Fix It Up Read online

  Which was insane, of course.

  That was how it was.

  She wasn't into me.

  I wasn't into her.

  It was all a sham.

  "We could stop lying."

  "And lose the job and money and respect? Our careers would never recover."

  "Not what I meant. I meant... we can make it a not-fake marriage."

  Brin wasn't one for speechlessness, but she was in that moment, frozen after the words came out of me, lips parted, brows drawn together, eyes unblinking, but avid, whipping around from one thought to another.

  "You can't be serious."

  "Why not? Who cares? It's just a piece of paper."

  "It is not just a piece of paper," she shot back, surprising me.

  I didn't know a whole hell of a lot of people my age who idealized marriage anymore. It was a contract. It made things like mortgages and bank accounts and having children and visiting at the hospital easier. That was all.

  I guess I didn't realize that some people did still see it as something to aspire to, something to cherish and hope for.

  "It's a smart solution, Brin," I tried again, keeping my tone reasonable. "We will have the papers, so you can relax a little because it isn't a lie anymore. Not legally anyway. And then we can just annul it as soon as the show is done."

  Her head turned away from me at that, watching the shoreline as we passed, the flawless sand that was combed every night after dark doted with endless bits of color - towels, umbrellas, coolers, blow-up pools for babies, tents, and bathing suits. With my window cracked, I could hear the distant shrill sound of a lifeguard whistle as someone went out of bounds.

  "It's still a lie," she said a long minute later, voice as airy as the wind blowing through her hair, making it dance wildly around her head.

  "But there would be no legal issues. That has to be a big part of it for you."

  I felt it too, and I wasn't quite as prone to worry as she seemed to be. There was this small hollow spot in my gut that I became acutely aware of when I felt eyes pinning us too hard while we were talking, working side-by-side, analyzing every move we made, every voice inflection.

  We could be found out.

  And all would be lost.

  This could help that.

  "No," she said as we stopped at a light, still watching out the window, eyes taking in the smiling kids coming out of the arcade, hands clutching new goodies they got, or the ones more inclined toward delayed gratification holding cups almost overflowing with tickets.

  "Why not?" I asked, exhaling, feeling tense suddenly myself.

  Her head turned, those eyes of hers more green with some emotion I didn't know well enough to recognize. "Because marriage means something to me. If it happens for me, I want it to be real. I want a love story and a man on his knee and a ring on my finger that says he wants me forever. I don't want to cheapen that, to cheat myself out of that. Not even for this."

  The light turned, but I paused, giving her a second of eye-contact. "I get that," I agreed, nodding, before focusing on driving again.

  "I know it is the easiest solution," she went on to add as I turned down our street. "And we would both breathe a little easier because of it. I am willing to pretend, but I can't sign my name on a marriage certificate without meaning it."

  "Alright," I agreed, parking the car, cutting the engine. "I get it."

  And I did.

  But it didn't mean I liked it.

  It meant more tension. For me, sure, but more so for her. Which was only going to make the bickering escalate.

  But we had to do what we had to do.

  For her future.

  For mine.

  It was almost three weeks later, three weeks of some grating arguments over the plans until we both finally agreed on something that was a mix of modern and the Victorian bones she loved.

  A crew had been brought in, bigger than the ones that actually got to be on camera. I guess that was something most people didn't get to see. It looked like it was just us and a team of four or five people doing all the work. But it was dozens of people. Electricians and plumbers, bricklayers, window installers, guys to deal with the lifting of the house off its foundation, roofers.

  It was a revolving door of people whenever the cameras cut for the day, having gotten just enough footage of each step of the process, and the occasional shot of me and Brin fucking around. It wasn't easy. To get her to lighten up enough. I was half-worried when I tried that she would just snap at me, but she seemed to pick up on the need for levity as well, occasionally instigating herself, hiding my tool belt, hand painting my hard hat with cheesy as hell lovey-dovey words and hearts and flowers... then making me wear it.

  That afternoon, she had walked back on set after doing a small filming session at a local flea market to find buried treasures to upcycle for the house to hear Britney Spears blasting like her own personal theme music, making her full-stop mid-stride, looking over at me, shaking her head, then lowering her gaze to the floor when a fit of giggles seemed to overtake her.

  Normally, she wasn't a giggling kind of chick.

  "You have no idea how that has haunted me," she admitted as she walked into the kitchen that was mostly done save for the installation of the appliances.

  "What?" I asked, watching as she reached up to push some of her wayward hair behind her ear.

  "The Britney Spears/Brinley Spears thing. The kids at school were relentless. In my parents' defense, she was not a thing until I was like... eight or something like that."

  "How'd the hunt go?" I asked, watching as she ran her hand along the countertop she had initially railed against, but clearly changed her mind about.

  "Ugh. Flea markets used to be full of gems. The past few I have been to have been like garage sales full of the stuff everyone has clogging up their basements that they - and no one else - wanted. I did find a nice vintage piece of oval glass. I was wondering if you could make a frame for it. It's not perfect. Has some age to it. But it would be cool aesthetically."

