Woven

Josh, Kate, and I have an ongoing debate about who does the most work around our house.

Not that it matters.

It’s kind of a ridiculous argument. But here’s the thing, it’s easier to ignore problems with the foundation when you’re only focused on repair. Far better to build a house than fix one, right? We’re learning that the hard way.

And as for who does the most work? It’s Josh, no question.

But don’t tell him I said that.

His footsteps echo in the hall and I burrow deeper beneath the covers. Our bedroom door creaks open, the light switches on. A loud, exasperated sigh.

Josh. He’s a bit dramatic.

 “Seriously, David, you’re going to bed?”

I squint up at him half tempted to laugh. He’s a mess. Sweaty, paint-stained T-shirt, face and hair all streaked with dust. There’s more paint on him than the wall we’d been priming. Seeing as I’m already in bed, I choose not to state the obvious.

“Josh,” I say slowly as if speaking to one of my students. “It’s eleven thirty. Put the paint away.” We’ve been working in the kitchen all night. I finally escaped around eleven and hid in the bathroom.

Before he can respond, Kate peeks in. “Hey boys, the toilet overflowed again. And no,” she looks pointedly in my direction, “I didn’t do it.”

A growl escapes Josh. “It’s always something. I hate this house!”

“Me too,” says Kate.

“Let’s move,” I say.

“You two are not helpful,” Josh sputters with an angry wave of the brush he’s clutching. He’s adorably flustered, and I cannot help a glance at Kate. We burst out laughing as he storms from the room. “Not funny!” he hollers. “What, I’m the only one capable of unclogging a toilet?”

The squishy-sucking sound of the plunger only makes us laugh harder. Poor Josh. The kitchen paint is peeling again, and he’s beyond frustrated. I feel a bit guilty about leaving him to clean up, but not enough to get out of bed.

Kate’s still laughing as she leans in to say good night. Her loose blonde curls tickle my cheek, all silky-smooth and fragrant like Pantene shampoo. She pauses to touch my face, stroke my hair. It feels good, and I’m tempted to reach for her. I want to reach for her.

But I don’t.

She frowns, her finger tracing the scar above my ear, a month old now and still healing. I can practically hear her thoughts.

“It’s fine, Kate.”