Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Those same lips scolded me just a few days ago.
“Everyone knows your aunt and uncle, so I’m sure they would love to meet their nephew …”
Then praised me.
Confused me.
His eyes drop to my chest. “Sorry. The food’s going cold ‘cause I can’t shut up. Anyway. Enjoy. Door’s open. Like I said.”
Then he’s off my porch and crunching back over the grass to his house. I’m left here holding a plate of food in silence.
I take it inside.
Peel off the foil.
Two brisket sliders. A square of jalapeño cornbread. Scoop of potato salad. A deviled egg. Chocolate chip cookie wrapped in a unicorn napkin.
And tucked against the side is a banana-nut muffin, like an afterthought.
But it’s that afterthought that catches my eye first.
Just like the muffins he brought over in that basket.
It’s the only thing on the plate suddenly that makes sense. It’s like a message. It’s like, hey, here I am, here’s my thinking of you, I asked Billy to bring some, this is specifically for you.
I hate it instantly.
Then it’s the first thing I eat.
One insanely tasty mouthful at a time.
Gone just like that.
Everything else is good, too, I won’t lie. But that muffin sits in me like a hug. Still warm, like it came straight out of an oven and not just room-temperature, plucked off a snack table, and slapped onto a plate.
I leave no crumbs.
I set the plate in the sink and stare through the front window at the not-really-a-movie-night next door.
There’s no way I’m stepping foot in that house.
He invited me, sure. That’s not nothing.
He isn’t forcing me to come. Isn’t guilting me into it, either.
He just brought me a plate of food, made me feel included, let me know it’s an open invite, and went back to entertain his guests.
But why bother?
Why all this unnecessary neighborliness?
I’m not your damned neighbor.
After giving my dad’s book one more try and giving up again, I kick off my clothes and crawl into bed.
Then toss and turn for hours.
Until long after I’m sure the last guest’s gone and it’s just me in this empty house and Wyatt in his.
Sunday morning, I’m running on less than three hours’ sleep.
And the orchid on the front sill looks weird.
Why does it look weird?
I’ve been watering it every day. It gets sun. What the hell?
I pull out my phone and look up “orchid too much water”.
I look up “orchid leaf wrinkled”.
And “how to not kill orchid”.
Then “do orchids hate windows”.
And “moth orchid care simple not complicated easy”.
Then “how indirect is indirect light???”
I resent every fucking answer this thing spits back at me. The wordy DIY videos. Bored-sounding gardeners. Chipper ones, too. I snort when some site tells me to put an ice cube in the pot. What the hell is a plant gonna do with an ice cube? Am I being trolled?
Wyatt leaves his house in a pair of khakis and a plaid shirt all buttoned up and fitted. Handsome, styled hair. Wristwatch. Shoes that shine in the morning sunlight. Didn’t take him for much of a churchgoer, but there he is, obviously heading there.
He stops at the side of his car and peers over at my house.
I duck beneath the counter, nearly taking the orchid with me.
When I lift my head back up, he’s driven off, gone.
In the late afternoon, I’m outside working on the car when he comes back home. I pretend not to notice when he gets out of his vehicle. And again when he waves. I pretend I’ve got my nose too far in the engine to see him—even though I can see him clearly. He hesitates before dropping his hand, and something in my chest does a stupid little twist.
Fine. Let it twist. He’ll learn to stop trying so hard with me.
He stays there for a moment by his car. I won’t flatter myself and assume he’s waiting for me to respond. He’s probably giving the flowerbed a looking over, making sure I didn’t destroy it while he was at church.
Then: “Might want to pull it back from the window a bit.”
I lift my head from the engine.
He’s closer suddenly. Crouched by the flowerbed, watering it.
When’d he come closer? When’d he get the hose?
I flinch away. “Huh?”
“Orchid.” He nods at the front window. “Too much sunlight.”
His eyes in the afternoon sun are sparkling.
Like fucking diamonds.
What am I supposed to do about that?
“They like indirect sunlight,” he goes on, his voice annoyingly patient, “and our front windows are southwest-facing, so maybe not the best unless they’re blocked by shear curtains. Like the ones that … used to be there.” It looks for a second like he’s about to say something else, then changes his mind. “And they like—”
“Ice cubes, I know.”
Wyatt blinks. “Ice cubes …?” He sucks in his lips. “Someone’s been on the internet.”
I grip my wrench tighter—uh, no, I mean my ratchet. “Just tell me what the hell’s up with the ice cubes.”