  "Yeah, I can manage that," I agreed, nodding. "They are pretty much done filming today. They just want some shots of me moving in the appliances. We can take a break after that if you want. You still haven't even been to the beach yet."

  "Yes, I was."

  "Walking there to pick up a jar of sand for a craft project doesn't count," I shot back, shaking my head.

  "The show isn't out yet. I need to keep my Instagram relevant."

  Work.

  That was all this woman thought about.

  I wondered - not for the first time - when she last just... was a person. Did things she enjoyed. Bummed around. Let her mind leave work where it belonged.

  I probably wouldn't be wrong to imagine it hadn't been since she started her own business.

  "We've been here over a month, Brin. You are going night and day. You need a break before you burn out. It's not like you'll get a break between jobs."

  We were actually on a ridiculously tight schedule. That was why the crew was so crazy. They wanted us to get half of the houses - and therefore episodes - done within four months, so they could start airing in the early winter when the ratings were apparently better.

  Rachel told us just this morning that we would be doing the tour of the next house just two days from now, whether this house was done or not.

  Once they know the plans, you can leave the work to the crew.

  It was logical to think that, of course. But it also wasn't how I worked. I was always right there alongside my men, sweating, cursing, getting cuts and bruises, putting some pride into my work.

  It chafed that she thought I could sign my name on something that I didn't have a hand in creating.

  "I'll be fine," she assured me, but even she didn't sound quite as certain as she usually did.

  "Take the night off, Brin. Go see the town. Or watch the sun go down on the pier. Or just hang out and watch mindless TV. But you need to give yourself a break now and then."


  "Okay," she mumbled, not making eye-contact.

  "Did you actually just agree to take the night off?" I asked, sure I had misheard her.

  "I have a heat headache," she told me, turning back, making me see it for the first time, the smallness to her eyes, the way her brows were low and drawn together like the sounds upstairs were wearing on her, making me wonder how I had missed it before. "I could use some Excedrin and a lukewarm bath."

  "Here," I said, fishing out my keys, pressing them into her palm, letting my hand linger there for a second, aware that Andy was on the set today, and his eagle eyes always seemed to be looking for something to be amiss. "It's not that far. I can walk back later."

  "You're going to let me drive your truck?" she asked, a mix of surprised, suspicious, and excited. "You never let me drive your truck."

  "Don't make me regret it," I suggested, smiling a bit when she rolled her eyes at me.

  "I'm a good driver."

  "Of that little clown car of yours. I don't know if you can even see over the wheel of my truck."

  "I'm not that short!"

  "Babe, you are," I shot back, chuckling as she slitted her eyes at me before walking off.

  I didn't expect to see her again as I stayed behind, wanting to put some extra hours in, wanting to put my mark on this place. The crew actually left before I did. I put up the crown molding in the master bedroom, installed the bathroom vanity.

  It was well after dark when I heard a voice from a floor below.

  And not just any voice.

  Brinley's voice.

  And she was pissed.

  Not just agitated as she often was with me and the fact that we so rarely saw eye-to-eye.

  But pissed.

  "Shit," I sighed, wiping a hand across my forehead, and taking a deep breath before moving down the beautifully restored stairs that I was sad to say I had no hand at all in.

  I didn't intend as I went down there for things to take the turn they suddenly did.

  And maybe a part of me knew that there would be no going back.

  SEVEN

  Brinley

  Warren was right.

  Those were not words I liked thinking.

  But in this case, they were fitting.

  I needed a break.

  I was running on empty.

  Had been for weeks.

  The headache had come up on me as I walked down the flea market, pretending to be excited, trying to play it up for the camera that followed me, all the while a jackhammer had decided to take up residence behind my eyes, slamming away until the sun made it hurt worse, until even just the low hum of the car radio on the way back set my teeth on edge. The pain had moved down my jaw and neck until my entire head felt it, until it was all I could really focus on.

  And it was just proof that I was pushing it too hard.

  I didn't like admitting I had limits, that I wasn't some automaton that could just keep going no matter what.

  But if I couldn't take the sounds of the work site without them bringing on a wave of nausea from the pain, then it was time to take up Warren on his offer, take the truck, head home, and relax for a change.

  That was what I did, downing some headache medicine with coffee for an added boost, drinking some water, then climbing into the tub in a darkened room until the pain finally, finally started to ease away.

  I called home, talking to my mom and dad, realizing I hadn't heard their voices in weeks, that I had been so wrapped up in myself that I had forgotten to check in on them. The stab of guilt was immediate as I hung up with them and called all my siblings. Then, finally, Brent.

  "How's that asshole?" he asked as soon as we exchanged greetings.

  "Maybe he's not as big an asshole as I originally thought," I admitted. "We bump heads a lot about plans for the house still..."

  "But?" he prompted.

  "But we have... I don't know, managed to separate work and home life."

  "Home life," he said in a gruff grumble. "That sounds... cozy."

  "Ew. No," I immediately scoffed. "It's not like that. At all."

  "You're sharing a bed."

  "With a pillow barrier!"

  "Mhmm."

  "Stop," I demanded, looking inside the fridge for something to cook.

