9
FINN
"Are you humming?" Bo asked.
I looked up from pulling on the dingiest carpet I'd seen in months. This house I'd picked up was vile, worse than usual. Bo had suggested it was a meth factory, given the needles, rotten egg smell, and burnt patches on the walls and flooring. It could have been, or it might just have been an ordinary addict's house, but there was shit everywhere.
If I was humming, I didn't realize it, but I was in a decent mood. I figured once I got Winter to just sit and talk with me, we’d work it out. That was something worth humming about.
I just shrugged and went back to work. "Just trying to block out the god-awful music you choose to play. You've been up north here for almost a year. Can't you play anything but country songs?”
"I could." Bo paused to toss a handful of staples in the trash. "But I know it annoys the hell out of you. And that makes the music sound that much sweeter."
"Too bad you don't know shit all about constructing a house and you still have to hang on my dick until you can get it right."
"Which is why I play music you hate. It fits our dysfunctional relationship."
"I thought you were going to therapy to fix your problems."
"If by ‘therapy’ you mean having a ton of awesome sex with my girlfriend, then yes, I'm in therapy all night and random times during the day." I snorted but wisely said nothing. "But speaking of therapy," Bo continued. My response was a loud groan that I hoped would be hint enough that I didn't want to talk about whatever it was that followed. Bo ignored me. "How's your mom?"
"Well, she texted that she got up and had coffee today, so I count that as a win." I reached down to tug harder on the carpet. Did they glue it down instead of just stapling the edges?
"Mal says 'Paradise lies under the feet of your mother.'"
That made me stop.
I gaped at Bo. He threw up his hands, one still holding a crowbar he was using to pull up the tacking strips, the long thin lumber pieces that held the carpet on the edges of the room.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Apparently it means if you don't make your momma happy, you ain't gonna be happy."
"If I knew what would make her happy, I'd do it," I replied.
"I suck at this comforting thing." He pulled off his hat and scratched his head. "But maybe you outta talk to someone else?"
"Like Lana?" I grunted. "No thanks. Between her and Mal, it sounds like I should be taking my mother on a date."
Lana, a friend of ours, was a psych major at Central College. She'd once said that I had an Oedipus complex but refused to elaborate. I’d looked it up the next day and learned that Oedipus had a thing for his mom that ultimately led to his demise. Thanks, Lana.
"Maybe talking to her wouldn't be such a great idea, but you should talk to someone," Bo counseled.
Ever since Bo had hooked up with AnnMarie, he enjoyed giving out advice like some on-screen dating show personality. I think I liked him better when he was screwing everything that moved and punching everything that stood still.
"I'm talking to someone," I lied. It wasn't actually a real lie. I was talking to someone. I talked to Winter, someone who knew just about as much about death, loss, and grief as anyone.
We worked in silence for a while longer when he finally said, "Sorry I ruined your morning."
"You didn't ruin anything," I said, and he didn't comment on the fact I'd stopped humming.
Henry called me a half hour later and told me to haul ass to the jobsite.
"You're in charge, Bo," I told him as I pocketed the phone. His look of terror would have been amusing if my ass weren't on the line. "Just finish up with the flooring and make sure the trim guys come in tomorrow. You'll be fine."
He had to be, because I couldn't be two places at the same time.
When I got to the jobsite downtown, Henry was pacing by the entrance.