Fix It Up Page 3

  "The shiplap wall," I qualified.

  "Yes, Brin, the shiplap wall. There's a reason it is popular now."

  "It's overdone."

  "So are crown moldings. But there's a reason for that. People like how they look."

  "It's too dark," I insisted, shaking my head. "This bathroom only has the one window. And it is facing the wrong direction. There isn't enough light in here to be doing browns. It will bring the walls in, make it like a tomb in here."

  "Wood can be painted, Brin."

  That was his condescending tone.

  I hated that possibly more than the You're an idiot smirk he so often gave me.

  "You don't like painting wood, Warren," I shot back in the same tone.

  "If it will get you to make a goddamned decision, I'll paint wood."

  "Fine. I was thinking white for the tile. It's clean. And 'clean' is what you want to think when you go into a bathroom. And then a light gray on the walls. White vanity."

  "And the wood?"

  "One wall. Behind the vanity. Painted white."

  "Fine," he growled, turning away, then storming out of the room and down the stairs.

  "Just a couple more weeks," I told myself, taking a deep breath before following him down. Just a couple more weeks, and I would be done with him, get my final paycheck, and move on.

  Thank God.

  I didn't find him in the kitchen when I went down. In fact, he was nowhere to be found.

  With a head shake at the seeming temper tantrum, I made my way back outside, grumbling at the sun pelting down on me, making my clothes stick more to my back and arms than they already were.

  "Here," he said, popping out of the side of his truck, all but shoving a catalog at me. "Pick one by tomorrow, so I can order this. We need to get this job done already," he informed me before hopping back into his truck, turning it over, and peeling off.

  We need to get this job done already.

  Truer words had never been spoken.

  It wasn't until I got home, stripped out of my sweaty clothes, took a cool shower, redressed, and sat down with the catalog to pick out the tub that my phone rang.

  I jumped at phone calls, always having to remind myself to stop and take a breath, so I didn't sound too eager before I answered.

  "Brinley Spears," I answered in that tone. You know that tone. Everyone who had ever had a job, or called to make a doctor's appointment, knew that tone. The fake version of your own voice - more confident and chipper than you ever actually felt.

  "Mrs. Spears," the woman's voice said. She was using her ultra-important voice. I had gotten good at telling them apart. "This is Rachel Harper. We met a few evenings back at the home improvement store."

  Oh, yes.

  The woman with the gray hair who liked that f-word so much. And not the fun one.

  "Of course," I said, smiling even though she wasn't there to see me. It was a knee-jerk reaction. I'd taken a course with a personal development professional that had us actually practice our business smiles and body language until we got it right. It just stuck. "Were you looking for me to redesign your home - or office - for you?" I asked, hopping up to go toward my room, wanting to get a notepad, and bring up my online planner.

  "Oh, no," she said, sounding confused. And giving me a solid gut-punch. My shoulder slumped, and I'd swear I could feel my feet sinking down lower. I felt like all this professional defeat of mine was actually making me shrink. I was short to begin with, but I felt like I was losing precious centimeters by the month. At this rate, they would be able to classify me as a little person by the end of the year. "I have a much more intriguing offer to make you. At least I think so."

  More intriguing?

  What?

  An entire office building?

  A hotel?

  Those were the kinds of jobs that could make a career!

  Don't do that, I reminded myself. Getting your hopes up never led you to anything good in the past.

  "Really? That's great! What did you have in mind?"

  "Have you ever heard of HITV?"

  Had I ever heard of HITV?

  Seriously?

  Was there a designer anywhere in the world who hadn't? Was there a working designer in any corner of this green Earth that didn't binge-watch it in their spare time, put it on as background noise when they were sketching?

  HITV.

  Home Improvement Television.

  I was addicted to it.

  "Don't you ever get sick of that shit?" Brent had asked one night when I was on the third episode of a show that had neighbors swap houses and redo them for one another. "It'd be like me coming home and watching prison shows."

  I could see the logic there, but I loved it. It helped keep me up-to-date on trends - as though the half-dozen magazines I subscribed to weren't enough - and I found it oddly relaxing. Especially considering that most of my work left me anxious. It was nice to see the more fun sides of things at times.

  "Yes, of course. I watch it to wind down at night," I admitted, getting into my room, dropping down at the foot of my bed to flip open my laptop.

  "Have you ever seen the show Fix It Up?"

  "Which one?" I automatically asked, knowing that there were four of them, each one in a different state. So far, there was Texas, Vermont, Washington, and Florida.

  To that, Rachel let out a small chuckle. "I will take that as a yes. Well, as you likely know, we have recently needed to end the show for Vermont."

  Right.

  Because the couple was divorcing.

  Viciously, if I recall correctly.

  Because of a hooker scandal.

  Juicy stuff.

  Wait... we?

  We?

  My hands never flew so fast over a keyboard in my life. And that counts the decade-long battle between my sister and me - who shared a birthday, just three years apart - to try to beat the other one out to wish them a happy birthday on social media. I'd won four years running.

  Rachel Harper HITV.

