The Rules of Regret (33 page)

“
How does this at all help us decide
on paint?
”
Sonja wasn
’
t
going to get it, but I was close.

“
We have a choice to make.
”
Torin cocked his head and thumbed
his chin. He looked absolutely adorable, and I nearly felt guilty for thinking
it because being with him really did bring me joy. A joy I wasn
’
t sure I was supposed to deserve just
yet.
“
Today,
are we going to be scientists, or are we going to be artists?
”

Sonja
shrugged, not caring. But I did. I cared.

“
Logic and reason, or emotion and
feeling?
”
Concrete and structure, or trees and flowers?

I
dropped his hand and walked toward the vast wall of paint chip samples. They
were organized into a rainbow of colors, all blending from one shade to the
next like their own work of art. I didn
’
t
want to pull one out to look at it, for fear that I
’
d disturb this beautiful cohesion of
so many different hues all existing in one space, all playing their small, but
significant part.

I
felt Torin
’
s
body come up behind me before his chest touched my shoulder blade.
“
Lots to choose from,
”
he murmured. Sonja was a few feet
away comparing paint rollers, holding them up and mock painting in the air.

“
I know, right?
”
I fingered the corner of one strip,
but left it in its holder on the wall.
“
I
don
’
t
want to take any of them out. They look so perfect like this.
”

“
I doubt anyone would notice,
”
Torin said, and that statement
pulled all of the wind out of my sails.

“
That stinks, Torin.
”
I shut my eyes and swallowed hard,
breathing in.
“
That
completely stinks that you could remove one of these very integral pieces to
the puzzle and no one would notice.
”

“
This a metaphor, right?
”
He wrapped his arms around my waist
from behind.
“
We
’
re not actually concerned about
paint, are we?
”

“
We
are
concerned about paint. Someone needs to be concerned about this
wall and someone needs to be responsible for keeping it like this. It
’
s beautiful!
”
I tossed my hands toward the
thousands of paint chips in front of us.

“
Stunning, really.
”

“
I know, right?
”
I nodded my head quickly,
encouraging his agreement.
“
They
need to devise a new system so people don
’
t
have to remove these cards in order to choose their paint.
”

“
We should write a note and put it in
their suggestion box.
”
He was right there with me and my crazy. It might have just been humoring, but
it felt like love.

“
We
need
to. We can
’
t
just have people haphazardly removing such important players in this artistry
of color. It
’
s
an injustice.
”

“
A
complete
injustice.
”

Sonja
waltzed up to us and reached her hand into the display that was our hardware
store masterpiece.

“
What are you doing?
”
I gasped, swatting her hand away.

“
Ouch!
”
she grimaced, and shot me the look
that she often reserved for her boyfriend when he
’
d done something to royally piss her
off.
“
I
’
m picking out a color since all you
two seem to be doing is staring.
”

“
We
’
re not staring, we
’
re appreciating,
”
Torin said.

“
Appreciating what?
”
Her hands were on her hips again.

“
We
’
re appreciating the very important
role that each one of these little paint chips is playing in creating this
gorgeous myriad of color and substance.
”
I looked at Torin and he smiled down at me. I loved the wavelength we were
riding together.

Sonja
didn
’
t
have that same smile when she said,
“
Have
you been drinking? Because it sounds like you
’
ve been drinking.
”

“
No, we haven
’
t been drinking.
”

“
Alright,
”
she resigned.
“
If I
’
m not allowed to take it out, then
let
’
s
write it down. Here,
”
she paused, scanning the rows of samples before landing on one.
“
This one.
”
She thrust a finger into an
off-white sample that was only slightly less depressing than the one already
coating our walls.
“
Gimme
that pen.
”

Torin
handed her the pen that rested on a five-gallon can of paint near his feet.
Sonja scribbled the code onto the palm of her hand.
“
I
’
ll tell him to mix it up. Enjoy your
masterpiece, weirdos.
”

“
We will,
”
I replied, slinking my arms over
Torin
’
s,
which were still held around my waist.
“
I
know it
’
s
stupid and I know it makes me crazy, but it really is beautiful. Even if it
’
s not actual art. Even if it
’
s just a display some minimum-wage
earning sixteen-year-old put together.
”

