Page 40 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

SEVENTEEN

Brush in hand, Jules pressed the pad of their thumb along the battered palette, swirling a streak of cobalt into a murky violet.

They’d woken before their alarm, startled and blinking in the pale hush of the bedroom, the prospect of uninterrupted hours at the mural enough to jolt them upright for once.

They’d lost an entire week of work due to recent storms, but today was supposed to be sunny and not oppressively warm.

The morning air invigorated them. The wall stretched before them, half-finished, its riot of shapes still disjointed, which was something they hoped to remedy today.

They stood back, squinting, measuring imperfection against intention.

The mural was messy and vibrant and a little too ambitious—just like them.

Their stomach rumbled, protesting the skipped breakfast in favor of early light and empty streets. From inside Sweet & Simple, the scent of yeast and sugar floated through the vents, cinnamon and coffee rolling out in waves. Jules inhaled, letting it ground them.

They shuffled their playlist, earbuds in, but they paused the music when nothing called out to them, wanting the cocoon of routine more than actual sound.

The quiet settled in, not lonely, just open.

Each brushstroke pulled them deeper, the drag of bristles a steady thrum in their chest. Jules misted the palette with water, the cool spray catching their knuckles, and let the rhythm of creation soften the world’s edges.

The mural’s colors—too bright in places, tentative in others—mirrored something inside them, a tension between pride and the certainty they’d never be enough.

As the wall took shape, Jules’s mind began to drift.

The gallery meeting in Afton loomed at the edge of their thoughts, too big to look at head-on.

Mr. Belmont was excited about their art, but that didn’t mean the show was a foregone conclusion.

They’d still need to put together a portfolio to show the others who would be at the meeting.

Their phone buzzed in their pocket. A text from Keaton:

Walk-through at the apartments today! Missed you at breakfast. Dinner tonight?

Jules smiled despite the flutter of anxiety in their chest. The last two weeks had seemed perfect.

Keaton had made it a priority to spend every evening helping Jules sort through the crates of paintings in storage, followed by quiet time in front of the TV before heading to bed together.

The thought of moving out of Keaton’s apartment left them with a hollow ache they couldn’t quite explain, especially now that things felt steadier between them.

But they needed to know this relationship was built on something real, not just convenience or fear of being alone.

Can’t wait. Good luck today.

They tucked their phone away, cursing Keaton’s timing. They should be happy to know they’d soon move into a place of their own, but the prospect of being truly alone for the first time in their life unsettled them. Closing their eyes, they took a few breaths to recenter and focus themself.

Ollie appeared in his bakery apron and garishly patterned socks, balancing a white box on one palm and a to-go cup in the other. “If you don’t take this cinnamon roll, I will be forced to immortalize a whole fleet of kittens in the bottom corner of your mural. You know I’m not bluffing, Jules.”

Jules grinned despite themself, swiping sweat from their brow with the back of their forearm, only realizing afterward that their arm was still splattered with paint.

They loved how Ollie showed up at just the right time, as if he was so attuned to Jules he knew when something was off.

“You’d only do it for the aesthetic. Or the Instagram likes. ”

“Performance art, darling. The world needs more cats in public spaces.” Ollie set the box on the nearest milk crate, the cinnamon roll inside still warm, cream cheese icing pooling in the corners. He eyed the half-finished wall, then Jules, sharp and proud. “You’re making progress.”

Jules accepted the coffee, the paper cup instantly smudged with paint. “Thanks for this. I kept promising myself I’d get breakfast after one more section, but it’s been two hours and I’m already talking to the wall.”

Ollie snorted. “The wall’s a better listener than most. But I make better coffee.” He sat on a battered folding chair, feet propped on the curb, and cut into the pastry with the reverence of a sacred ritual. “Eat. Or I’m going to sabotage your paint with glitter.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” Ollie didn’t need to work at the bakery, but he did so because he loved it. He claimed it was better than baking at home and having to eat everything himself. Which was fair.

Jules rolled their eyes and tore off a corner of their own roll—gooey, sweet, a little too much but perfect anyway.

They watched the mural’s colors shift as the light changed, their own anxiety dissolving in Ollie’s presence.

