Page 20 of A Fighting Chance
I peer inside his room and…if I’m being honest with myself, I’m curious to know more about him. This is the perfect opportunity for a little investigative work. “All right, but just for a little while,” I say, taking a small step forward into his space.
I’m not sure exactly how long he’s been here, but the space is completely transformed. At least from what I remember about it. He’s painted the walls deep green and the curtains are black. The room is quite large. I recall Nan having a lot of clutter in here before, but he seems to have rectified that. On the wall closest to the door, his bed and two nightstands are neatly spaced. The linens on his bed are light, an interesting contrast to the dark walls and wood of the furniture. The nightstands aren’t cluttered. Simple lamps on both. There’s a book opened and downturned on what I assume is his side of the bed.
Perhaps I interrupted his reading.
On the opposite wall is a fireplace. He’s left the brick alone, careful not to taint the charm of the old house. But he’s installed bookshelves on either side and they overflow with books. From what I can tell, all different kinds, and I walk closer to peer at some of the titles. Some I recognize and others I don’t. In front of the fireplace are two enormous bean bag chairs—the kind that are fluffy and definitely meant for adults.
I look at the chairs and then at him, raising an eyebrow.
“What can I say? I’m a kid at heart,” he says. “Plus, they’re a lot more comfortable than those tall chairs you always see in front of fireplaces.”
I laugh. I have to agree that theydolook very comfortable. “May I?”
He motions for me to help myself, so I carefully attempt to crawl into the center of one of the chairs. These things easily seem big enough for two people each. I cozy down into it and relax, placing my head back and staring up at the ceiling.
“See?” he says, as if to sayI told you so.
But I have to give credit where it’s due. “Definitely, yes.” I exhale a breath. This thing is amazing. I almost don’t even miss my bed in Boston.
He walks over to the fireplace and turns the knob for the gas.
Some years back, my grandparents had converted all the fireplaces to gas, deciding to save themselves the trouble of starting fires the old-fashioned way. With age comes the desire— and merit—for conveniences you never even thought you’d want. Of course, I had always encouraged them to get or do whatever would make life easier for them. Some battles I won, some I lost. Like when I suggested selling the farm. I’ll never make that mistake again. This place isn’t going anywhere.
Gentry comes to sit down in the other chair, but I stick my hand up and say, “Wait. Put a shirt on first, for the love of cheese and crackers,” my voice stern and pleading.
He looks down at his bare chest and rubs his hands over it.
“And don’t do that!” I add.
He laughs louder than I’ve heard him laugh before. It’s deep in his belly, raspy and melodic.
I press my palms against my eyes and shake my head.
He retreats back to his dresser—hands up in a display of mock innocence—where he retrieves a white T-shirt. I watch his back muscles flex as he pulls the shirt over his head, feeling a pang of disappointment when everything is covered up. He turns to me then, and gestures at himself as he crosses the floor and takes a seat in the other bean bag chair.
“Is this better?” he asks.
I nod, not speaking of the war going on inside me or the entire half of me that wants to shout,Hell no! Take it back off!Someone needs to gag the horn-dog inside me and throw her in a closet somewhere.
“I like your room,” I say, wishing to talk about anything other than the amount of clothes he’s now wearing. At this point, I’m willing to ask him what color paint is on his walls, the name of it, and where specifically he bought it.
“Thank you. Don’t get me wrong, the room was fine the way it was before, but Nan and I don’t exactly have the same taste in decor,” he says, grinning.
“You call her Nan, too?” I ask.
He shakes his head and says, “She insisted on it pretty much immediately. I attempted to call her Mrs. Whitney but she didn’t like it. Then I tried for ma’am but she wasn’t having that either—go figure. I even offered to call her by her first name, but she refused.”
This shouldn’t surprise me. I haven’t heard anyone call Nan by her first name other than Paw, pretty much ever. And the only people to call her by her last were strangers. “Ma’am” is something pretty much all the Whitney women despise, and it’s by inherited trait.
I nod my agreement. “Figures. Are you close with them? My grandparents?”
He nods again. “I think so. I hope so. They’ve been very kind and have helped me a lot through some hard times.”
I wonder what kind of hard times he means, or if he’s referring to his previous living arrangement.
Sensing my unasked question, he pushes forward in his story. “In short, I was engaged. It wasn’t long ago actually. Not in the grand picture, anyway. When I spoke to them about it, especially Nan, it was like she shared in my sadness and insisted I moved in here. One, because I needed to find a new place, but also because she assumed I needed to do some healing.”
“And have you?” I ask.