“
It
’
s not stupid, you
’
re not crazy, and it
is
beautiful.
”
His mouth drew closer to my ear, and
the way he breathed against it was chilling, in a good way.
“
You
’
re beautiful,
”
he said quietly, but I heard him
clearly, even over the intercom speakers than announced a clean up on aisle
four.
“
And
you may not realize it, but you are a beautiful, bright piece in my world
’
s masterpiece.
”
The chills intensified.
“
You are this one.
”
His finger fell on a stark white
chip.
“
To
me, you are all of the colors combined. You are light, Darby, like that beloved
lighthouse of yours.
”

“
I feel really, really dark.
”
 

“
I know.
”
He didn
’
t say anything for a few moments, and
just let me feel the way I did without reprimanding me and telling me it wasn
’
t my fault or that I wasn
’
t responsible for it or whatever it
was that people had always been saying to me and continued to say to me.

“
My fear is that my world will never
be a beautiful masterpiece with Anna and Lance gone.
”

“
Right,
”
was all he said, giving me the
silence and the space I needed to continue.

“
My fear is that somehow it was my job
to keep their paint chips in place and now they
’
re missing and it
’
s all messed up.
”
I inhaled through my nose, out
through my mouth.
“
My
fear is that I
’
ve
messed it all up.
”

“
Do you want to know what I think?
”
That phrase always struck me as odd,
because most people coupled it with a tone that came across condescending and
belittling. But the way Torin said it, he was actually asking my permission.
Asking if it was okay for him to share his thoughts and feelings on my thoughts
and feelings.

I
nodded. It was.

“
The way I see it, that
sixteen-year-old hardware store worker of yours
—
he
’
s got a pretty important role.
Sometimes he discontinues certain colors, and sometimes he creates new ones.
”
I could hear Sonja at the counter
behind us arguing with the paint guy about how many gallons we would need, and
I left her to that task. Torin continued,
“
And
sometimes he moves them around into an abstract design that might not seem like
it makes sense to us, but he sees the whole picture and it
’
s his job, not ours, to interpret it.
”

“
I wish I could see things that way.
”
I really did; I wished I could believe
in something more the way Torin did.

“
Maybe someday you will,
”
he said. I felt his heart against my
back, that soothing pulse that steadied my own.

“
It
’
s exhausting talking in metaphors.
Like this has been the most taxing hardware store trip ever.
”

“
Agreed,
”
he smiled, dimples and all.
“
But sometimes it
’
s easier to say what you feel when it
’
s masked under something else.
”

All
of the quoting finally made sense.

I
flipped around to face him and ripped off my own proverbial mask.

“
I
’
m in love with you, Torin,
”
I said.
“
And I feel like I don
’
t have a whole lot to offer because I
was on the path to finding myself, and now Lance is dead and now I have to
create who I am without him in my life, even though he
was
sorta out of my life since we broke up and all. But now he
’
s completely gone, with no chance of
coming back and I don
’
t
know what that means for me and for us.
”
The sentences ran on.
“
And
I left. I just left you there. Lance died and I freaked out and I left and didn
’
t answer your calls because I felt
guilty since I was not only mourning Lance
’
s
death, but had just started mourning my failed relationship with him. Which
didn
’
t
even seem fair since I
’
d
already started falling for you. So I was so trapped in my grief, and I didn
’
t want you to think that me mourning
Lance and his life and his death and
my
life with him and
my
death with him
meant that I had stopped loving you. Because I hadn
’
t. I haven
’
t.
”
Torin
’
s eye softened with understanding,
which was exactly what I needed. Always what I needed.
“
So I love you, and I don
’
t want to mask that under anything
else. I want you to know that I still love you, no metaphors.
”

“
I love you too, Darby.
”
He brought his lips down to mine and
suddenly we were kissing in aisle 23, amid the paint chip samples and blue tape
and the tarps and the brushes. We were kissing. Like inappropriate,
you-really-should-get-a-room kissing. And I loved every second of it, because
we weren
’
t
masking anything. We weren
’
t
hiding our feelings or holding anything back. We were full-on making out in a
hardware store in front of this exhausting metaphor of paint chips.