Tommy Sallow is onto better and brighter things. After working a small hometown beat in upstate New York, he's finally in sunny California. As expected, it's the same shit in a different town. Except, you know, now he's near the ocean and miserable...
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I'm staring at my phone, speechless, and trying not to make it obvious to Trevor that it suddenly feels exceedingly warm out here in the backyard and his sister is to blame.
This woman is going to be the death of me. She's been toying with me all night, from the moment she shook her ass at me on the way out to the not fucking safe for work pic she sent about thirty minutes ago that practically had me throwing my phone across the yard to keep her brother from seeing it.
How she hit that angle in a bathroom stall, drunk off her cute ass, I'll never know but that photo will have a special place in a very locked down secret folder of my phone until the end of time if she lets me keep it.
The other thing that's killing me right now?
The typos.
Amber: Oh yea? tell me just how thos pwers are capable for Office Sallow
I mean, is she serious? She's a teacher for crying out loud. But I'll be damned if I didn't spend a couple extra minutes staring at the screen with every new text notification, trying to decode her every word like a desperate, lovesick wordsmith. And this one's my favorite so far. What are those powers of mine capable of? Well, a lot. Everything she could ever want, need, or desire. I'm here for it.
Keeping things vague, with just the right amount of detail and plenty of intrigue, I type a response as quickly as I can and hit send, bringing my attention back to the situation in the backyard.
"Is it just me? Or does it look different?" Trevor's circling the restored playhouse with narrowed eyes, a hand running over his chin, and looking pretty irritated with himself that he can't put his finger on the slight changes.
I should tell him, and I will, but it's actually pretty entertaining watching him struggle to figure it out. To be honest, I'm a little shocked he hasn't already. As far as playhouse building partners go, he's been on point all evening, thorough and precise. The same things that make him an excellent doctor, if I had to guess.
I'm good with instructions but I have a tendency to be a bit of a scrapper, improvising and going a little cowboy to make sure the job gets done. We're both problem solvers but Trevor seems to be a bit more refined in the process than me, which probably would have been useful when Amber and I were first building it a few weeks ago. We ran into a couple of hiccups along the way that she probably didn't even notice. But one of my structural improvisations, combined with Vince's tantrum, is likely the reason we had to replace an entire side of this playhouse.
I've thought more than once about how I should have just had Trevor come build it with me the first time around. But of course, the idea gets squashed every time when I remember how good of a time I had putting it together with his hot sibling counterpart. She'll always be my first pick.
"The door is a different color," I finally tell him, putting him out of his misery. "The mailbox and planter, too."
Trevor nods his head slowly, looking over at me. "Was that a matter of what was in stock or was there a little purpose behind that?"