  We had been doing a lot of eating out, or just grabbing sandwiches on the set. On the rare occasion that we did eat at home, Warren was the one cooking.

  I oddly felt like I owed him dinner.

  For recognizing I needed a break.

  For insisting I take one.

  For being nice.

  Plus, he seemed to be working late.

  And if the crew was gone, there would be no one to bring in more food. He had to be hungry. I figured I would make him something, then bring it to him. If he was ready to call it a day, he could come back with me. Or I could leave the truck with him, and do the walk myself.

  "Come on. You're trying to convince me that you're sharing a job, a house, and a bed, and there hasn't been even a hint of something more."

  "I don't have to convince you of anything since that is exactly how it is. Just coworkers and roomies. We have sort of gotten used to each other now. It's just easier. Hence the lack of bitching. We get home pretty late. We usually just eat, shower, and head to bed."

  "The same bed."

  "Yes, Brent. The same bed," I said, rolling my eyes even though he couldn't see me as I tossed some chopped meat into a skillet to cook through. Tacos, it seemed, was what we had the ingredients for. I didn't care that it was one-hundred degrees out. There was never a bad time for tacos.

  "Don't roll your eyes at me," he said, knowing me far too well.

  "Then don't be ridiculous. We're professionals."

  "Even professionals need to fuck sometimes, Brin," he said in his annoyingly superior voice. "And it's been, what, for you? A year? I don't even remember the last time you had a date with a guy."

  "That doesn't mean I plan to jump him," I countered, stirring in taco seasoning and water before chopping up lettuce and tomatoes.

  "Even late at night. In bed. When he..."

  "Not even then," I cut him off, mostly because the words were actually conjuring up the image of him in bed, without his shirt as he always was.

  Usually, he was up before me, but one morning last week, I had gotten woken up by a stress dream in the early hours of the morning, the sun just casting soft yellow hues across the room, making it all dreamy and almost romantic as I lifted my head from the barrier that - no matter how I tried to prevent it - I always ended up sprawled all over, to see him still beside me.

  Asleep, his features were softer. There was no cocky set to his brows, no condescending smirks, no eyes that were silently telling me I was being a pain in the ass.

  He was five days late for a shave, the scruff adding to his good looks, as it almost always did.

  Which was incredibly unfair if you asked me.

  My eyes had trailed down his neck to his chest, finding it bare as it always was, the muscles firm even at rest. Then, lower, taking in the deep indents of his abdominal muscles, noticing for the first time the delicious sharp V shape of his Adonis belt, disappearing down into the waistband of his lightweight black pajama pants. There was a light, wispy trail of hair disappearing there as well. Happy trail. That was an apt name if you asked me.

  And the strangest ideas moved through me at that moment.

  I want to see more.

  I want to run my tongue down those lines.

  Absurd, of course.

  I didn't actually want that. Not when I was awake and aware. When he was as well. Nope.

  So it wasn't a lie, what I told Brent.

  Somehow, though, it felt like one. Or maybe even a half-lie. But a half-lie amongst the oldest of friends was just as bad as a full one in my book.

  Lying.

  I was getting too used to it.

  Too good at it.

  I didn't like that about myself.

&nbs
p; It's just for a year, I reminded myself, as I found myself doing many times a day when I felt like I hit my wall, like I couldn't take it anymore, like I couldn't fake another smile.

  As soon as the year was up, I could go back to being fully myself. Only faking smiles for clients. Only lying when it would hurt you to tell the truth - like when my sister with a somewhat oblong face decided to get a severe pixie cut that just didn't work on all levels.

  Hell, we were already pretty much done with our part on one house.

  They were actually bringing in two people to work on decorating the house how I wanted it.

  Which felt weird.

  But we had to follow the rules they set.

  Like it or not.

  So we had one house down, fifteen to go.

  Apparently, the next one wasn't quite as damaged, would be quicker. We'd see about that in the morning, I guess.

  "It wouldn't be a bad thing, y'know," Brent said, snapping me out of my swirling thoughts as I laid down several tortillas, and started layering them with ingredients.

  "What wouldn't be a bad thing?"

  "If you were into him."

  "What? Ew. Yes, it would be."

  "Why though?"

  "This? Coming from the man who refers to him as That asshole?"

  "Just 'cause he's an asshole doesn't mean you can't be into him. Besides, it sounds like he's softened up a bit since you started cohabitating. I guess you haven't broken out the glitter yet."

  "You totally miss the glitter," I told him. "I need to send you a glitter bomb."

  "No."

  "A penis glitter bomb," I specified, having once looked into it as a prank when he got me good on April Fools Day a few years back. I never got up the nerve to do it to him though. "Little tiny glitter penises all over you."

  "You suck," he declared, but I could hear a smile in his voice. "But I miss having you around. The place is so quiet."

  "Is that some crack about how I can never shut up?"

  "Maybe."

  I smiled at that, rolling the tacos that somehow became burritos since I wasn't paying attention in tinfoil. "I miss you too," I told him, smiling. "But I have to go have dinner. I promise I will check in more often. I've been a sucky friend."