Page 49 of Really Truly Yours

This quiet spell, unusual even for my dull life, is the perfect time to pull out my latest project. Writing can be a such a release.

Or it can be an insurmountable chore when my mood isn’t right.

Still, I open my current work in progress, which might be the death of me. Mind blank, I stare at the flashing cursor, its hopeful flicker pleading with me to move it forward. It’s been rooted to that spot for days now.

I’m fooling myself, aren’t I? Thinking that a girl like me, with a high school diploma and a few community college classes could ever be published. Authors are smart people, educated people. Special people.

I sigh, curling onto the sofa. Mineral Springs is the wrong climate for dreams to grow.

The sound of a car door pulls me to the living room window. An older model pickup with a blue and white logo on the door is in Donny’s driveway, and a man with thinning gray hair eyes the place like he’s a doctor deciding if the patient is worth saving.

He meanders around back, reemerging several minutes later with a phone to his ear. He paces, then hangs up and climbs in his truck and sits. Half an hour later, Grayson’s Range Rover parks along the curb.

My breath catches. Grayson’s long stride is smooth and athletic. He’s cap-free, his hair is tamed, and he looks like he spent time in wardrobe this morning. He’s in dress slacks and a pressed button-down. All the way from here, the sparkle and glare from a giant ring on his right hand is nearly blinding. Using that hand, he removes the aviators and tucks them into his shirt pocket.

Laughing at something the man says, he slaps the guy on the back and leads him around to the rear of the house. The newcomer points as they go.

Ten minutes later, the contractor leaves.

So does Grayson, without a single glance to the Sydnee-side of the street.

I snatch a tissue and blow my nose and dab my eyes. Pesky allergies.

The only question the episode answers is whether Grayson is still working on Donny’s behalf. I worried he might have changed his mind again, especially if Donny started pushing buttons. I love the guy, but I admit, he doesn’t always know when to lay off.

Tuesday bright and early, the pounding of hammers wakes me up. The guy in the older truck has returned to Donny’s and he has another man with him this time.

I scramble two eggs and cut up an apple, then watch them rip shingles off and sail them to the ground. They pry off the decking and disassemble all the old rafters, or whatever those support things are called. By afternoon, there’s lumber hauled in and serious labor commences.

I sure wish these guys could spread some of their magic over here.

A little after three o’clock, my message alert goes off. My heartbeat stutters.

Grayson: Are you still talking to me?

My brain and my fingers freeze up. Am I? Even I have to acknowledge Grayson made the situation right, the way he got eyelevel and humbled himself.

Me: If I have to

I’m kidding, but the long pause tips off socially inept me that without context or body language he can’t know that. I fire off an eyeroll emoji to complete the transaction.

Not much better. I tack on a thumbs up.

I faceplant with my palm, and not the little texty kind. A real one. Was a simple yes too complicated?

Grayson: Donny misses you

Me: I miss him too

Grayson: pick you up in an hour? we’ll go for a visit

My brain’s kneejerk reaction is to belabor the decision. My finger hovers over the n, the first letter of my favorite two-letter word.

My finger misfires, and a pair of turned up thumbs enter the cosmos in its stead.

∞∞∞

Doesn’t Grayson know that if he tells a woman an hour, he should be there in one hour or even slightly longer? There is no such thing as fashionably early when you’re picking a woman up.