Page 35 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess
Stupidhot.
I could be focusing on any number of things as I finish up with her tire—like my black market problem, or the fact that our maintenance team needs a swift kick in the rear—but no; for some reason I’m just stuck on the fact that she thinks I’m “stupid hot.”
It’s not a term I’ve ever used before, or one that I could ever see myself saying, but coming from her…I didn’t hate it.
Not because I like her or anything, because I don’t. Or at least, I shouldn’t. She’s too…something. Not wild, necessarily, or uncivilized, because those words don’t quite fit, but I’m used to cultured, well-mannered women. Not women who stomp around wearing their hearts on their sleeves, telling me exactly what they think of me.
Of course, one could argue I haven’t had the best luck with these cultured, well-mannered women. One could also argue that there’s something appealing about Maya’s brand of chaos; she’s vivid and authentic andrealin a way I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before—
I shake my head, stopping those thoughts in their tracks. They’re silly and pointless. But it is flattering that someone as stunningly beautiful as Maya has anything positive to say about my appearance. I’ll just take it for the compliment it is and move on. I don’t have time for beautiful distractions, anyway. Not when some whacko is running around selling unauthorized medication to my tenants.
Yeah. That. I’ll focus on that. Not on what my disconcertingly attractive neighbor thinks about me.
I stand up, stretching my legs and giving them a few shakes to get the blood flowing again. Her new tire is in place; it should be fine until she can get to the shop and buy another. My mind flits unbidden to the image of her crouching there in the rain, her knuckles white as she grips the lug wrench, trying with all her might to loosen the lug nuts—and I notice an unpleasant squirm of guilt somewhere around my navel.
Because a new picture of her is emerging—slowly, gradually, but undeniably. She’s soft in her own way, yes, but that’s merely an outer layer—a swath of gauzy fabric draped over pure, undiluted force of will and a spine of steel. This is a woman who’s happy to bend and sway in the breeze but who will never, everbreak.
The contradiction is…intriguing. Maybe even awe-inspiring, if I were the kind of person who used such phrases.
And I might have been too quick to judge her.
When she asked if I could help with her tire, when she batted those dark eyes at me, all I could think about was my mother, and Val, and how they would do the same thing. They’d simper and look pouty to get someone else—namelyme—to do the hard work, just so they wouldn’t have to. And I thought that’s what Maya was doing too, but it seems pretty clear now that she just had absolutely no idea how to change a tire and genuinely needed help.
I can grudgingly admit I’m impressed with her desire to learn, so that she can do things herself.
Still, after this memory, I’m left with a sour taste in my mouth.
Because what else have I misjudged about Maya Ellis?
* * *
The restof the weekend passes in a blur. Somehow I eat every single one of Maya’s crunchy cookies, even though I’m not a big cookie person. I also hear Archer screaming and crying through our shared wall, and I try to remember that this is just something babies do, but it doesn’t help me feel any happier about being woken up at one or three or four.
When Monday rolls around, I head into the office bright and early. I’m the first one here, and I like it that way. Something about the quiet and the emptiness gives me a chance to breathe before everything starts up.
Once I’ve gotten myself settled and situated, I pull up Maya’s tenant profile. I wish I could say she only just popped into my mind, but the unfortunate truth is that she’s been in my thoughts all weekend. For some reason I still can’t banish the image of her struggling with that lug wrench. Every time I think I’ve got her pegged, I end up being wrong. It’s not a great feeling.
Typing her number into my phone, I then start a text with details about the wedding we’ll be going to.
Me:Hey, Maya, this is your neighbor, Dex.
But no—that’s stupid. She knows who I am. I delete it and start over.
Me:Hey, Maya, how’s it going?
No again. I’m not looking to chit chat. I want to be friendly, but nottoofriendly. I hit the delete button more aggressively than is probably necessary.
Me:Hey, Maya, I hope your tire is doing—
Delete.
Me:The wedding will take place—
Delete.
I groan with frustration. This is dumb. I’m being dumb. Why do I even care what she thinks of my texting skills? I don’t. I don’t at all.
Me:Hi, Maya, this is Dex. I wanted to give you the details about the wedding. It’s next weekend and takes place in Crystal River, about two hours away. We’ll drive up early Friday morning, and the wedding and reception will be Saturday afternoon/evening. We’ll come home Sunday morning. Is that all right?
