Room for Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

in boxes. Also, I had a brainstorm that the kitchen needed an unusual backsplash over the counter and bought a ton of metallic mosaic tiles I fell in love with at a going-out-of-business sale, and now they are sitting dejected on my kitchen floor along with more cardboard boxes. I don’t have curtains on my bedroom window yet, so in the meantime I duct-taped a towel to the molding above it. An annoying living room window will not stay shut. There is a lot of renovating and personalizing left to do, and not only are my credit cards maxed out, but I’m irritated with the strapping, selfless, handy boyfriend I don’t have who would be dying to build me shelves and hang my pictures and fix my window and hold my hand on daily Kmart runs.
    Each time I’m sweating my way back from Bed Bath & Beyond with bags full of shower curtain, stepladder, ironing board, and plunger-type stuff, I curse the guy I haven’t met yet who should be helping me lug it all. The other day I was at the hardware store on First Avenue, which I love because the guys who work there are so helpful and the owner has a big, friendly white mutt named Buster (after Buster Keaton) who lounges by the door. When I first moved to the neighborhood eight years ago, I was a disaster; I didn’t even own a hammer. After I had borrowed about sixteen basic household tools from the grumpy British bald guy who lived next door to me, he directed me to the hardware store, where the owner, a handsome Irishman in his sixties with a twinkle in his eye, set me up with everything I’d ever need in a toolbox: hammer, nails, screwdriver, screws, adjustable wrench, putty knife, spackle, awl, pliers, tape measure, utility knife, and paintbrushes, all neatly arranged in a bright red box, plus a plunger, turpentine, and baby wipes, which he said always seem to come in handy. I ran around, eyes aflame, bouncing on my toes, squealing for joy with each step I took toward being a functional adult with my own apartment. Sweet Mr. Connelly must have thought I was a lunatic, but he acted like I was the nicest girl in the world.
    So, the other day I was in there getting a box of nails to hang pictures and the two buckets of Rosé Sorbet paint that will eventually coat the bathroom walls, and I just about lost it. A cranky old man bumped into me, causing me to lurch forward and drop the box of nails, and they scattered everywhere. I was so flustered and tired already and there were so many nails spread so far, I burst into tears. Mr. Connelly’s cute son who runs the place since his dad died about six months ago—broad shoulders, strawberry-blond hair, lumberjack attire, the Connelly twinkle—rushed over to sweep them up.
    â€œDon’t worry, it’s not a big deal,” he said. “Hey, sit down here—” He patted an upside-down milk crate on the floor by the register. “I’ll go get you another box.” He smiled at me and his pale, freckled cheeks turned geranium pink.
    â€œOkay,” I croaked. When he came back, I whined to him about how it wasn’t right that I had to fix up my whole apartment by myself; that my sister was staying with me, but she has the eeriest ability to be running late for an apartment visit or a Pilates class every time I ask her to unpack a box or buy toilet paper. And that I’m dating a guy who is useless: He prides himself on being a good handyman, but in his current I’m-not-your-boyfriend phase he likes to remind me on a regular basis that he should not have to do boyfriend duty. I realized I was getting a bit too personal and stood up.
    â€œMy girlfriend’s bad about that stuff, too,” the cute hardware-store guy said, his cheeks turning pink again. I’d seen him in the shop with a girl a bunch of times, one of those naturally pretty hippie waifs who wears size-2 Urban Outfitters and no makeup. “You can leave the stuff here and I’ll drop it off at your place