Page 54 of Final Proposal

I create a rhythm of destruction. A soundtrack to accompany my racing thoughts.

The plan is to do this until I collapse from exhaustion. Until I can no longer think. Until I can no longer want.

In theory anyway.

There is contentment in putting in the labor that I never expected. In tearing something down to build it back up. To having my hands dirty and my shirt sweaty.

I know the minute she’s there.

I can faintly smell her perfume, even with the dust suffocating the room, before I hear her footsteps.

But I don’t turn. I don’t look. I keep working.

Lift. Smash. Yank.

Everything is pent-up—desire, rage, confusion, need—and it’s best if I leave it all the fuck alone.

“Are you enjoying the show or are you going to say something?” I snip at her.

Lift.

“We have a problem.”

Smash.

“Of course, we have a problem.” His name is Chandler Holcomb.

Yank.

“The helpers today? The day laborers we were able to get to help?”

“What about them?” I don’t even stop to look at her.

“They, uh . . . they took down the wall of your room.”

“Great. Perfect. Par for the fucking course. I can sleep on the beach for all I care.”

“You do that.”

“Better than being in here with you,” I mutter.

“What’s your fucking problem, Sharpe?” she asks, stepping into my periphery.

Don’t look, Ford. “My problem?” Do. Not. Look. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Could’ve fooled the fuck out of me.”

“Wouldn’t be hard now, would it?” I grunt as I hit the last large piece of drywall still intact.

“Will you stop for a second?” she yells.

“I’ve got to get this done. Got to stay on schedule. Got to—” She yanks on my bicep as my arm is in mid-swing. I drop the sledgehammer with a thud and turn on her, a ball of fury in my gut. “Are you fucking crazy?” I shout.

“Clearly I am for agreeing to do this project with you, a moody, asshole-ish fucker.”

“Sorry if that was meant to be an insult . . . but it wasn’t.”

“I don’t care.” She puts her hands on her hips and huffs.