Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Teuvo
We've laid the floor with old newspapers and sheets of plastic. The furniture is pushed to the middle of the living room, stacked with books, knick-knacks, blankets, and throw pillows. A Bluetooth speaker balances precariously on some books sitting atop a stool. Every three minutes, the artist will change from Sam Fender to Noah Kahan to Taylor Swift (but only the evermore era) to Lord Huron—and any other folksy-alternative music we compiled last night in bed. The light streaming in from the windows is dim; outside, fog has settled low to the ground, limiting visibility of the yard and lake. Ridley and I have several windows cracked open, and I can smell the mildewy-musk smell caused by the fog and drizzling rain. There's also a hint of evergreen and vanilla from Ridley's favourite candle.
Two cans of dark-green paint sit before me. It's the same colour that's present throughout the rest of the house (minus my bedroom and the two bathrooms). Ridley tried to talk me into painting one wall a creamy white so we could make it an accent wall, and I caved. There's also a small can of creamy white paint. I nudge it with my toe, humming over just how much the dark stone fireplace will pop.
"Are you still mulling over the white paint?"
I clear my throat. "Creamy white paint."
Ridley joins my side, looping an arm around my waist. Our hips bump as she pulls me close. One hand finds the small of her back. The other flexes at my side because Ridley Holland has that effect on me. She's dressed in an old pair of grey joggers and a white sports bra. Her hair's tied back in a low ponytail, trailing down her back and stopping halfway down. Grinning, she tilts her face in my direction. "It'll look amazing, T. Trust me. You can't have one colour running throughout the house. It lacks character."
My hand scrubs my face, and I expel a deep breath. "Character comes from the foundation, weathered wood, and creaky floors. What if this causes its character to burst at the seams? I hate change."
She side-eyes me, fighting a grin. "You're a hypocrite. You know that, right?"
I frown. "How?"
Ridley lifts her hand, suspending it in the space before my face. She raises one finger. "First, you moved here from Finland. Second, you decided to renovate. Third, you agreed to date me, changing your status from single to in a relationship. How is it you can make such big, life-altering decisions, yet claim you hate change because of a paint colour?"
Avoiding her gaze, I stare at the cans of paint. They're surrounded by drop cloths, paintbrushes, painter's tape, rollers, putty knives, scrapers, and paint trays. There's a ladder leaning against the wall. I review the items again, buying myself time. Ridley has a knack for making unarguable points during conversations. She's made a fair point. Subtle changes, for who knows what reason, are more difficult for me to adapt to. Perhaps it's because subtle changes, like painting a goddamn wall, change something that's present in my every day life. Something in a zone of comfort I like to fall back to.
