Fifty Shades of White: Confession #002
There are certain texts you don't expect to receive at 7:42 on a Saturday morning.
Honey: You awake?
I stared at my phone.
Technically, yes.
Emotionally, no.
Me: Depends.
Three dots appeared.
Honey: On what?
Me: Why you're asking.
The dots disappeared.
Then came back.
Honey: Get dressed.
Well.
That woke me up.
I sat up in bed.
There are several ways a man can interpret a woman texting get dressed before eight o'clock on a Saturday morning.
I chose all of them.
Me: That's disappointing.
Three dots.
Honey: Home Depot.
Less exciting.
Still interested.
Me: Give me 20 minutes.
Honey: You have 10.
I looked down.
Boxers.
One sock.
No idea where the other sock was.
Nine minutes later, I was standing in my driveway with coffee, wearing a T-shirt that may or may not have been clean.
At exactly 7:53, Honey's Bronco came around the corner.
She pulled into my driveway and stopped.
Window down.
Backwards hat.
Sunglasses.
Coffee in the cup holder.
She looked me up and down.
“You look terrible.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Get in.”
I looked at the Bronco.
Then at her.
“Where are we going?”
“I literally texted you Home Depot.”
“I thought that was more of a suggestion.”
“Mike.”
“Honey.”
She stared at me.
I got in.
THE BRONCO
I buckled my seat belt.
Honey backed out of the driveway.
“So what's the emergency?”
“Paint.”
“Paint is not an emergency.”
“The bedroom needs to be painted.”
“The bedroom has needed to be painted for six months.”
“And whose fault is that?”
I thought about it.
“Society?”
She looked at me.
“Yours.”
“That's also possible.”
The first time Honey had shown up at my house, I'd spent most of the day pretending I knew what I was doing.
It hadn't gone well.
At one point she'd discovered three different kinds of screws in the same wall.
There are moments in a man's life when he realizes a woman will never look at him the same way again.
That was mine.
And yet—
she'd come back.
Voluntarily.
Which meant one of two things.
Either she liked me.
Or my house had become some kind of long-term humanitarian project.
I preferred option one.
Evidence strongly supported option two.
I looked over at her.
“So you just drive around Saturday mornings collecting helpless men?”
“Only the really pathetic ones.”
“That's sweet.”
“Don't make it weird.”
“I wasn't.”
“Your face was.”
I smiled.
She caught it.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Whatever you're doing.”
“I'm sitting.”
“You're doing it smugly.”
That was fair.
HOME DEPOT
We made it twelve feet inside Home Depot before Honey stopped.
“Paint first.”
“I know where the paint is.”
She looked at me.
“What?”
“You said that like you wanted praise.”
“I've grown.”
“You watched one YouTube video.”
“The whole thing.”
She stopped walking.
“The whole thing?”
“Every minute.”
She put a hand over her heart.
“I'm proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Was there a quiz afterward?”
“There should've been.”
We reached the paint department.
That's when I discovered something deeply disturbing.
There are approximately four thousand shades of white.
White.
White.
More white.
White with names.
White with undertones.
White apparently requiring its own fucking personality test.
I picked up two sample cards.
They looked exactly the same.
“Explain something to me.”
“No.”
I turned around.
“You don't even know what I'm going to ask.”
“I know you. I'm saving us both time.”
That was new.
I know you.
I don't know why I noticed it.
I did.
I held up the cards.
“Why are there thirty different whites?”
“There aren't thirty.”
I pointed at the display.
“There are literally hundreds.”
“Different undertones.”
“They're white.”
“They're different whites.”
“No. This is something women invented so men would have to come to Home Depot twice.”
She took the samples.
“This one's warm.”
“It's white.”
“This one's cool.”
“Also white.”
“This one has a little gray in it.”
“Honey.”
“What?”
“They're all fucking white.”
She held two samples beside each other.
“Tell me those look the same.”
“They look the same.”
“You're lying.”
“I'm not.”
She stepped closer and held them up in front of me.
“Look.”
I looked.
Unfortunately, the paint samples were now directly beside her face.
This complicated things.
I looked at the samples.
White.
I looked at Honey.
Bad idea.
Back to the samples.
Still white.
“Mike.”
“What?”
“The paint.”
“Right.”
Jesus Christ.
Get it together.
She narrowed her eyes.
“You seriously can't see the difference?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Men.”
“Exactly. Thank you. That's what I've been saying.”
“That wasn't a compliment.”
“I chose to receive it as one.”
Then a voice came from behind me.
“She's right.”
I closed my eyes.
Fuck.
I knew that voice.
I turned around.
Ryan.
Tall.
Tan.
Baseball cap.
Sunglasses hooked into his shirt.
And holding a gallon of paint like he'd been summoned by the universe specifically to ruin my Saturday.
