My biggest worry in life is that I’m washed up before I ever made something of myself.

It has been months since I’ve sold a painting.

It has also been months since I’ve painted anything new. I haven’t been inspired, for one, and I’ve been busy. Too busy to pursue my passion. The blank canvas in my living room taunts me every day. I leave it there, leaning on its wooden easel, for a reason. I need something to remind me I can’t give up on my dream, even while I’m keeping someone else’s alive.

It’s a lot to ask of a person. Keeping enough faith for one dream is difficult. Two? Tall order.

It’s early in the morning. The birds have only just begun to sing. Back when all I did was paint, I’d stay up all night—that’s usually when inspiration struck. Now I’m in bed by ten, alarm set for six.

My dad was diagnosed last year. It started with some tremors. He didn’t tell anyone about those, but my mom noticed. She called me crying, and said it was hard for my dad to turn a screwdriver. I wrote it off as age-related arthritis. I think he did, too, because that’s what we wanted it to be.

Then he fell from the ladder while he was on a job. He’d only been on the second step, thank God. He was supposed to be changing a lightbulb in a ceiling fan for Old Lady Linton, and lost his balance. He got off easy with a bruised hip, but it was only the beginning. Eventually came the diagnosis of Parkinson’s Disease. After that, we had to tell him he couldn’t work. Hands down, I’d take a double root canal over having to do that again. Telling my dad he could no longer run his business was the spoken equivalent of delivering a punch to his gut.

The only person who could run Vale Handyman Services? Me. The artist. Who knew next to nothing about fixing things, despite having grown up around tools. I’d never shown an interest in the business, and Dad didn’t push me. To get up to speed, I read books. Home Repair for Dummies and things like that. The first few homes I visited, I sent pictures of the repair to my dad. He’d study the photos, then call me and walk me through it.

I still have to call him from time to time, but mostly I’m good on my own. I expanded the business to include interior painting. Might as well do painting of some kind. I feel better with a brush in my hand, even if I’m not creating art.

Every Monday morning I hop into my truck and head to my parents’ house. This Monday morning is no different. My mom prints out my schedule for the week and I look it over, adding the tools I think I’ll need from Dad’s workshop if they’re not already on my truck.

She sends me off with a thermos of coffee. Dad nods, then thanks me. I hate when he does that. I don’t want him to thank me. I don’t want him to have something for which to thank me. I want my dad back. The way he was before the neurons in his brain started wreaking havoc. I didn’t know how much I liked watching him walk up the driveway with his toolbox until it became an image I’d never see again.

I finish putting the new tools in their spots, and close the toolboxes that line the bed of the truck.

“Connor, honey, hang on a second,” my mom calls, just as I’m climbing into the cab. She makes her way across the yard, to the end of the driveway where I’m parked. She wears a sweater even though it’s May. Always cold. She has a sweet smile and a caretaker’s heart.

“What’s up, Mom?” I close the door, roll down the window, and lean on the window frame.

“Are you doing okay, Connor? You didn’t say much this morning.” She lifts a hand, shielding her eyes from the bright morning sun.

“Just tired,” I tell her. I stayed up late, daring the rush of creativity to come flowing in. It never did.

“Do you want to hang on a second? I can make you a lunch. I have leftover chicken from dinner last night. It will make a good chicken salad sandwich.”

“No, thanks, Mom. I need to get to Old Lady Linton’s. You know how she is.” I give her a knowing look and she laughs, then puts a hand over her mouth because she feels bad for laughing.

“She’s lonely, that’s all.” Mom steps closer to the truck. “Something I imagine you know a little about.”

Lifting my gaze to the ceiling, I take a long, slow breath.

“Don’t get bent out of shape,” she scolds. “It was just an observation.”

I look back at her, remembering she only wants the best for me. A little of my irritation evaporates.

“You know,” she says, smacking my forearm once with her palm. “It might not hurt for you to hire a helper. I have you booked for the next two weeks already. Things are picking up. Getting a lot more business now that it’s summer.” Her lips twitch as though trying to hide a smile, but she’s terrible at it.

“What?” I ask, fiddling with the dial on the radio. It’s not on, but I want something to do with my hands.

