown suede couch and drink myself to sleep for the night. If I kept this up, it’d be midnight by the time I got out of here. My mind was all over the place today, and I wasn’t sure if I’d have enough brainpower left to get the supplies I needed.

Just grab the things you need, dumbass, and drag your miserable self home.

The teenage kid with long black hair and a nose ring larger than my thumb stood at the register, staring at me without blinking. He had to see me wandering these aisles repeatedly, but who was he to judge me? He looked like he had just walked off the set of American Idol auditions.

“Is there anything I can help find for you, sir?” He asked, his voice a thin, squeaky version of a whisper.

“No,” I snapped, harsher than I meant to. But, instead of apologizing like the old me would have done, I just kept walking straight ahead. I was a grown adult man, and I didn’t need help from some kid. I redirected myself to the correct aisle. I kept my gaze on the appliances aisle ahead and strode forward with purpose as if I didn’t have any burdens lying over my head.

They said the five stages of grief were denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Was it possible to feel the first four all at once? To hold memories so dear that you replay them repeatedly like a broken record; then take that record and smash it against a wall, so you forget every note. I knew there was no way I could keep this lifestyle up. I needed a new distraction—a new hobby. Hell, maybe I needed a miracle. I collected myself and made my way to the paint aisle when I heard a soft voice grunting.

“Ugh. Come on.” The voice got louder the closer I got to my destination. I reached the end of the aisle covered in cans of paint, stain, and brushes. In the middle of the paint aisle stood a short brunette woman, reaching for a stain off the top shelf on the tips of her toes. Her petite frame stretched out, her short arms attempting to grab the small can. Her heart-shaped face and high cheekbones were strained in her stretched position. She had her bottom lip tucked into her straight teeth, and her eyes were squinting.

I felt the need to scoff at her outfit: bright pink shorts and a white shirt with dinosaur fossils on it that said, “First Grade Rocks.” Was she a teacher? When she came back down to her soles, I took a closer glance at her. She had to be a foot shorter than me, and she looked as though I could lift her with my pinky finger. Her long, free-flowing brown hair was loosely tied back with a white ribbon.

I looked around the opposite aisles for a worker, but this late at night, there were only a couple of employees, and I didn’t want to get that kid upfront. I thought about helping her; my height advantage would undoubtedly make it easy for me to grab for the stain. But I kind of enjoyed watching this petite lady try her hardest to reach the top shelf.

“All right. That’s it.”

It became apparent she had no idea I stood at the end of the aisle, watching her. She placed her hands on the ledge in front of her and began climbing the shelves. She had her foot on the tops of paint cans, and the metal rack creaked as she lifted her weight onto it. She couldn’t have weighed much, but the old, stocked shelves could barely hold the supplies placed on them.

The brunette huffed and stomped her foot like a child when she got back to the ground. She stepped a couple of feet back and looked up at the stain, then looked back down and nodded to herself.

Grabbing a paint can, she placed it on the ground. And then another on top of that one. And another. She made herself a leaning tower of paint cans, and I had to credit her for being resourceful. She climbed on the paint cans and grabbed the stain. She smiled at it and hopped back to the level ground.

“Ha! I knew I would get you.” She talked to a can, and here I thought I had been crazy.

I felt guilty that I never offered to help, but honestly, I enjoyed her little show. I could use anything to distract me from where my mind was five minutes previously. She placed each can in the correct spot and began walking my way. I tried to keep walking or turn around so she wouldn’t see me, but it was too late. Her eyes locked on me. Crap.

Her thick eyelashes fluttered, her hazel eyes staring into mine; I found myself being pulled into her. Her mouth shaped an ‘o’ and then quirked into a tilted, pink-painted smile.

I was about to speak, ready to make some sarcastic comment about her climbing skills. Or maybe something about her weird shirt. But something stopped me. My voice was caught in my throat, and I felt an urge to strain it just to speak to her.