Chapter Twenty-Six - Fighting About Paint Colors

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Fighting About Paint Colors

IT STARTED AS a fun project.

We were going to repaint the guest room.
Neutral vibes. Cozy but light. Something elevated.
We said we’d pick a color and knock it out in a weekend.

It took six weeks and almost ended in bloodshed.

She walked into the store with a vision.

I walked in with a mission:
Get the paint. Get out.

Two minutes in, we were holding a stack of swatches thicker than our mortgage packet.

“This one’s more beige,” she said.

“They’re literally the same color.”

“No, this one has warm undertones.”

“Warm undertones? What is this, a wine tasting?”

She didn’t laugh.

Cut to us in the aisle under those horrible fluorescent lights, arguing over whether “Misty Lake” or “Pale Dune” was closer to the aesthetic she was feeling.

I suggested just flipping a coin.

She glared like I had personally insulted her bloodline.

By the third store, we were both hangry.
I accidentally called “Clay Whisper” ugly. Like, what?
She told me my childhood bedroom probably looked like a Crayola factory had a seizure.

I said, “Do you want to do this on your own?”
She said, “Maybe I should.”

And just like that, silence.

The kind that isn’t about paint anymore.

We got home.
Closed the door.
Still quiet.

I walked past her in the hallway.
She didn’t move.
Neither did I.

We just stood there.
Backs to the wall.
Breathing the same heavy air.

Then she said, “I don’t care about the paint.”

And I said, “I know. Me neither.”

Then she looked at me.
Eyes soft again.

“It’s just... I want it to feel like us.”

And that broke me a little.

Because it wasn’t about color.

It was about trying.
To create something we’d both see ourselves in.

So we picked the ugliest, most unremarkable shade we could both tolerate.

We painted that room while listening to sad indie music and eating pizza on the tarp.
We got high on fumes and kissed with paint on our noses.

She was red and I was blue and we made purple.

And when it dried?

It was perfect.

Not because it was the right shade.
Because we picked it together.