“Yes, but lucky for you, it’s a slow morning so far.

Megan told me to come out and keep you company for a little bit.

Someone has to keep you from overthinking every detail. ”

Jules snorted, but the laughter was grateful, lifting something heavy from their chest. “And you’re the man for the job?”

Ollie shrugged, all casual bravado. “Other than that sexy boyfriend of yours, absolutely. You need a hype man, and I need an excuse to put off cleaning the espresso machine.”

Jules licked their fingers clean, knowing they should get back to work. They wanted to finish the painting before the big Fourth of July celebration, and that wasn’t going to happen sitting around all morning.

“You know, for what it’s worth, you’re the only artist I know who worries about being too much and not enough in the same breath. Maybe today, you can just be.”

Jules let his friend’s observation settle in his chest. Ollie was right.

Unless they were working on something no one would ever see, they tended to let the pressure of what others would think get to them.

They glanced at the mural—unfinished, imperfect, but humming with life—and for the first time in days, felt something like pride take root.

If they could ignore the fact that everyone who drove down Main Street would see the finished work, their mind would be free to do whatever they wanted.

They tipped their head back, letting the gentle breeze dry the sweat from their hairline.

Maple Hill was finally coming to life on this sleepy Friday morning.

A group of kids whizzed past on their bikes, chasing after a dog dragging its leash.

Jules took a moment to simply absorb everything that was going on around them, everything they loved about this little town.

Ollie’s shoulder pressed against Jules’s, the weight of him steady and undemanding. He sipped his coffee with the kind of focus usually reserved for life’s bigger questions, one ankle hooked over the other, bakery apron gathered between his knees. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Jules peeled a sticker from their cup—one of Ollie’s, a little cartoon bread loaf with a grin—and rolled the sticky paper between their fingers, staring at the mural.

The colors were bolder than they’d intended, but Jules hadn’t bothered to rein themself in once inspiration struck.

The wall was honest in a way that made Jules’s chest ache: not perfect, but unmistakably theirs.

“I keep thinking I should feel different,” Jules said at last, voice low, as if the bakery’s clatter might drown out anything too honest. “Like, proud or accomplished. But mostly I’m just…

tired. And nervous all the time.” Their thumb flicked the sticker away.

It landed in a crack in the sidewalk, a tiny, bright thing in the dust. “The mural will be done in a few weeks, and then what? I have the gallery show, but what if I’m biting off more than I can chew?

What if I take my best pieces up there and no one buys anything? ”

The confession left behind a raw, hollow echo. Jules couldn’t look at Ollie, not yet. Instead, they let their gaze follow a line of ants winding along the concrete, wishing self-doubt could be swept up as easily as crumbs.

Ollie let the silence settle, unfurling slow and gentle between them.

When he finally spoke, it was a soft nudge, not a push.

“Do you realize every print you left at the bookstore is gone? Sold out.” He nudged Jules’s side with his knee.

“People keep coming in and asking if there’ll be more.

Apparently, you’re a hot commodity. The same’s going to happen in Afton, and eventually, we’ll all reminisce about how we knew you when you were a nobody. ”

Jules laughed, surprised and a little shaky. “They probably just like the colors. Or think I’m a sad, starving artist.”

Ollie snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not pity. They want more because your work says something. Even when you think you’re just making a mess, you’re making something real. That’s rare.” He let that settle, then added, voice sly, “And you can tell Mr. Gallery Guy that if he asks.”

Jules pressed the heel of their palm to their brow, as if they might rub away the anxieties crowding their skull. “I wish I could believe it. Maybe I’m just scared that if I start believing, it’ll all go away. Or I’ll mess it up.”

For a while, neither of them said anything. The sidewalk warmed under the growing buzz of the day—trucks rumbling down the street, the bakery’s bell ringing again and again as customers came and went. Jules traced a line through the dirt with their shoe.

Ollie tipped his head back against the brick, eyes squinted almost shut. “Is moving out about proving something to Keaton, or to yourself?”

The sudden change in topic threw Jules for a loop. Leave it to Ollie to dig into the actual thing that was worrying Jules.