I’ve spent the last few days working like a madman, sunup to well past sundown. The only breaks I’ve taken have been to force myself to the gym for intense but abbreviated heavy workouts, throwing weights up and letting them slam to the ground in a misguided attempt to let off some steam. I’m trying to keep my mind busy, and it at least serves as a temporary distraction. I’m not sure what is going on in my head, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face it either, so I’m just gonna avoid that train wreck and work myself to death.

Cassie’s called me twice this week, trying to get together, and I’ve told her that I needed to get some stuff done on her house because materials are being delivered and I have to be ready, plus, I have another job that needs some attention too. She offered to come help, but I was a bit of a shit and said I could do it faster alone. The obvious truth is that I just need some space because I’m freaking the fuck out. It makes me feel like a total asshole, not being honest that I need a moment to get my damn head right. I mean, I know her history. She’s probably thinking I’m just like those assholes who ran out on her mom. I swear I’m not, but I just need to think!

So here I’ve been, working myself to the bone, not going home until ten or later every night. The results are clear, though. The house looks fantastic, if I do say so myself. The texture dried quickly in the summer heat, and while it set, I was able to do the floors. Cassie ordered a rich deep chocolate brown stain for the floors, which went on beautifully before I applied a sealing coat of poly.

I questioned her on her idea for wood floors in the bedrooms, but she said people would put down rugs by the beds for toasty morning toes. Those were her exact words, “toasty morning toes,” and at the time, I laughed at her. But I miss her silly ways of saying things.

Fuck, man. Stop it . . . focus. That wasn’t the deal, remember?

Today, I’m painting the upstairs bedrooms and supervising the crew I hired to come fix the porch. While I probably could have done the job myself, it needs to meet codes for listing, and the amount of wood and the lengths involved were a lot for me to handle on my own. With the need to bed the posts in concrete foundations, it was easier to outsource the job, and it gets this project closer to the finish line. Besides, I know these guys and I know they will do the job right.

I work through the entire morning, and in mid-afternoon, I stop to eat lunch, double-checking my work as I inhale my third peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The dove grey color looks as great as Cassie predicted, giving a softness and warmth to the rooms the bare white didn’t have. She teased me about the paint too, saying she was gonna go hit up John at Home Depot to see what he recommended because she was certain he’d have some interesting ideas in that orange apron of his.

Thankfully, though, in the end, she went to the specialty paint store I strongly recommended. But the tone is just right, and it compliments the entire motif of the house, lots of blacks and whites, with the grays acting less like depressing tones but more like light that’ll catch the sun coming through the open windows to soften them. There are also enough little details that add to a general tone of calm cheer that the house looks like it’ll have an aura of peaceful warmth and splendor, if the owners can furnish it right.

As I wander through the rooms, I hear a car door close out front and the porch crew guys talking to someone. Wondering who it might be, I head downstairs and to the front door, freezing when I see Cassie.

Shit. Just be cool. It’s only Cassie. We’re just friends.

Just a friend? A friend you’ve seen naked more times than I can count and know just how and where she likes to be touched. Face it, idiot. She’s got what you need, and you say she’s just a friend.

Cassie sees me through the open door and smiles, lifting her hand in a wave. Coming through the door, she ignores the work crew and beelines right to me. “Hey, Caleb. What’s going on, stranger?”

She goes to hug me, but it’s awkward when I don’t hug her back, just giving her shoulder a little pat. She gives me an odd look and I try to explain. “Paint . . . not sure if it’s all dry. I don’t want to get you dirty.”

Cassie steps back with a teasing smirk on her cute, bow-shaped lips, and I feel myself more torn than ever. “You sure didn’t mind getting me dirty before.”

She’s joking around, trying to banter like before, but my heart’s not in it right now. Instead, I shrug, trying to find something to say that doesn’t make me look like an asshole or an idiot. Sadly, I fail miserably.

“Yeah, uh . . . good one.” Gesturing to the back of the house, I ignore the questioning look from Cassie and start talking. “Come here and let me show you something. As you can see, I got the wood floors all stained and a coat of poly on them. They say you don’t even need to wax them, so that’ll be nice. Oh, and yesterday, I got the floor tiles done in the bathrooms. I’ve been painting this morning—the upstairs bedrooms—and by the end of today, I’ll have the hall done too. Tomorrow, I’ll either start the bathrooms or the kitchen, depending on the delivery today. Bathroom stuff is here, but the cabinet fixtures are set for this afternoon, and if I can get those in, I’d prefer to do that. So if they get here early enough, I’ll focus on that.” I’m rambling, talking about stuff she already knows. Hell, she sent me the delivery dates on the materials. After all, she put all the orders on Oliver’s company credit card.

But I don’t know what else to say. I just need to get us back to before somehow. I want to go back to where I can look at Cassie and just see my friend, the girl who sure is hot as fuck with a body that has pleased me like nobody else. But it’s really her heart and smile that warm me, make me want to be her friend, and more . . . wait, fuck.

Cassie looks at me for a moment, finally speaking up. “Sounds good, I guess. Got everything you need? Need any help with paint? I’m pretty much a Picasso when it comes to painting, or we could split it up . . . you roll and I’ll do the trim?”

Trim? When she says it, all I can think of is how it would feel to take her upstairs and check on her trim. My hands start shaking, and I shake my head quickly, hoping that I can get this over with before I make any more of an ass out of myself. “Nah, it’s okay. I know you’re busy. I’ve got it under control. That’s what I get paid for, after all.” I know I sound dismissive, and the air surrounding us feels uneasy, awkward with tension and I know it’s my fault.

“Mmmhmm,” Cassie says quietly before clearing her throat. “But this is my project.”

I don’t have a reply, the weight in the room dragging down, but after a moment, she shrugs. “Okay. Well, I’ll get out of your way then.”

She turns around and adjusts her bag strap on her shoulder, almost as if she’s waiting for me to say something. At the bedroom door, she stops before walking out, pausing and looking back at me. Her voice sounds strained, and I can see her eyes glistening. I won’t allow myself to say that they’re tears. “Hey, Caleb? I want you to know that it’s okay if you’re swimming. I get it, but I still want to be friends.”

Before I can reply, she walks out. I hear her holler goodbye to the porch guys, and as she pulls away, I can hear them trash-talking about how hot she is, and it pisses me off so badly that I want to go out on the porch and bust every single one of their disrespectful asses right in the mouth. But I don’t have any right to be mad and I know it, so I turn my radio full-blast and take my frustration out on the bedroom walls, covering them with the ugliest fucking grey paint I’ve ever seen.

Metallica’s Unforgiven serenades me as I wonder what the hell’s wrong with me. Not that the paint has any answers.