“Oh, nothing. Just that a lot of those calls are coming from families with girls home from college. Some for the summer. Some have graduated. You never know—”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” I say, turning on the truck and putting it in reverse.

She takes a step back. “You’ll have to get over her sometime,” she shouts, cupping her hands around her mouth.

“I am over her,” I yell back, reversing into the street.

I drive on through town, and out on Route Four to Old Lady Linton’s.

I sip my coffee, and when I’m not sipping, I’m muttering. Mostly about what my mom said. She doesn’t know anything. It took a long time to get over Desiree, but I did it. It helped that once she left Brighton, she never came back. She called twice, each time she was drunk, crying and carrying on about how hard it was to make it in L.A. She was mistaken, thinking she was going to receive sympathy from me. The second time was eight months ago, and I asked her not to call back. She hasn’t.

I haven’t dated because I haven’t had the desire. By the time I was over Desiree, my dad was diagnosed, and I started working the longest days of my life. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for dating. Not to mention this is a smallish town, and I know nearly everyone who lives here. Mostly, anyway. The people in the summer crowd are strangers to me. Many of them are families, and many of them have college-age daughters. Those girls, paired with Brighton girls coming home from college, are the ones my mother would love to see me going on dates with, but she must think I’m still twenty-two and interested in girls like that.

Every summer they arrive, and every summer they do the same stupid shit. They walk through town, staring down at their phones, and nearly walking into traffic. Or sit in the coffee shops in their tiny shorts and talk loudly. Not that I have anything against tiny shorts. It’s the people filling the shorts that bother me. They are shallow. I don’t think they could ever experience the kind of emotion I feel when I paint. I’m twenty-six years old, and I want someone who feels.

I’m perfectly content with where I am right now. I’d love to paint more, but other than that, I’m fine.

Happy, even.

I’m not lonely.

Not at all.

Old Lady Linton was a handful. She wanted to talk to me about Rufus. How he jumps from his cat stand and hides behind her chair. Of course I needed to see it firsthand, but she couldn’t catch Rufus, so I had to do it for her. Reaching down, I run a fingertip over the new scratch on the back of my hand. Damn cat.

I couldn’t finish the second job I went to, not without a visit to the hardware store. Before that, I need lunch. I need a Cuban, and I need it from Mary. She’s been at the diner for as long as I can remember, and she’s my mom’s best friend.

“Mary,” I call as I walk in, the bell above the door chiming. She’s standing at the long counter, placing two platters of steaming hot food in front of a couple guys.

“The Cuban or the Monte Cristo?” she asks, pouring my iced tea and setting it down at an empty spot.

“Cuban,” I say, tossing my keys down on the Formica countertop and swinging a leg over the circular seat. Mary walks away and sticks a ticket in the window, yelling back to the cook that it’s for me. Saying my name is code for Give him extra fries.

I take a long sip from the tea, drinking all of it in nearly one gulp. Brighton might not be the desert, but it’s still warm here.

Cassidy Anders walks by, her arms full of dishes. She’s a nice girl. Graduated two years after me, but made the mistake of getting involved with a guy from the next town over, and he got her pregnant. Five months in, he left her high and dry, swollen belly and all. Dick. Brooklyn is a sweet kid though.

“Hey, Connor. Working hard today?” Cassidy drops her dishes in a big brown plastic tub and circles the counter, picking up a pitcher of tea on her way.

“Always,” I answer. She refills my cup and I thank her.

“Want to hear some good gossip?” She pushes her bangs from her eyes and laughs softly. “Not that you’d be interested in gossip, but it’s not the bad kind.”

I lean back in my seat and cross my arms, my interest piqued. “I suppose so.”

She sets her elbows on the counter and leans forward. “I got a new neighbor yesterday,” she says, voice lowered. “Ginger went to Europe to sow some oats, and rented out her place. A girl, probably around our age, arrived in a car, but the car left. It left her there. Isn’t that odd?”

“So she doesn’t have a car?”

“No. She arrived in a new town, without a way to get around. I took a pie to her, just to be neighborly, and you know I make one heck of a peach berry pie.”

