Guy Hater: A Romantic Comedy Page 9

  I push away from the table, knocking my chair into the table behind me, and hightail it out of Common Grounds. I spend the next couple of minutes pacing back and forth down a side street while talking to myself out loud like a crazy person.

  I can’t believe what happened in there. I’ve never felt so awkward or embarrassed in my life. Well, now that I think about it, I can remember another time: the time I tried to dye my hair, which led to Guy dubbing me Chargrilled Charleigh. It’s hard to ignore the common theme.

  After a few more minutes and many concerned stares from several passersby, I walk back to Common Grounds. Guy's still sitting in the same position when I return. I assumed he'd have a shit-eating grin on his face, but instead, his face is impassive if not a little concerned. I sit back down as Guy scoots a few inches away to give me a little more room.

  “I’m sorry if I made you nervous.”

  “It’s not you,” I say reflexively, even though it totally is him. “It’s been a long day.”

  “It’s not even 9 a.m.”

  “I know.”

  He snorts and then motions to the screen. “Pretend I’m not here.”

  I take a deep breath and restart my presentation. Thankfully, I run through it without a hitch. It was a little slow in the beginning, but after a while, I was so completely focused on my design that I hardly noticed Guy next to me except when I paused for an occasional breath. That damned body wash is unrelenting.

  “I feel if we add too many modern updates, then it will lose the warmth and rustic charm. The space doesn’t beg for clean lines and edges. It wants natural flaws and imperfections. It craves jagged stones and earth tones.”

  “That last one rhymed.”

  “Is that all you got out of that?” It comes out sharper than I would have liked, but after spending the last half hour or so spilling my heart and soul out to Guy, I’d like something a little more constructive than a comment on unintentional wordplay.

  “Easy, Charleigh. I love the design.”

  I feel a wave of relief crash over me. I’d spent so much time preparing the design, and I’m so glad that he likes it. It’s nothing like the design Lana had made for him. I haven’t seen Andrea’s but I know she prefers more flashy designs that just wouldn’t appeal to Guy. He’s a down-to-earth, no frills, meat-and-potatoes kind of man.

  “It’s much more in line with what I envisioned the project to be. It’s an ambitious project, but I don’t think I’d want to do this unless I was behind it one hundred percent.”

  “Are you?”

  He smiles and my stomach leaps. “Where do I sign?”

  I reach over my laptop and snag the papers Guy ignored, rip the top sheet off, and hand it to him. “I just need you to sign here and make a note of any changes you have.”

  “No changes for me,” Guy says, clicking his pen. “It looks perfect.”

  I try hard not to smile too widely as I watch Guy sign on the dotted line.

  “It’s not your official contract. I still need to get the seal of approval from Christiana. Then, if she has any changes or suggestions, I’ll run them by you and we’ll finalize the design together.”

  “What’s the timeframe? Do you think we can get started now?”

  Guy takes another sip from his coffee. He shakes the cup—empty—and then sets it back down. Without skipping a beat, he snatches my half-eaten scone off my napkin and takes a huge bite. My emotions are in a delicate balance between ecstatic and enraged. He’s lucky that I had half of it earlier.

  “Another week at the earliest, but that would be pushing it. There’s still a lot of legwork that needs to be done. Drawing up the contract. Scheduling contractors. Ordering everything.”

  “Fine, but I get to help with the demolition.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  It’s a snap reaction, but I don’t want him to mess up my first project. Handing Guy Finch a sledgehammer? That’s career suicide, and I’m not going to risk this project collapsing in on itself before it starts.

  “Andrea thought it would’ve been a good idea.”

  "Yeah, well, Andrea thinks that dog nail salons are God's gift to humanity. You're not going to help with the demo. I can't risk anything going wrong with this project."

  Guy leans forward. “Charleigh. I’m going to help with the demo. There’s no room to negotiate here. It’s my house. My reno. My decision. You can either get behind that or I can talk with Christiana and put Andrea in charge while still using your design.”

  He wouldn’t.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Guy glances at his watch. "My shift starts in fifteen minutes," he says, standing up in front the table. "I suggest you reconsider."

  I study his face for a few moments, wondering why he’s so stubborn. “Why are you…” A pause. “The way…” I tilt my head as I narrow my eyes.“That you are?”

  Guy presses his eyebrows together as they rise. “What?”

  “You could have Andrea take my spot. You could have her use my design. But I promise you one thing—Andrea won’t know how to implement it. She doesn’t understand the house the way I do. She doesn’t understand you the way that I do.”

  Guy bends over, encroaching into my space again, and making it way too hard to breathe. But with the anger building inside me, I’m having no problems pushing it right back onto him.

  “You think you know me,” Guy whispers, “but you really have no clue.”

  His warm breath covers my ear and trails down my neck. He pulls back and just before he turns, I say, “You might have everyone fooled, but you haven’t fooled me. I see through you. I see the person you’re hiding underneath. You’re the same person. You haven’t changed a bit. You’ve just gotten better at hiding.”

  Guy shakes his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  He walks to the front of Common Grounds without another word or glance back at me. The door slams shut behind him, and it takes more than a few minutes for me to take my eyes off it and leave the table.

