Free Cookie Cutter by Jo Richardson Page B

from Tony.
    Sorry about yesterday.
    It just came through. I figure it can’t hurt to mend some of what I’ve no doubt caused more than he has between us.
    Me too, bro. Love you. You know that.
    It takes him a minute to reply to that one.
    Saw Cheryl last night. She says hi.
    Oh.
    How’s she doing?
    I don’t know why I even ask. It’s not like I want to hear the answer.
    Getting married.
    Ouch. See?
    That didn’t take long. Not that I’m surprised. Cheryl has an agenda. You either work to make that agenda successful, or you’re out. Part of me is tempted to ask who the lucky guy is but I’m sure it’s some junior partner on his way up the ladder. I don’t know if Tony’s just making conversation with me, or if he’s planning on reporting back to Cheryl when he finds out what my reaction is. So I keep it short, but sweet. Kind of.
    Gotta run.
    I set the phone down and head back into the garage to work on carving out some light switch holes in the wainscoting I’m planning on putting up. Maybe I should spend some more time communicating better with Tony – yeah, but honestly, I’m too wound up to do anything but work. I need to clear out the mess I’ve already made before I can do much else so I call get have a portable dumpster delivered.  While I wait for that to arrive, I put together a kick ass bid for Iris’s super secret carnival meeting. One that even she will have a difficult time rejecting.
     
    * * *
     
    Taking out the trashed guts of this house is ten times more difficult than trashing it to begin with.  Mostly because my muscles ache and exhaustion is kicking in. And I’m hungry. I might be able to work through pain and fatigue, but there’s no ignoring hungry. So around five-thirty or so, I find myself at stopping point. I brush the dirt off of me and head to the grocery store down the street. Of course, grocery shopping tends to consist of complicated decision making on my part, like which frozen meal to purchase for dinner tonight. I can’t make up my mind if I’d rather have the Hungry Man chicken and biscuits or if I need the family sized lasagna from Stouffers.
    “Screw it.” Chinese take-out it is.
    I’m on my way out the door and I spy with my little eye, an uptight single mother who looks like she’s having a very deep conversation with . . . potatoes, over in the produce section.
    I should probably leave. Avoid getting one or both of us wound up. But leaving will most definitely lead to more work on the house, a quiet meal alone and then ultimately, more work on the house.
    Boring.
    But staying . . . staying will be fun.
    I abandon the idea of leaving and head over to produce.  I step up behind Iris as she stares blankly at a bin full of vegetables. Her hair is still up but it looks frayed. The result of a long day at the office, no doubt. For the briefest of moments, I’m tempted to push aside the strands of hair that have fallen out of her makeshift bun, brush my lips across the back of her neck, and squeeze the tension of her shoulders. On some other plane of existence, I would, except I’m angry with her. On the other hand, I can’t just stand here all day, staring at her neck.
    “Hey Iris.”
    “Oh hell!” She fumbles and drops the potatoes in her hands. They fall into the bin from where they came, causing a landslide of potatoes. As Iris tries to stop them all from toppling to the floor, she sees me standing there, looking down at her with a huge grin on my face.
    “Carter. Um.” She struggles to gain control over the pile of vegetables and when they finally come to a halt, she stands up straight with her arms spread wide, just in case they have second thoughts.
    Once she’s convinced they’re staying put, she nods, then looks up at me. She’s paralyzed all of a sudden. She’s uncomfortable. Good. She didn’t expect to see me and that gives me the upper hand here. And although I could confront her right now and get it over with, tell her what I think of her