To Have and to Hate

Still nothing.

“And I did intend on cleaning everything up before you got home.”

“You rearranged my furniture,” he points out, sounding as if he’s in disbelief.

Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about that fact.

“Right. Yes. Well, that was so I could have a better view of the painting, and like I said, I was going to put it all back.”

“How did you manage to move that coffee table? There’s no way you could have done it by yourself. It’s extremely heavy.”

“Oh, I just pushed really hard.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

I think of poor Terrell, and my voice carries even more conviction when I reply again. “I’m stronger than I look.”

He hums under his breath as if he still doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t press the issue.

“I’ll pay for a new rug. I’m not sure it’s salvageable now. Even before, I doubt we could have fixed the rip.”

“The rip?”

Oh god. Good going, Elizabeth. He hadn’t noticed that yet.

“Yes…well…when I moved the coffee table…”

I point to the damage and he turns to follow my finger, pausing his work.

Every nerve ending in my body is on high alert. I’m beyond worried for how he’s going to react. In fact, I’m slightly scared. I watch the back of his head, taking in the smooth dark hair, the precise line of contrast between his skin and the back of his shirt. I wish I could see his face as he says, “It was an accident.”

I’m stunned into silence.

He’s giving me the benefit of the doubt? I must have heard him wrong.

“Yes, but I still ruined it. I’d like to repay you for it.”

“An accident is an accident, and besides, insurance will cover it.”

“Even still, I’d like you to tell me what it cost and I’ll cut you a check. That’s fair in my opinion.”

Without pause, he says the number, and I blink, blink, blink, trying to determine how someone could spend that much money on something they put their feet on. Slowly, I look down, my mouth agape.

Then, I leap off the thing, horrified by what I’ve done.

“Are you serious?!”

“That’s why it’s insured,” he says, pushing to stand and reminding me of our differences, not only in size, but in age, and refinement, and personality. “Anyway, the plate and food are cleaned up now. Gather the rest of your things and wash those cuts soon or they could get infected.”

Then he leaves with the cleaning supplies, and I don’t see him again for the rest of the night. I do my part in straightening up the rest of the room, but I can’t reposition the furniture on my own. Not unless I want to cause even more damage.

When I wake up the next day and tiptoe out of my guest room, the apartment is empty. Walt is already gone. I poke my head into the library, shocked to see he has already removed the ruined rug and repositioned the furniture so that it’s nice and neat, but not in the exact arrangement from before. In fact, the couches and the coffee table have been moved back from the fireplace to make room for a small unassuming square table and chair. Underneath both, he’s laid down a large clear plastic mat like the ones people slide underneath their desk chairs in offices. Here, it will function to protect his parquet floors from further damage.

There’s no accompanying note or list of directives, but it’s clear to me that he’s still allowing me the use of his library even after yesterday.

I stay in there again all day, trying to keep myself carefully relegated to the table he’s provided. At first, I succeed. For all of five minutes. But people work in art studios for a reason. I need room to work, space to spread out my sketches and pencils and pastels. I have to be able to see all of my work at once because I’m trying to narrow down my favorite concepts so I can translate them to small canvases. That’s what I’ll take with me to pitch to art galleries.

Later that night, just as I’m hitting a stride with one of my sketches—having trudged through the “I’m talentless” valley and come up the other side onto the “This is actually good” peak—I feel Walt’s presence in the doorway.

The hairs on the back of my neck go up and I continue working, or at least I try to, my fingers faltering slightly, less adept at holding a pastel than they were mere seconds ago.

This time, I don’t apologize about the state of the room. I’ll pick up after myself just as I did last night. And hey, I haven’t permanently damaged any of his property today, so that’s a win in my book.

I’m not sure how long he stays there, watching me sketch. At some point, I forget to be self-conscious and return my focus to my art. I lose track of time again so much so that when I finally remember to look back toward the doorway, he’s gone.