  It’s going to take a miracle for me to get through this renovation intact.

  13

  Guy

  Thump! Crack!

  Wood splits as I force the crowbar between the boards, pushing and pulling backward. Dust billows from behind the wall as I continue to pry boards. After a couple minutes, I step back, remove my goggles, and admire my work.

  It’s a thing of beauty.

  Well over a week has passed since I signed off on Charleigh’s plan. Since then, this entire project has been moving at a snail’s pace. It feels even slower because each time I ask Charleigh for an update, she gives me very little in the way of information. Our last conversation on the phone pushed me over the edge.

  “When are we going to get this demo going?’

  “I’m still working on scheduling the contractors.”

  “I’m ready to go. Let’s do this.”

  “Christiana said you can help with the demo, but I need an actual contractor to make sure you don’t tear down your house.”

  “So, you think I need a babysitter?”

  “Well… I don’t know about that…but yes. Exactly that.”

  “I’ve seen enough Fixer Upper to know what I’m doing.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “So no ETA?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  What did she expect? Charleigh knows I’m not one to wait around. And after coming home to this empty house week after week without any headway, you bet I’m going to take it into my own hands. So after a particularly inspiring HGTV night at Deanna’s, I dropped by the home improvement store for supplies and got to work.

  Cabinets? Gone. Countertops? Puh-lease. It was so easy to demolish most of the kitchen that I moved on to one of the bathrooms. Anything attached to a wall is on the floor. It’s amazing what you can do with a sledgehammer, a crowbar, and pent-up aggression.

  After a few hours of work, I finally started on the wall we’
ll be removing to open the kitchen into the great room. It was a bit of an undertaking, but I’d seen Chip Gaines do it enough times that it came naturally to me.

  As I’m standing in front of the wall admiring my work, I feel like a king or some military hero after a long, bloody battle. The type of scene you’d expect Napoleon to commission as a painting to commemorate his victory. But instead of my foes under my feet and a sword in my hand, I’m standing atop a large pile of debris with my trusty sledgehammer at my side.

  And to think Charleigh wanted an entire crew to demolish this wall.

  Which reminds me…

  Guy: Which wall are we demolishing again?

  I wait a few minutes for a response, but my phone’s silent. I check the time. It’s late so she’s probably in bed by now. Although, now that I think about it, I’m not sure if she’d respond if she were awake. I wipe the sweat off my brow as I look once more at the partially removed wall. It’s not exactly a thing of beauty—splintered wood and exposed wiring abound—but I can’t help but feel an enormous sense of satisfaction.

  It’s not done yet, but I decide it was enough work for the day. I’m hauling out debris to my trash area when my phone dings from the kitchen.

  Charleigh: The one in the kitchen, next to the great room.

  That’s a relief because there was a moment there when I thought I’d started taking down the wrong wall. That would’ve been another awkward conversation.

  Guy: Good.

  Charleigh: What do you mean by “good?”

  Charleigh: Guy…

  Charleigh: GUYYYYY!!!!!

  2 Missed Calls.

  1 Voicemail.

  Charleigh: I need you to tell me that you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.

  Charleigh: Guy!

  I take a sip of water, watching as more texts pile up. I can feel the slow pull of my lips into a smile as I imagine Charleigh, red-faced and frustrated as she sits on her bed in PJs hammering away on her phone. I remove my goggles, toss my gloves to the ground, and then take a selfie of myself standing in front of an untouched section of wall.

  Charleigh: Why are you so sweaty?

  Guy: Just finished an intensive workout. Good night.

  My phone dings a few more times, but I don’t have the energy to deal with Charleigh right now. As I head upstairs, the only thing I’m thinking about is a cold shower and bed. I may be sleeping on a cot, but it’s going to feel like heaven after a night like this.

  After weeks of stagnation, things are finally moving forward. The contractor will be coming out early next week, and in the meantime, Charleigh and I are finalizing some of the materials. But to be honest, it's a bit overwhelming. She's been texting me nonstop for the past hour. I've seen so many pictures of color swatches and backsplashes and granite and stone and fixtures that everything is blurring together. Thank God Maddox is taking the lead on our shift today because it feels like I'm about to go cross-eyed.

  Guy: Why don’t you pick your favorites and I’ll look them over.

  Charleigh: These are my favorites. That’s what I’m doing.

  Guy: I think you misunderstand the definition of favorites. Just look at the granite. There’s at least four of them that look exactly the same. I might as well flip a coin.

  Charleigh: Can’t you see the different banding? The color differences in the striations? THEY ARE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.

  “What’s so funny?” Maddox sets down the speed gun on his lap and cranes his neck to look at my phone.

  “Nada,” I say, putting my phone to sleep as I force myself to stop grinning. Although it’s difficult dealing with Charleigh right now, I can’t help but get some enjoyment at her getting just as frustrated with me.

  “Bullshit, lemme see. Shit’s so boring right now. I’m about to pull someone over for going a couple miles over the speed limit.”

  "No, you're not. That would mean paperwork. And you already have a backlog of it."

  “Not if I give them a warning.” Maddox flashes a shit-eating grin at me.