My stomach grumbles when she mentions her pie. “Uh huh,” I say, and nod Cassidy on.

“This girl was…cold, I guess. That’s the best word I can think of. She wasn’t friendly to Brooklyn.” She gestures with her palms up, showing her consternation. “I mean, who isn’t friendly to Brooklyn?”

I don’t think it’s a question that needs an answer, so I lift my shoulders and let them drop.

“She wasn’t interested in chatting, and getting her name out of her was like pulling teeth. The whole experience struck me as odd.” Cassidy pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and chews on it. “You know—”

“Order up,” yells someone from the kitchen. He has already disappeared from the window, so I can’t see if it was Mutt or Grizzly. Nice names, I know, but the cooks nicknamed themselves.

Cassidy spins around, spies my sandwich, and grabs it. She sets it in front of me, along with a bottle of ketchup. “I’ll let you eat. Just keep an eye out for the new girl in town. I think she’s nice under that layer of spikes, but,” Cassidy pauses, her eyebrows pulled together, “I guess you don’t always know when someone is batshit. And maybe the people who seem like they could be, aren’t.” She throws her hands up and laughs at herself. “I don’t know anymore. I have mom brain.”

“You must,” Mary says, passing through as fast as her considerable, sixty-three-year-old body will carry her. “Table twelve has been out of tea for about five minutes.”

“Crap!” Cassidy grabs the half-full pitcher and hurries away.

Mary rolls her eyes and throws my check down next to my plate. I place my customary twenty on top of the slip of paper, and tuck into the sandwich I would never admit to having dreams about.

The rest of my afternoon is nothing to write home about. A trip to the hardware store, talking an expectant mother out of painting her nursery neon green, and then putting the crib together for her. I didn’t know it, but cribs are really hard to assemble. The pressure of knowing what was going to lay inside it made me go three times slower than I needed to. I only charged her for the hours my mom quoted for the job, but that means now I’m late meeting Anthony.

My best friend won’t care. He’s probably already three deep.

I’m on my way to the bar when I realize how close I am to Cassidy’s street. Curiosity fills me, and I swear it makes me turn the wheel. It’s mid-evening, but thanks to the summer sun the sky is a muted blue, with streaks of deep purple and fading pink. Slowly I pass Cassidy’s small home, then Ginger’s.

It doesn’t look any different. I don’t know why I thought it would, or why I’m curious at all. Stopping at the end of the street, I peer at the house with the black door. Some people say that house is like a body, and the black door is the heart of the old man who lives inside.

Maybe somebody should warn this new girl about the cantankerous old guy living at the end of the street. A young girl should be aware of someone off his rocker. I’ll remind Cassidy the next time I see her.

The street is only a few blocks from where town really gets started, with its maze of shops and restaurants. Warm air pours into my open windows as I start down the main street in the middle of all the action. Bluegrass music drifts in from the amphitheater one block over. Brighton in the summertime is a magical place. Sun-stroked Phoenicians flee the valley, sometimes for just a week, looking for a respite from the oppressive heat. Tonight, even though it’s a Monday night, the sidewalks are crowded with people. The bar where I’m meeting Anthony is at the end of all this, so I continue my crawl through crowded downtown.

A family with young children step into a crosswalk. I slow and wait for them, and return the dad’s wave. When they are through, I let off the brake and lift my jug of water, drinking deeply. I don’t think I had enough water today, and dehydration is a bitch to deal with.

My eyes are on the road. I’m still drinking, but I can see what’s in front of me. There’s nothing but open road, cars parked along the sides, and a green light up ahead.

Suddenly, that’s not all there is.

A girl steps out from behind a parked SUV, and darts into the road. She freezes, staring at my truck, at me. The water drops from my hold as two hands grip the steering wheel, and somewhere in a small part of my awareness I register the water soaking my passenger seat. My foot jams the brake, but there isn’t time. I wrench the wheel right to avoid her, and my front tires jump the curb, ramming right into a fire hydrant.

“Fuck,” I yell, throwing it in park.

The girl is still standing in the middle of the street. I jump out, leaving the door wide open in my haste.

I storm toward her. “Are you out of your mind?” I yell.