  And then there it was.

  Producer.

  Of Fix It Up.

  No way was I actually speaking to a producer on a show for HITV. Just no way. In what universe could that be happening?

  "I think I heard something about that," I remembered to say into her silence, the words sounding choked. Likely because I was pretty sure that my heart had taken up residence in my throat.

  "Well, we figured it would be interesting to do something coastal."

  Coastal.

  Like in New Jersey?

  Where I lived?

  Where I worked?

  Where I had met her?

  "That is a great idea!" I cheered. Too much. Too cheerleadery. I barely sounded like myself.

  "And, well, I want you to come audition."

  Just like that, my heart went out of my throat, shot down my esophagus, and fell right into my stomach.

  "I'm sorry?" I asked, not willing to believe it unless I clarified it.

  That got another laugh from the other end of the phone. "I liked you. And I went home and looked into you. You have a great portfolio. Your social media is on-point. You are young and adventurous, but careful to understand that many things are trends, so you don't focus on them too much. You're fantastic. Just what we're looking for. I have a great feeling about you. So we want you to come in to audition. Just to see how you work in front of a camera and all those little technicalities."

  "I..."

  "Brinny, can I..." Brent started then trailed off as he came into my doorway, and my arm shot up, palm out, in a very 'not now!' gesture that he immediately understood, nodded at, and walked away. He knew better than to be offended by that, even if it was rude. He knew me. He knew that if I had done it, it was important.

  Like, you know, my entire future on the other end of a phone.

  "Oh! Was that your husband?" Rachel asked, sounding almost giddy.

  "My husband?" I asked, brows drawing together.

  "Yes.
Your husband. Warren. The two of you, just fantastic."

  And that was when it hit me.

  Fix It Up was a show about couples. Married couples. Married couples who worked as a team to re-do houses with some light, good-hearted bickering and lots of fun.

  She, of course, didn't just want me.

  Little nobody me.

  She wanted us.

  Me and Warren.

  Because she thought we were married.

  Damnit.

  Damnit damnit damnit.

  I knew better.

  Than to get my hopes up. To think my life could change that dramatically. To believe all my dreams were coming true. That someone would offer me the opportunity of a lifetime.

  "We will need him to come with you, of course."

  "Of course." Why did I even mumble that? When that clearly was never going to happen?

  "I was hoping you two could come down to Cape May on Tuesday? I know, that is such short notice. But we are on a tight schedule." She rattled off an address that my hand wrote down of its own volition. "Around ten a.m.," she added as an odd numbness took over me. "We're so excited to see you!" she added as a parting. I was pretty sure I mumbled something to her, but also just as sure that whatever it was, was not even remotely intelligible.

  "What's wrong?" Brent asked as I moved down the hall into the living room where he was sitting on the couch, immediately knowing something was up. Normally, I'd call it his superpower since when it came to sadness or disappointment, I tried my very best to keep that to myself. But just this once, I knew it was all right there on my face. The crushing, overpowering disappointment that made my shoulders fold forward, made my head hang, my eyes sink.

  It felt like this was it.

  The final straw.

  The one that broke me.

  "I just got a call from someone from HITV," I admitted, hearing the hollowness in my voice. "From the show Fix It Up," I went on. "She wanted me to come in to audition."

  "And you look like someone pissed in your margarita because..." he asked, looking more concerned by the second.

  "Because she wants me to audition. With my husband."

  "I don't..." Brent started to cut me off.

  "Warren. She saw me bickering with Warren in Home Depot. And now she wants us to audition. As a couple. For the opportunity of a lifetime."

  I dropped down on the accent chair I had painstakingly reupholstered myself a few months before, resting my elbows to my knees, and my head in my hands.

  "The opportunity of a lifetime, huh?" he asked, something in his tone breaking through my pit of despair enough to make me raise my head.

  "Yeah," I agreed, swallowing back the bitter taste of my own saliva.

  "Remember when you had that paper senior year, with that teacher who wanted you to write about your single most life-changing, character-building experience that shaped who you are as an individual? And you came to me in a panic because your life had been nothing but tame and predictable. Remember what I said to you?"

  I smiled a bit at that.

  "Lie."

  "Yep. Lie. And you did. You lied your way to an A," he reminded me. "And you can do it again. Lie, Brinny. Lie your way to grab your once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity by the balls. You deserve it. No one deserves it better more than you."

  Could I do that?

  Could I lie about something that big?

  I mean, I'd told my teacher in that paper that my single most life-changing moment had been when my Uncle Winston clung to my hand on his deathbed and begged me to travel the world like he never could. I didn't have an Uncle Winston. In fact, I had no biological uncles at all. And I really never had any ambition to get on a plane in my life.

  But Brent was right; I got an A.

  I even got misty eyes from the teacher.

  Did I feel guilty?

  Sure. A bit.

  But that A was half my grade.

  And something I needed to get into college.

  Sometimes, you had to do what you had to do.

  Even if you didn't necessarily agree with it from a moral standpoint.

  I could lie again.

