Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
* * *
Three hours later, Apollo put up another strip of the blue tape, masking off the trim in his bedroom. A fast visit to Dunn-Edwards had yielded a stack of paint sample cards for the girls to play with and two gallons of Golden Nectar, a ridiculously fanciful name for an assertive yellow that went with the equally imaginative Gardenia trim paint. And because he didn’t do anything by half-measures, he’d tossed in a gallon of Starstruck for the master bathroom, intent on replacing the weird mocha-y color he’d never been that fond of anyway. He’d stuck the girls and their paper paint samples in front of a video and got to work.
“What are you doing?” Apollo’s mother appeared in the doorway. “The girls said you’re painting?”
“Yeah.” Apollo refused to look sheepish. True, he wasn’t usually a DIY kind of guy—Neal had insisted on professional painters for the house before they’d moved in, and he’d been content to let Neal handle all decor decisions, but today he had a strange yearning to get his hands dirty. Literally.
“Well.” She came and peered at the row of cans on the floor. “I suppose it’s time, yes?”
She’d always been too perceptive by half. “It’s not a big deal,” Apollo lied.
“You’ll need a new bedspread to match that yellow. Maybe some throw pillows. And those lamps—”
“Are going too,” Apollo said decisively. Once he made up his mind to do a thing, he went all in. In high school, he’d done extra homework in the hopes of securing better recommendations to the naval academy. When his track coach said to run a mile, he’d run two. If the military fitness guidelines said one hundred pushups, he did double. And if he was changing this space, he was changing it. “And I’m moving the bed to the far wall later—”
“Do not stress your back.” His mother rolled up her sleeves, then grabbed a screwdriver to start removing the plates from the light switches. “Call Dustin to help you.”
“Maybe.” Apollo wasn’t about to tell her that he and Dustin weren’t speaking much, Dustin pressuring him to “fix” things with Dylan, Apollo not having the faintest clue how to do that—or if he should.
“And I can order the bedding for you. I know you hate looking at fru-fru stuff.”
“That I do.” Apollo was a bit surprised how readily she was going along with this whim of his. “And I’m doing the bathroom a blue-purple. Maybe some towels to match?”
“My. You’re going to be busy.”
“Busy is good.” Busy meant not thinking about Dylan, not thinking about what he wanted from his future, not thinking of all the hard questions plaguing him these days.
“Pass me that other roll of masking tape?” His mother set down the screwdriver.
“Sure.” He handed it over, but her hand lingered on his.
“You took off your ring to paint?” Her eyes were wide but not unkind.
“Yeah.” Apollo looked away. It had felt weird, taking it off a few minutes ago and putting it in the top drawer of the nightstand, where it looked so small and lost amid the usual clutter of the drawer. He’d snatched it out of the drawer at the last moment, pocketing it. He patted his shorts pocket now. “I’m... I’m not sure...”
“I can get you a ring box,” his mother said as she expertly taped off the light switch. “You could put it in the safe deposit box if you wanted or in—”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for a box,” he admitted. He knew, deep in some fragile recess of his heart, that this was it, the ring wasn’t going back on. But knowing was different from accepting. And he really had no clue what to do next. Safe deposit box sounded so cold and lonely. And clinical, especially coming from his mother. “But you’re not mad—”
“Apollo, paidi mou, why on earth would I be mad about you taking off your ring?”
“You never did.” He moved so his back was to her, so she couldn’t see the sweat beading up on his forehead.
“Oh.” Such a simple syllable but it echoed through the room. “Oh. Apollo, have you been keeping your ring on just because I wear mine?”
“Not entirely.” He sighed, not sure how to explain that there was no map to navigating life post-Neal, but her quiet grace had been his only guidepost for how to grieve. Don’t show the kids your tears. Only say kind things about their father. Tell stories and keep memories alive. Take flowers to the grave every season, and never, ever forget. Wear your ring. Never even think about dating. He’d spent three decades internalizing her silent lessons on widowhood. And so yeah, he’d followed her example because it was so much better than the alternative of floundering.
His mother left the taping to sit on the edge of the bed he’d covered with a drop cloth.