Chapter 24
The Neighbor
JONAH
The next morning starts with a text from Zoe teasing me about my taste in sleep shirts, which has the Dickens’s Beaver mascot on it, and the absolute certainty that if I don’t talk to my neighbor, Gwen’s going to find a way to screw me over after all.
It’s Gwen, and Gwen plays dirty.
I nurse a mug of coffee on the kitchen island, squinting through the blinds at the house across the street.
There he is—Adam, my neighbor, mid-fifties, built like a cross between a mailman and a marathon runner.
He carries himself in a way that screams “I spend eight hours a week perfecting my lawn” and “if you breathe loud at 11 p.m., I will absolutely call the police.” The kind of neighbor who can spot a dandelion from fifty yards and makes you feel guilty about it.
He’s at his curb, already grumbling at the mailbox. Nice.
I slam back the rest of my coffee and head out. The morning is the first week of April perfection—cool and bright. If Adam’s going to hold my noisy past against me, better to get it over with.
I cross the street. He sees me and gives me a half-wave, but I’ll take it.
“Morning,” I say, voice light. “Perfect day, huh?”
He closes his mailbox. “Suppose.”
This conversation’s off to a roaring start. I stand, thumb hooked in my pocket. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence.
Small talk. Never my strong suit. Especially not with guys who’ve filed God-knows-how-many noise complaints against me.
“How’s the garden?” I ask because I’m a bonehead and can literally see him already sizing up the soil by his driveway.
He glances at his flower bed—small buds and fresh mulch. “Needs work. Probably going to be a late bloom.”
“It’s still cool, that’s for sure.”
He leans against his mailbox, eyes narrowed. “What can I help you with?”
Right. We’re not friendly neighbors, so I should just get to it. “I noticed a brown Buick in your driveway yesterday evening.”
“Gwen Anders.”
“Yes.” I blink. “So…she’s my ex’s mother, and I wanted to apologize if her visit caused any hassle. Or if it wasn’t about us at all and she was just, you know, out trolling the neighborhood for attention.”
Adam snorts. “She was at my door pretending to care about my tomato cages. Even brought a notepad.”
“Okay.”
He smirks. “I’ve known Gwen a long time. When I used to live in Boise with my ex-wife. Haven’t talked to her in years. Didn’t expect to see her now—figured she wanted something.”
“She did. I think she was fishing for information about me. And—” I hesitate, because the kid card is always tricky. “—about my son, Eli.”
Adam holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Relax. She asked, but I didn’t bite. I told her I don’t keep up with you and haven’t seen you in months.”
I blink, stunned. “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “People think I’m an asshole because I complain about noise. But I’m not cruel. Divorce is a war-zone. My ex? She once convinced half the block I was dealing weed out of my garage because I didn’t want to do date night. Lost custody for a year over a rumor. Believe me, I get it.”
I let that sink in. I’m so relieved, I almost fall over. “Thank you.” I exhale.
“She left here pretty quick after she realized I wasn’t going to bend. Told her I had some back issues, needed to go ice my sciatica.”
“Smart man.”
“If she calls again, I’ll just block her number like I have everyone in this neighborhood.” He shoots me a sideways look. “You’re doing okay, right? It’s not my business, but—after what I went through, I have a soft spot for dads fighting to be with their kids.”
The hit lands straight in the chest. I nod, jaw locked. “We’re…we’re good. It’s not easy.”
He shrugs, like he knew that all along. “Seems like a tough situation, and I’m sorry about that. You ever need backup, let me know. Neighbors don’t have to be friends, but it doesn’t mean I want to see a kid get caught in the crossfire.”
I stand, hands loose at my side, feeling pounds of anxiety tumble off my shoulders. Even the air tastes lighter. “Thanks, Adam. Really. Means a lot.”
He shoves his mail under his arm. “Don’t let it go to your head. I still expect your garbage cans off the curb by sundown.”
“Wouldn’t want to fuck up your curb appeal.”
He grins, and there’s a connection in it, a common enemy.
I back off with a wave. “See you around.”
“Sure thing.” He’s already turning for his front door.
I walk home with a bounce. The sun’s a little warmer. Hell, the grass looks greener.
I have the world’s most intimidating neighbor in my corner.
I exhale. Long, slow, all the way down.
I’ve got this. Bring on whatever’s next. I’m ready.