Her eyes swing up, meeting my anger. “Yes,” she whispers.

If she yelled back at me, my anger would be increasing. If she’d denied responsibility, I’d be livid, but it’s her eyes, aghast and disbelieving, that stop the white-hot anger I had when I catapulted from my truck.

I come closer until I’m two feet from her. She has blonde hair hidden beneath a baseball cap. Her cheeks are sallow, her eyes red-rimmed—evidence of previous tears.

“Are you okay?” I ask. She’s still standing in the middle of the street, though I guess now I’m in the street too.

“I’m alive,” she answers.

What a weird response. I’m not sure what to say now.

At once, the street fills with light. She blinks up at a shining streetlight, and it’s like the sudden addition of light has awakened her. Despite the ball cap hiding a third of her face, I can see how stunning she is.

She looks past me, to my truck with its front bumper wrapped around the yellow fire hydrant, and her open palm flies to her lips.

“I am so sorry,” she says, walking a wide arc around me and coming to a stop a few feet from the truck. “I…I…don’t know what to say. I’ll pay for the damage.” She shakes her head in disbelief and puts her hands on her hat.

“Don’t worry about it. My friend has an auto body shop. He’ll give me a good price.”

“No.” Her eyes are blue, like deep water, and they churn with a storm. For some reason I think of rough seas, tidal waves, salty spray smacking my face.

“No,” she repeats, stronger this time. “I’m taking responsibility for this. I will pay for the damage, even if your friend gives you a deal. It might take just a little time, though. I need to find a job.”

She purses her lips and looks around at the storefronts, like maybe a Now Hiring sign will magically appear in the window.

I’m aware of the irony. She needs a job. I need help.

I’m probably going to regret this. “Do you know how to use a screwdriver?” I ask.

Her eyes squint with her confusion. “Yes. Why?”

I point back at myself. “I’m hiring. I’m nice, only a little crazy, and I pay cash. Summertime is busy, and I need help.”

She eyes the logo on the side of my truck. Her eyebrows lift. “Vale Handyman Services?” Her tone is skeptical. “I’ll keep looking.”

My muscles tense. She’s one of those holier-than-thou girls home from college. She doesn’t want to ruin her manicure by actually working hard. The baseball cap threw me off, but I should’ve known better. She has the tight jean shorts, a signature part of the uniform. Her white tank top has something written in black Old English lettering, and it takes me a few seconds longer to read it, which is awkward because now it looks like I’m staring at her chest.

“Are you getting a good look?” She crosses her arms in front of herself.

“I was reading your shirt. I’m guessing that’s why you’re wearing a shirt that has words plastered on it. So people will read it.” My tone is snappy, matching hers. I’m not a Neanderthal. I know how to surreptitiously check out women.

She tips her head to the side and smirks. “And what does my shirt say?”

I have to bite my lip to suppress my laughter. “It says ‘Fuck Off.’”

“Uh huh,” she nods.

“Is that what you’re telling me to do?”

She gulps, watching me, and her lips twitch while she blinks a few times. I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind. “Yes,” she says.

A short stream of air leaves my nose. I walk to my truck, lean in the open door, and retrieve a card from the center console.

“Here.” I hold it out to her.

She takes it cautiously, her gaze going over the words. “Connor?” she asks, looking up at me. Her voice is sweeter now, wrapping around my name, like the attitude she had one minute ago never existed.

I nod. “And you are?”

She opens her mouth to speak but hesitates, closing her lips. “Brynn,” she finally says, nodding once as she says it.

“It was nice to meet you, Brynn. Call me if you can’t find a job that lets you take selfies and post them all day.” I keep a straight face, even though her jaw drops. Her eyes are rough waters in an instant, as though all I had to do was snap my fingers.

She gives me a nasty look and stomps past me. For a second, I fear she’s going to reach out a hand and rake her fingernails down the length of my truck. She disappears around the bumper and then I spot her on the sidewalk. She walks quickly, her head ducked.

“Fucking ridiculous,” I mutter, climbing into my truck and slowly peeling it off the fire hydrant and back into the street.

Now there are two crazies for Cassidy to warn her neighbor about.