  If it meant I got what I had always wanted, what I had worked so damn hard for.

  "You're forgetting one thing," I said, my heart doing the lodging in my throat thing again.

  "What?"

  "Warren."

  "That asshole."

  "Yeah, that asshole. Who I'd have to pretend to be married to, to love. In front of hundreds of thousands of people watching."

  "No one is saying you got to do it forever, right?" Brent asked.

  He wasn't wrong.

  Even just one season would completely change my life.

  One season.

  One fake marriage.

  One year of having to put up with Warren Allen Reyes.

  I could do it.

  If it got me everything I wanted in life, I could do it.

  But could he?

  Well, I guess there was only one way to find out, right?

  THREE

  Warren

  I hit ignore on the fifth call from Brin.

  Five.

  In a twenty-minute period.

  All I could think was that I'd managed to piss her off again.

  To be fair, she was easy to piss off. She went from zero to eighty faster than anyone I had ever seen. Try to tell her that, though, and all she does is inform you that, normally, she has a 'pleasant disposition,' and that you must just bring it out of her.

  Hell, maybe I did.

  She hadn't been wrong about some of the things she ragged on me about. I did seem to have a tendency to go with choices that I, personally, enjoyed. Maybe I didn't factor in the clients enough. Or know how to meld two very different preferences between a husband and wife.

  Brinley, yeah, she was good at that.

  I'd give her that.

  Albeit somewhat begrudgingly.

  Why?

  That was a good question.

  We didn't start out on a bad foot per se.

  The client, Rob, had brought me in, knowing of me because a friend of his had used me to build a guest house, so that when his in-laws came to visit, he didn't have to have them in his house questioning him on his finances and how many glasses of scotch he had after dinner.

  His wife, however, had found Brinley through - of all places - her Instagram account because of some convoluted family connection that had her stumbling across it. And they had brought us together to discuss our plans at the house before I started gutting the rooms that needed to be redone while the couple stayed at their condo in the city.

  I'd been leaning on my truck in the drive, always someone to get somewhere twenty minutes early, waiting for her.

  She'd shown up five minutes before we were set to meet, rushing out of a beaten-up red sedan with the windows open, likely implying the AC was busted since it was ninety in the shade.

  Seeing me, she had reached up to swipe at her eyebrows and upper lip, likely thinking I couldn't see as she leaned across to the passenger seat, hauling up a purse that could hold the luggage of a family of four for a weekend getaway, and a large sketchpad.

  Then she'd gotten out.

  My first thoughts were that I was a lucky SOB to get to work beside that for the next few months. She appeared younger than her age, likely because she had the height of your average fifth-grader, but rounded out in the right places - gently curved hips, shapely thighs, and just enough on top to let you know that she was, in fact, all grown. Dressed in dark wash jeans and some airy white shirt, her dark brown hair tucked back, she looked every bit like a dozen designers I had met over the years.

  Except prettier.

  By far.

  Gorgeous, really.

  With her petite features, strong eyebrows that didn't look like they were painted on, and these eyes that jumped back and forth between brown and green depending on the light - and, I'd swear, her mood.

  "You must be Warren,"
she'd greeted, all smiles. It was a weird smile too. Practiced. Polished. Something you saw on politicians and high-profile businessmen. It seemed completely out of place on a young designer coming out of a car that looked almost as old as she was.

  It took all of... twenty minutes for her to decide she hated me. I didn't exactly do anything to curb that either. I had been in a shit mood after getting some news I didn't want to hear.

  We'd gotten off on bad foot.

  Then stayed there.

  Because I was stubborn.

  And she was a hothead.

  There were times I actually caught myself goading her, purposely trying to get a rise out of her. Why? That was a good question. I didn't like arguing. It wasn't in my DNA. I'd come from a long line of people who just let things roll off their backs.

  But this woman, she brought something out of me I didn't know existed. A competitive streak, I guess you could call it. A need to prove myself.

  Maybe it came from her own drive. This woman was hungry.

  I remember those days, back when I was barely more than a kid, in the woodshop with my grandfather, learning about different woods, tools, how to create something lasting, something to be proud of. I had wanted his approval so badly, to show him what I was capable. I would get up earlier than him - which was saying something since he woke with the sun - and practiced, tried to get better, tried to impress him with something I had finally learned to accomplish.

  I understood her, what pushed her to be as big a pain in the ass as she could often be. Because she believed in herself, and what she knew she could accomplish if given the chance.

  I had a feeling she didn't get a lot of those.

  Chances.

  Because there was a certain desperation underneath her drive, something I didn't think anyone else could see. Maybe because no one else pushed her like I did, made her defend herself, put her off her game.

  I'd checked her out one night after a particularly heated battle over - of all things - the cabinet doors, wanting to know where she was coming from, if she was a one-trick pony, and that was why she was coming at me so hard to bend to her will.

  But she wasn't.

  Her website and social media were an assortment of varied talents and tastes. She seemed to update with a set of three new projects at least once a week. Good ones too. Ones that took time and thought and showed skill.