“Ryan.”
“Mike.”
Honey looked between us.
“You know each other?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Sixteen years,” Ryan said.
“Longest mistake of my life.”
Ryan looked at Honey.
Then at the samples.
“I can see the undertones.”
Of course you can.
Honey looked at him.
Then at the can in his hand.
“You're holding primer.”
I looked down.
Primer.
Then at Ryan.
Then Honey.
I started laughing.
Ryan checked the label.
“I knew that.”
“No, you fucking didn't.”
“I grabbed it for something else.”
“What?”
He paused.
Honey waited.
I waited.
Ryan looked at the can.
“Priming.”
Honey laughed.
I bent over.
Actually bent over.
And somewhere between Ryan standing there holding primer like an asshole and Honey laughing beside me—
I realized this was going to be a very long Saturday.
RYAN
Ryan wasn't invited.
This needs to be established.
I hadn't invited him.
Honey hadn't invited him.
As far as I knew, Home Depot hadn't invited him.
He had simply appeared.
This was something Ryan did.
“So what are you guys doing?” he asked.
“Buying paint.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Honey went back to the samples.
Ryan went with her.
Of course he did.
“Painting your place?”
“My bedroom.”
Ryan looked at me.
Then Honey.
Then me.
A smile appeared.
“No.”
He held up his hands.
“I didn't say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Honey laughed.
Great.
Now there were two of us saying that.
Ryan picked up a paint card.
“I can help.”
“No.”
“I'm good at painting.”
“No.”
“I've painted before.”
“You painted your mother's bathroom in 2009.”
“That wasn't the only thing.”
“You painted the light switch.”
“I was twenty-one.”
“You painted over the screws.”
“It looked fine.”
“It looked landlord fine.”
Honey laughed again.
Ryan looked at her.
Then at me.
I knew that look.
I'd seen it at bars.
Weddings.
An extremely unfortunate bachelor party in Nashville.
Ryan had decided he was charming.
Fuck.
THE BEDROOM
Somehow Ryan followed us home.
I still don't completely understand how.
But by ten o'clock, there were three people standing in my bedroom.
The good news was the bedroom looked better.
Last Saturday, Honey had stared at it for six seconds and asked what happened.
I'd said I remodeled.
She said I'd committed a crime.
Today?
Drywall finished.
Seams smooth.
Holes patched.
Nothing hanging from the ceiling that violated electrical code.
Probably.
Honey walked around slowly.
I followed her.
“Well?”
She ran her hand over a seam.
“Not terrible.”
My chest actually lifted.
“Not terrible?”
“Don't get excited.”
“That's basically a five-star review from you.”
Ryan walked in.
“I helped.”
I turned around.
“With what?”
“Moral support.”
“You sent me a YouTube video.”
“It was a good video.”
Honey looked at me.
“Did you watch it?”
“The whole thing.”
She smiled.
“I'm proud of you.”
“Thank you. I've grown.”
Ryan looked between us.
“What happened last time?”
“Nothing,” Honey and I said together.
Ryan smiled.
“Oh.”
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Honey looked at me.
I looked at her.
We both laughed.
Ryan didn't.
Interesting.
BOB ROSS
Honey started taping the trim.
I put down the drop cloths.
Ryan stood in the middle of the room doing what he did best.
Nothing.
“I don't really use painter's tape,” he announced.
Honey stopped.
I stopped.
“I've got a steady hand.”
I looked at Honey.
She looked at me.
Then she handed him a brush.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Science.”
Ryan smiled.
“You'll see.”
“I think that's what I'm afraid of.”
For the first few feet, Ryan did fine.
Unfortunately.
Confidence is dangerous in a man who has recently experienced success.
Soon he was moving faster.
Then he started talking.
“It's really all about controlling the pressure.”
“Please stop.”
“I'm serious.”
He reached toward the ceiling.
Honey looked up.
“Move the ladder.”
“I've got it.”
“Ryan.”
“I don't need to.”
“Move the ladder.”
“I've got a steady—”
The brush hit the ceiling.
A six-inch streak appeared across the gray.
Nobody moved.
A drop formed.
Then fell onto Ryan's shoulder.
He looked at Honey.
“That was already there.”
I put my roller down and walked out of the room.
Sometimes you need a minute.
HOME STUFF
Ryan recovered from humiliation much faster than a person should.
Twenty minutes later, he was watching a painting video on his phone.
“You know what you should do?” he said to Honey.
“No.”
“If you load the roller from this side—”
“Ryan.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know what I do?”
He shrugged.
“Home stuff.”
I inhaled.
Wrong.
Honey slowly turned around.
“Home stuff?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. Explain it.”
“Renovations.”
“And what are we doing?”
“Painting.”
“Which would fall under…”
He paused.