  I snort, shaking my head. “You’re not pulling anyone over out of boredom.”

  Maddox bangs his head against the headrest repeatedly.

  “You begged me to let you hold the speed gun, Maddox. And drive. So do it and quit being such a baby about it.”

  Maddox glares at me for a moment but then grabs the speed gun off his lap and resumes business as usual, which consists of a lot of groans, sighs, and muttered curses.

  “I didn’t beg,” he says a few seconds later, aiming the speed gun toward the intermittent traffic. This stretch of highway is always slow at this time of day, which is why I’m letting Maddox take the lead while I’m dealing with Charleigh.

  Guy: I’ll take your word for it.

  Charleigh: If you’d actually come with me to these stores, you’d be able to see the difference.

  Guy: Schedule your visits outside my work hours and I’ll come.

  Charleigh invited me to join her today, but I couldn't because of my shift. I'm sure she scheduled it this way so she wouldn't have to be near me. After our last in-person interaction ended in not-so-veiled threats, I don't blame her. Although relations between us have been delicate, I think we're finally making a little headway.

  But then there's that small detail of me starting the demo without her. I still haven't told her, and I'm not exactly looking forward to that conversation.

  Charleigh: Tomorrow morning?

  Guy: I’m off Saturday. Why don’t we do it before our lunch with everyone?

  Charleigh: Okay. I’ll meet you at your place and we can head out from there.

  Guy: Why don’t we just meet at the granite store?

  Charleigh: Because we aren’t going to just the granite warehouse.

  Charleigh: We need to look at tile and paint and trim and stain and so so so much more.

  Charleigh: It makes more sense if we drive together because I don’t want to keep giving you directions.

  Oh lord. I didn’t think it would be this involved. Oh well, it will give me a nice break from my demo project.

  Guy: Alright, my place is fine then.

  I suppose she'll have to see my handiwork sometime. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with. It won't be so bad. I saved her countless man-hours of work, not to mention money.

  Guy: Think you’ll be able to handle being in an enclosed space with me?

  Charleigh: I’ll make sure to keep my breakfast light. Wouldn’t want it to come up and make a mess of your fancy interior.

  Guy: Har har. I’m still driving Jonah.

  Charleigh: That thing is still running?

  Guy: Jonah would take offense to that. But yes. He’s running just fine.

  I’ve had the same Tacoma for over a decade. It was my first car. My parents bought it for me when I got my learner’s permit. Over the years I’ve taken better care of my car than I have of myself. While I skipped out on regular physicals and exams, never going to the doctor unless I was on the verge of death, I made sure Jonah the Tacoma stuck to a regular maintenance schedule. Routine oil changes. Tire rotations. Fluids. Car washes too, of course. Anything and everything to make sure he’s running like the day I got him.

  Although I could easily afford a new car, I'm not going to let him go until I have to. He's one of the last vestiges of my parents that still remain. The more I think about it, I think I'll let him retire into the garage.

  “Fuck yeah! Let’s do this.” Maddox tosses the speed gun at me and then flips the sirens on. I’m nearly thrown into him as he peels out of the shaded area we’re parked in and screeches down the highway.

  “This shithead thinks he can go five miles over on my highway? Get out of here.”

  “Five miles over,” I repeat, rubbing my eyelids after finally buckling in. These are exactly the kinds of stops I didn’t want to make, but with Maddox in the driver’s seat, I’m at his mercy. Just this once. Because that seat will be mine before the end of this stop. My
phone buzzes one last time before Maddox pulls behind the black Camry in front of us.

  Charleigh: We’re taking Franny because I don’t want to die.

  Guy: Franny’s just as old.

  Charleigh texts again, but I don't have a chance to look at it. Maddox has the Camry stopped and is about to leap into action.

  “Let’s do this,” Maddox yells after clapping his hands.

  I groan, wondering what in the world I did in my past life to get a partner like Maddox.

  You know those moments when you have absolute clarity? It’s like the whole world dissolves around you as a singular thought comes into focus. It’s happening to me right now. I’m lying on my back on a bench, my elbows locked while I extend my arms in front of me as I try my best not to let the over 200 pounds of metal come crashing down on my chest.

  The only thought in my head is this: This was a terrible idea.

  I’m in the middle of my last set of bench presses, struggling to eke out the last reps. Maddox talked me into going with him to the gym. I tried to decline because my muscles were already exhausted from spending most of my nights at my house doing demo work. But he wouldn’t stop whining about it for most of our shift. Eventually, I relented. Whatever. It’s just one workout.

  It’s easy to think that when you’re not holding 225 pounds over your head. I finish the second to last rep and move on to the next. Maddox is trying to motivate me in his own way, but being called a pussy or a little bitch isn’t exactly helping right now.

  “Oh fuck,” Maddox says as I’m struggling to push out the last rep.

  "Little. Help?" I cough. I sputter. I can feel pressure building in my face and neck as I strain myself. I've stalled out, which is a typical signal to a spotter that you need assistance. But Maddox isn't your typical spotter, or human being for that matter, but that's a whole other conversation. Right now his eyes are focused on something in front of him and not on the hundreds of pounds of steel that gravity is pulling down on my chest.