Three weeks later.
Expanding a YouTube channel isn't easy. If you upload too much content too quickly, you run out of new ideas faster. If I do a short video of everything Noah's created, his YouTube subscribers might like it. Maybe... What's more likely is that I'll be that evil producer bitch. The she-devil who is changing everything about the channel they love. Time for the mob to revolt. Perhaps because Noah's channel with his friends was never really about the outside world. It's more of a look into his life and his friends. Maurice is a fireman, his sister Sabali going to college to become a music teacher. Noah's sister Zoey singing her covers. Finally, Noah sometimes plays and builds these beautiful things. That is the YouTube show in a nutshell. The fancy stuff I do doesn't fit the style.
It makes almost anything I try to do feel like an intrusion. As if I'm walking into the secret garden and, in my wake, I'm tripping over all the potted plants.
The expansive workshop wall has tools lined up perfectly. I walk on past all of it on the wall. Each tool in tidy order and labeled. The chisel, mallets, clamps, all in order with such care.
I stop in my tracks at the sound of the outdoor shower. I can be a creep and runoff or I can announce myself like a grownup and then walk away. Option two it is.
"Hello?" I say around the corner.
The water stops. Maurice walks out from the outdoor shower. He's shirtless in swimming trunks. His hand rubs the towel across his thick, honey brown chest. Yet again, holding food out to a starving woman, Mr. Black Kryptonite.
"Tari, you caught me after a workout," he says with a smile. "When I was driving in this morning, I saw someone with a camera at the property line. It's an unfortunate sign that my sister and Zoey are gaining popularity in the contest. The camera guy looks professional." Maurice warned, and a part of his body shifted to the unseen camera guy's possible location.
The threat knocks through the lust haze. "Like paparazzi?" My eyes swing out to the property-line fence, not catching the camera guy. Dang, my gaze, as if drawn to his chest, locks back on. That towel moves against the thick ropes of muscle. He talks about this morning's workout, and I only catch every other word while I watch the towel.
"What's the plan for today?" he asks.
"Huh?" Maurice cuts into my man thirst.
"What is on your agenda today? Do you need any video from me?" He grins, this damn sexy man. "I can't promise you a fire. We're hydrant flushing. It's been pretty slow." Poor Maurice, not realizing the magically mysterious ways of thirsty women on the internet. Hot firefighters emptying thick streams of water in uniform. Lubing up hydrants in the heat, while having the possible chance of all those foamy streams of water to coat the overheated bodies of firefighters. Oh, naïve man. It would break the channel with views.
"No, I wanted to get all of Noah's art digitized for his gallery show next year. I also thought I could make two birds with one stone and get a little video short of it." I shrugged at him. "I think you should wear the GoPro, and I'll look over the video carefully later for anything that can be used." Jo-Lee would be proud of me and that thirsty section of the internet.
"It's a good idea Zoey keeps his older art in the shed next to the warehouse." He points in the shed's direction. I wave bye at Maurice and he smiles in full Mr. Black Kryptonite mode. I avoid thinking about the little moan sound I make in the back of my throat. I walk to the shed, only slightly crooked.
My finger swipes across the light switch in the little side shed, illuminating all of Noah's artwork from two to twenty-seven. Fingertips dance across the booklets of his old work. Outside the open door, the boat sits in sharp relief. Noah's in a flannel work shirt, and he taps away at the boat and his work song is clear. The air is crisp with the smell of cured wood and sea salt that hangs around him wherever he goes. I always have a hint of what he's been working on from the smell. Greenwood's sharp, fresh scent smells different from cured wood. Cured wood's natural oils concentrate into a more distinct scent, plus what he uses to finish. Every job has a distinct smell to it, all different kinds of woodsy.
The more I learn about his family and him, the more I get over the reality of my situation. It's like I don't exist for him. He comes into the house and makes his breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Without a word to me, he goes about his day. I keep up on his mail, letters from the art galleries, and buyers for the latest boat or furniture. But he doesn't say a word to me.
The thick paper rubs against my fingers as I flip through. Zoey was organized with his artwork. The thing that stands out the most is the hard work. It didn't come instantly; it was day-to-day small progress. Tiny wins that added up into talent. Guitars hang ten deep in different stages of completion. Pieces of another unfinished boat hang high in the rafters. Unsold furniture pieces fit into the tiny shed along with keepsakes. From crayon to fine art drawings he must have drawn at least two pictures a day of some sort from two to twenty-eight. Very close to a time capsule.
Each flash of the camera reveals another stage in the growth of his skill. The artwork stops, and I take a picture of his sold art. The simple prints of the missing work, along with its basic sketch. Checking the date, I read, 'Noah Jude, 2009, first painting sold'.
Noah takes a break from his hammering. He stands at the end of the boat, looking down at the door. Sun bounces off his hair, and his colossal body that could put professional wrestlers to shame. He soaks up the rays of the sun and his nose lifts in the air, waiting for that lake breeze.
My phone rings and Theo's name flashes across my cell screen. I walk out of the little shed to get a better signal. Noah looks up from his work and watches me. I give Theo the pickup drop-off times for the kids. The information about the new school. Directions and everything else well organized and sent to him several times already. I repeat all the information again on the fly.
"Yeah, Theo, just be prepared to sign all the paperwork to take them out of school for the first time," I say to my ex.
"I don't feel comfortable with the kids living at your boss's house. He has problems." Theo says in a complete non sequitur to the drop-off pickup conversation we were supposed to have. I walk past Noah and his creations and find an empty place instead of having a completely inappropriate conversion in front of one of my clients.
"One, I'm with a client. Two, we had this conversation," and we have had it multiple times. To the same conclusion. He saw a few videos explaining the channel, and he thinks he knows the guy. He doesn't. Noah cleared a background check, and so did all the people involved with the channel. He did the background check, and there's more to everyone than the background. Imagining threats feels like a tactic to control me. The house is empty for the entire year while his sister goes on tour. It's a better situation than anything I could hope for from a renter's point of view. I'm paying no rent, and they are paying me to stay here. The rent in Sacramento is steep.
"I stand by my assessment that it isn't a safe situation." My eyes narrow at the thinly veiled threat to get lawyers involved. Prison guard speak to sound like he has more authority. As if he's some sort of cop telling me to pull over. One, Theo's not a cop, he's a prison guard, and two, fuck him. I don't take the warning seriously because that would mean more time with two kids to take care of. Kids need rides to school, noses wiped, and knees bandaged. Which he wasn't that much into, to begin with. I highly doubt he wants them around his new wife in the second trimester.
"Well, Theo, I'll be advised," I snap and I hang up the phone. Don't grind your teeth, I chant to myself. Can't afford the dental work.
Noah jumps down from the boat and heads into the workshop. From a line of finished guitars ready for sale, he chooses one and strings it, testing out the sound. His fingers work fast, tuning the guitar. He sets up the camera to record for this Saturday letter for his sister. Noah looks up at me and I catch his eye. He plucks out the song in finger-picking on the classical guitar. Safe & Sound from the Civil Wars. The music wraps around me and something inside relaxes for a second.
A/n
I'm going to be honest when I was writing this. The only thing I hope for more was that black Kryptonite wasn't wearing shorts lol. Then I realize that would just be over the top and I put him in trunks. (sigh.........) the things I do for yall and storytelling.
-Miss OP