Page 19 of The Man I Hate

“It’s just…I don’t know…” I stammered. I lowered my head and pinched my eyes shut tight. After squeezing out the remnant of a tear, I looked up. “It’s just…it’s hard. His tools are in the garage, but…I don’t know if…” I gave a half-assed shrug. “I don’t want to see the car.”

He scooped the nuts and washers from my hand. “Please.” He moved aside. “Come in.”

I stepped inside his bright and beautifully decorated home.

“Let me grab a few tools,” he said, turning away. “I’ll be right back.”

The open floorplan was much different than my parents’, which was divided by so many partition walls that it seemed like a maze.

The floors in Braxton’s home—which seemed to go on forever—were covered in gray hardwood. The walls were painted white, as was the trim. The kitchen, in plain view from where I stood, was fitted with white marble countertops and white cabinetry. Various shades of blue and gray subway tile were used for the backsplash.

I glanced around. The entire home was decorated with wonderful pieces of abstract art. One in particular—a powdery gray canvas with a lone woman in a red dress—caught my eye. A stark white umbrella was cradled over her shoulder.

I wondered if he purchased the home in the condition it was in, or if he had it remodeled to suit him. While I admired the painting, he returned.

“That’s my favorite piece,” he said. “Rather fitting, considering everything.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He studied the painting. “What do you see when you look at it? Is there a story in there, somewhere?”

“I don’t know,” I responded. “I was trying to figure it out.”

He nodded toward it. “Take a good look at it.”

I gazed at the painting, seeing nothing more than a woman in a red dress standing in the rain. My appreciation of art was deep, but my ability to express it was nonexistent.

I let out a sigh. “I’m lost.”

“Hidden in those shades of gray there are several people beyond her, in the street,” He explained. “They’re all wearing black. Their umbrellas are upright. She’s wearing bright red, and her umbrella is draped over her shoulder. Although you can’t see her face, you get the feeling that she’s vibrant and filled with life. Excluding her, everyone in that painting is sheltered from the storm. As far as she’s concerned, the weather isn’t bad enough to raise her umbrella.” He rubbed the side of his stubble-covered jaw with his fingertips. “Life is only as terrible as you perceive it as being.”

His explanation—and the painting—were beautiful. I was now teary-eyed for real, and for no good reason. I wiped my eyes with the knuckle of my index finger.

I admired him as he continued to look at the painting. In expressing his feelings about the artwork, he’d exposed an intellectual side of himself that I hadn’t seen yet. It may have been his most attractive quality.

I reveled in his words while he appreciated the faceless girl in the red dress. Eventually, he turned to face me.

“I’m going to lower my umbrella,” I said.

He flashed what could have been perceived as a smile. “I don’t own one.”

It was obvious that he ran into the face of the storm regardless of the forecast. I smirked at his remark. “I’m sure you don’t.”

He gestured toward the door with a wrench. “Let’s go have a look at your couch.”

Side by side—and without small talk—we meandered to my home. Emotionally crushed by his lack of expressed interest in me, I opened the door and gestured inside.

He walked past me and lowered himself to the floor. He rolled up his sleeves and surveyed the damage. “This should just take a minute.”

Unwilling to accept my fate as being nothing more than a needy neighbor, I knelt at his side. I strategically positioned myself to give him an unobstructed view of my new push up bra.

He didn’t so much as look in my direction.

Knowing more is always better, I unbuttoned one more button on my blouse while he was distracted.

He offered not so much as a glance.

In a last-ditch effort to gain his interest, I leaned over so far that I nearly toppled to the floor. I braced myself to keep from falling.