I shouldn’t have done that.

Being myself was the worst thing I could’ve done.

Someone who’s savvy, who remembers her endgame, would’ve declined dinner. She wouldn’t have let the familial warmth cloud her judgment the way I did, but it felt so good to be hugged by Connor’s mom. Watching a smile struggle onto his dad’s face felt like the best gift in the world.

I wasn’t always this frightened, anxious person. I used to be vivacious. That’s what my old boss called me. I had moxie, and I was fun. I created a scene inside the club that made people want to be there, having what I was having because if they had what I was having, they could be as happy as me.

For a little while tonight, I was me again.

We’re in Connor’s truck now, on the way back to my place. We pass through the bigger streets, come to life with the collective exuberance only a Friday night can create. Crowds of people hang out on the stadium-style concrete seats of the amphitheater. Teenagers laugh and playfully shove each other. Families push strollers, and couples hold hands.

Connor must notice me taking it all in, because he says, “We could stop if you want.”

“No,” I say quickly. I’ve been too happy tonight, too carefree. I’m way past the limit of happiness I’m allowed in one day.

“Okay,” Connor says, and I can tell he’s trying to cover the hurt in his voice.

“It’s not you, Connor.” My voice is low. I feel awful.

“Right,” he says, but the word is empty.

We arrive at my house, but I don’t get out right away. There’s so much I want to say and so much I cannot say. I’m searching, trying to find a spot somewhere in the middle where I can land safely. Trouble is, I don’t think that exists.

I turn to look at Connor and find him watching me. His eyes flicker over my face and down to my neck.

“Can I paint you?”

I jump at the sound of his voice. “Why…why would you want to do that?”

He lifts his chin and closes his eyes. “For me to paint, I need to feel certain things. Emotions. I use my hands to communicate those emotions, and when I’m around you, I have enough emotions to carry me through three paintings.”

He opens his eyes and looks at me.

“I guess what I just told you isn’t why. That was my need to paint. I want to paint you because you’re beautiful. I want to make sense of you, and I don’t know how else to do it. You’re a mystery. A question mark in human form.”

“You can paint me.” The words tumble from me, and as I say them, I see how this is the perfect solution to my problem. I can’t tell Connor specifics, but if this will make him happy, help him make sense of me, then I’m a willing participant. I want to be understood.

Connor licks his lips and bobs his head. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon. Is that okay? Do you have plans?”

I give him a derisive look and he chuckles. “I don’t know, maybe you have plans with Walt.”

“Actually, I do. I’m taking him lunch and then I’m going to help him with his backyard.”

Conner’s eyebrows pull together in confusion.

“He has junk everywhere,” I explain. “I can be ready by five.”

“Then I’ll be here at five.”

Small butterflies take flight in my stomach. Connor is going to paint me.

I reach for the door handle. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Connor’s eyes me tentatively. “Can I kiss you goodnight?”

Another thing that’s a bad idea. “Yes,” I answer, ignoring the internal chiding happening in my brain. Will it really hurt anything? Just one more kiss?

I let go of the handle and move over, so I’m closer to the center. Connor takes my face in his hands. Just when I think he’s going to kiss me, he starts talking.

“Don’t attack my mouth like you did before. That was so embarrassing. For you, I mean. Not me. I was the victim—”

I squeal and smack his arm, and then he kisses me. His lips are soft and strong, giving me what I need and taking just as much. I don’t want to stop. Not at all. It’s Connor who pulls back first.

“Brynn, what did I say about attacking me? I swear, it’s like you didn’t hear a thing I said.” He grins playfully.

I narrow my eyes, my breath still coming in pants. “Do you want to paint your big toe tomorrow? Because you might have to. Turns out I might be busy after all.”

Connor snaps his fingers. “That’s it. I’ll paint my toe with your face as the nail.”

My top lip curls. “Ew. Connor, that’s gross.”

He laughs. “Five o’clock, Brynn. Be ready.”

A thought pops into my head. “How should I ‘be ready’ for you to paint me?”

“Just be yourself. Wear a shirt that tells everyone you have an attitude long before you open your mouth and prove it.”

“That’s it. I’m getting out.” This time I not only grab the handle, I actually open the door. “Bye, Connor.”

“Bye, Brynn.”

He waits for me to get inside before he leaves. I laugh to myself as I set my stuff down and plug my phone into the charger. It isn’t until I’m in the shower that I realize what I forgot.

I climb out, cautious. Now that I’ve remembered, the danger feels real. Reaching for a towel, I wrap it around myself, ignoring the drops of water from my wet hair that slide down my bare upper back. I creep down the short hallway and to the front door. Using my foot, I slide the door alarm into place. Next, I go to the back door and double check that one is still in place, and then, for good measure, I look under the bed and check the closet.

My towel loosens, falling down my torso as I sit on the end of the bed and take a deep breath.