I couldn't help myself.
“Home stuff, apparently.”
Honey handed him her roller.
“Go ahead, Bob Ross.”
Ryan smiled.
“Gladly.”
He overloaded the roller.
Paint immediately ran down the handle.
I looked at him.
“That's a lot.”
“I know what I'm doing.”
“That is becoming your catchphrase.”
He pressed the roller against the wall.
Paint shot sideways and hit his shirt.
Silence.
Ryan looked down.
Honey looked at me.
I looked at Honey.
And that was enough.
We both lost it.
THE PLAYLIST
Around noon, music started playing.
Not normal music.
Sex music.
The kind of music that makes everyone in a room immediately wonder who's trying to fuck somebody.
I looked at Honey.
Honey looked at me.
Then we both looked at Ryan.
He kept painting.
I walked toward his phone.
Ryan moved faster than he'd moved all day.
“Don't.”
Interesting.
I grabbed it.
“Give me my phone.”
“What is this?”
“Music.”
“I understand the concept.”
“Give it back.”
I looked at the screen.
No.
No fucking way.
Honey looked over.
“What?”
I turned the phone toward her.
The playlist was called:
PAINTING — DO NOT SHUFFLE
She stared.
Then looked at Ryan.
Ryan crossed his arms.
“It's just a playlist.”
I scrolled.
“Oh my God.”
“Mike.”
“You planned this.”
“I didn't plan anything.”
“You curated a seduction schedule.”
Honey started laughing.
Ryan reached for the phone.
I pulled it away.
“Did you Google songs that make women horny?”
“No.”
I opened his search history.
Ryan lunged.
I ran.
I'm thirty-nine years old.
I spent approximately forty-five seconds running around my own bedroom holding another grown man's phone while Honey sat on the floor laughing.
I regret nothing.
THE DICK
After lunch, Ryan painted a penis on my wall.
Six feet tall.
I walked into the bedroom and stopped.
Honey was standing beside me.
Neither of us spoke.
Ryan stood in front of his creation holding the roller.
I handed Honey her drink.
“That wasn't me.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You would've made it smaller.”
I turned my head.
She took a sip.
I wasn't entirely sure whether I'd just been insulted.
Ryan looked over.
“It'll get covered.”
Honey stared at him.
“Are you twelve?”
“It was funny.”
I tilted my head.
“That's ambitious.”
Ryan frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No. What?”
I pointed at the wall.
“I think you were generous with the proportions.”
“That's proportional.”
“To what?”
Ryan pointed at himself.
I looked at him.
Then the wall.
Then him again.
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
“You don't know.”
“I've known you sixteen years.”
“You haven't seen my dick.”
“We went to Cancun.”
“That doesn't mean anything.”
“You lost your bathing suit in the ocean.”
“That water was freezing.”
Honey was very quiet.
I looked at her.
She looked exhausted.
“Can you settle this?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I'd like to finish today without learning anything else about either of you.”
Ryan smiled.
“You could learn something about me.”
“Nope.”
I stepped between them.
Ryan looked at me.
“What?”
I handed him the roller.
“Paint your dick.”
THE PROBLEM
By three-thirty, we'd actually made progress.
Honey was cutting in around the window.
I was rolling.
Ryan had been quiet for almost seven consecutive minutes.
It was beautiful.
Honey bent down to pick up the paint tray.
I looked at the ceiling.
Apparently I was very interested in ceilings now.
Ryan looked at me.
I looked at him.
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“Neither did I.”
Fuck.
I went back to rolling.
A few minutes later Ryan walked over.
“You like her.”
“No.”
“You definitely like her.”
“No.”
“You keep looking at her.”
“I've looked at you too. Doesn't mean I want to fuck you.”
“You're jealous.”
I stopped rolling.
“Of you?”
He smiled.
There are certain smiles that make violence understandable.
“You've been cock-blocking me all day.”
“Ryan.”
“What?”
“You painted a dick on my wall.”
“So?”
“You don't need me to cock-block you. You're doing outstanding work on your own.”
He looked across the room.
Honey was concentrating on the window trim.
“I think she likes me.”
“Based on what?”
“She laughs at me.”
I looked at him.
“She laughs at dogs farting themselves awake too. I wouldn't start planning the wedding.”
Ryan stared at me.
“That doesn't even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
PAINT
Later, Honey walked over.
“You've got paint in your hair.”
I reached up.
“Where?”
“Other side.”
I rubbed the wrong side.
She laughed.
“Come here.”
I leaned down.
She reached into my hair.
Her thumb brushed through it.
And suddenly I became extremely aware of several things.
How close she was.
How good she smelled.
How long it had been since I'd had a woman standing this close to me without eventually asking me to move a piece of furniture.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
For once, I didn't have anything funny to say.
This concerned me.