One day, I won’t look under beds. I won’t use door alarms. I won’t fear a monster in the distance.

“What the hell is that?”

Walt wrinkles his nose and looks at the package with disdain.

I shake it. “What does it look like?”

He turns his face away from me. “I don’t need those.”

“Yes you do, and badly, too. I can see the hair from here, even though you’ve turned away. They reach out, like tentacles. One day I fear they might be so long they’ll poke my cheek.”

Walt grumbles and takes the nose hair trimmers from my outstretched hand. “Am I supposed to thank you?”

I grin, happy he has accepted them. It was a gamble buying them for him. “I’ll be the one thanking you when you put them to use.”

Walt tosses the plastic container on his kitchen counter. “Are you here to help me or nag me?”

I get up from his small table and go to the door leading to the backyard. “Come on. Did you get those heavy-duty garbage bags?” I dropped by two days ago to give Walt a small shopping list for today’s project.

“I got everything you asked for, and a couple more items.” He points to the side of the house. Containers of brightly colored flowers sit in a row, and beside them are two bags of soil and mulch.

“Flowers?”

“Don’t go getting misty-eyed. I’m still a grumpy old man.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, you can totally be a grump while sitting on your porch and staring at pretty flowers. Let me know how that goes for you.”

The work in Walt’s backyard isn’t easy. He has years of junk piled everywhere. Wooden pallets, plastic five-gallon buckets, various tools strewn about, coils of chicken wire, an abandoned clothesline, and other things for which I have no name.

We’re an hour into sorting when I ask him why he has all this stuff.

“I had plans for it all, I guess. Sometimes, things don’t go the way you think they will. I’m sure you know that by now, but there’s a difference between knowing that, and being on the other side of those unfulfilled plans.” He pokes a foot at the short end of a wooden plank. “This is all just unfulfilled plans.”

“Do you ever think of fulfilling any of these plans?”

He laughs, a harsh and disbelieving sound. “No, Brynn. Not anymore.”

I focus my efforts on filling a bag with wood chips, rusted screws, and other random crap.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re running from?”

My hand freezes inside the bag. Slowly I unfurl my fist and listen to the items clatter as they join the contents. We’ve talked about this briefly once before, but he’s asking again. I can’t blame him. I’d be curious about me too.

“You don’t drive, you don’t go anywhere except the few stores that are a couple streets over. You haven’t made friends except the Vale boy. Who I saw you kiss last night, in case you’re wondering.” He gives me a pointed look. “No, I wasn’t spying. I happen to have a front window and eyes. That’s all.”

Despite my upset, I chuckle.

“You’re doing a job that doesn’t suit you. No offense, and it’s not that you’re not a hard worker, but you’re charismatic. That job doesn’t exactly require personality, which you have in spades.”

“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.” Walt is more than observant. He takes his observations and turns them into conclusions.

He lifts his shoulders and drops them right back down. “I just call it like I see it, and right now, I see you’re dodging my question.”

“It’s hard to explain.” I stand up, dropping the big bag and letting it fall slack against my ankles.

“I’ve found there isn’t much that’s hard to explain. You add one word to another and soon you have a sentence. The hard part is everything the sentence doesn’t say.” Walt slips his hands into his pockets and continues. “When Daisy died, it was easy to think She had cancer and she died. The difficult part was saying the words out loud, for my own ears to hear, because it meant a lot more than those six words. It meant I was alone. That my love was gone. That my reason for waking up had closed her eyes for the last time.”

My heart lurches. I think I would’ve loved Daisy.

Wiping my forehead with the inside of my forearm, I look up at Walt. “We’ve talked about this once already. Something bad happened in Phoenix, and I had a hard time.” I shake my head, thinking of just how hard a time I had. “It became clear I needed to get away for a while. Maybe for forever, and here I am.”

“Are you in trouble?”

I shrug. Possibly yes. Possibly no. I don’t know for certain. The threat of trouble is present, that I know for sure.

“Are you safe?”

“As safe as the next person,” I say, trying to turn it into a joke. In my head, I see Eric Prince’s angry letters, his blunt, capitalized words.

“Alright, I’ll mind my own business. Just let me know if you ever need something.”

I draw in a sudden breath, feigning shock. “Walt, do not tell me I’ve managed to wriggle my way into your heart.”

He flicks out a hand like he’s shooing my words. “Bah. No way. You’re cheap labor and you keep me from having to eat so much cereal.”

“I think you mean I’m free labor,” I tell him, winking.

He laughs, and we work together for another hour. It’s more me working, and Walt arguing about why he needs to hold on to things he can’t remember why he bought.

I leave at four, take a shower, let my hair air-dry, and send an email to Darby, my property manager. Walt’s questions this afternoon made me want to check in with her.

Connor told me to wear my attitude on my chest, so I pick out a shirt that should make him roll his eyes. I wonder if he’ll paint it into the picture. Actually, I wonder what this night will be like at all.