Then—
“Jesus Christ.”
Ryan.
Honey stepped back.
I straightened.
“What?”
Ryan stared at us.
“Nothing.”
“No. Say it.”
“You two are weird.”
“We're not weird.”
Honey picked up her brush.
“We're a little weird.”
I looked at her.
“Really?”
She shrugged.
Then smiled.
Fuck.
There went my ability to concentrate for another twenty minutes.
THE WALL
By five o'clock, somehow, the bedroom looked incredible.
The trim was sharp.
The walls were clean.
The giant penis was gone.
Mostly.
I knew it was under there.
That bothered me more than it should have.
Honey started packing her brushes.
I folded the drop cloths.
Ryan stood in the middle of the room looking around like he'd personally renovated Versailles.
“Well.”
I knew that tone.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I didn't say anything.”
“Whatever you're about to say, no.”
He ignored me.
“Pretty successful day.”
I stared at him.
“You painted my ceiling and drew a six-foot dick on my wall.”
“And yet—”
He spread his arms.
“Look at it.”
Honey zipped her bag.
“I hate that he's technically right.”
Ryan smiled.
Then looked at her.
“So what are you doing next Saturday?”
Something in my stomach did a thing.
A stupid thing.
A thing I chose to ignore.
Honey looked at him.
“Not this.”
He grinned.
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious.”
Ryan leaned casually against the accent wall.
Honey's eyes widened.
I looked behind him.
Oh.
Oh no.
“Ryan.”
“What?”
Honey pointed.
“Don't move.”
He smiled.
“Why?”
I covered my mouth.
“What?”
He turned his head.
Slowly.
The accent wall was wet.
Very wet.
Ryan pushed himself forward.
A perfect outline of his back, shoulders and ass remained in the paint.
Nobody spoke.
Then something came out of me.
I don't know what.
A laugh.
A scream.
Possibly a medical event.
I sat down on the bed.
Ryan stared at the wall.
“You've got to be fucking kidding me.”
Honey picked up her tool bag.
Ryan turned around.
“Can we fix it?”
She looked at him.
“We?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I'll send Mike an invoice.”
She walked out.
Ryan followed her.
“So… next Saturday?”
Honey didn't even turn around.
“Absolutely not.”
“Thank Christ,” I said.
Ryan looked back.
“Fuck you.”
THE FAUCET
I followed Honey outside.
She was halfway to the Bronco.
The day was over.
The bedroom was finished.
There was no reason for her to come back.
That shouldn't have bothered me.
It did.
“Honey.”
She turned.
“What?”
I stood there.
This would've been an excellent time to have a plan.
I did not.
Behind me, Ryan walked onto the porch.
Perfect.
Honey waited.
“So…”
“So?”
Think, Mike.
Anything.
Drywall was done.
Bedroom was painted.
The hallway—
No.
The hallway was already painted.
Fuck.
Then I heard it.
Through the open kitchen window.
Drip.
I stopped.
Drip.
The faucet.
The same goddamn faucet that had been dripping for months.
I'd been listening to that fucking thing for so long I'd stopped hearing it.
Until now.
Now it sounded like opportunity.
I looked at Honey.
“Actually…”
She waited.
“My kitchen faucet is leaking.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“How long?”
“Define leaking.”
“Mike.”
“A little while.”
“How long is a little while?”
I considered lying.
“Four months.”
She stared at me.
Ryan started laughing behind me.
I ignored him.
“So…”
Honey crossed her arms.
“Let me guess.”
“What?”
“Next Saturday?”
I smiled.
“Since you brought it up.”
She shook her head.
But she was smiling.
“Send me a picture.”
“Tonight?”
“Mike.”
“Tomorrow?”
She walked toward the Bronco.
I called after her.
“That's not a no.”
She opened the door.
“Watch a YouTube video.”
“The whole thing?”
She looked back.
“The whole thing.”
Then she got in.
The Bronco started.
I stood there while she backed out.
Ryan came up beside me.
Neither of us said anything until the Bronco disappeared around the corner.
Then—
“You know you could just ask her out.”
I looked at him.
“I have a faucet.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“I don't remember asking for one.”
Ryan smiled.
“You really like her.”
“No, I don't.”
“You're scheduling plumbing repairs to see her.”
“My faucet is actually leaking.”
“For four months.”
“Exactly. It's serious.”
Ryan stared at me.
I walked back inside.
He followed.
Drip.
I stopped in the kitchen.
Ryan stopped behind me.
Drip.
For four months, that sound had annoyed the shit out of me.
Now?
Drip.
I smiled.
Ryan saw it.
“Oh, you're fucked.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Mike—”
“Out.”
He laughed all the way to the door.
I stood alone in the kitchen.
Drip.
Best fucking faucet I ever owned.
