Chapter 3
Ivy
For all that, mere hours later, those thoughts come back to bite me in the ass.
“Our neighbor hates me.”
Joe glances up at me, chocolate chip cookie in hand. A few crumbs fall from the corner of his mouth onto the chipped kitchen table and the flight guide he’s been highlighting while I sketch. Or try to, at least.
“Ford doesn’t hate you.”
“I’m pretty sure he does,” I argue for some reason. Hadn’t I already decided this wasn’t worth my time?
I glance down at my blank sketch pad, and the frustration increases.
“He frowned at me today at Sunny Stitches and didn’t say hello back. It was awkward and weird.”
“Why was he there?” he asks distractedly, turning the page of his guide.
“He came in with Lexi. His niece.”
“Oh, yeah, Lexi. I met her once,” he comments before finishing his cookie and reaching for another one. Ethan’s mom always bakes extra for us, and they’re addictive.
“What do you know about him?” And because that question makes me sound like a creep, I add, “I mean, you never told me about him. How did you even meet?”
“This summer. I was on the porch after a fight with Dad. Logan’s party, remember? He didn’t want to take me. I told you about it.”
He did, and I’m no less angry about it months later.
I felt helpless, hearing my brother sob on the phone because our father was being a piece of shit again.
Sure, him not driving Joe to a birthday party wasn’t the end of the world, but it happened the same week he accidentally knocked over a beer on Joe’s treasured flight guide, ruining the entire book—then refused to buy him a new one because they’re too expensive.
“I went outside because I needed fresh air,” Joe continues.
“Ford had just moved in. He pulled into his driveway and asked me if I was okay. Said he was a firefighter and could help. I said I didn’t need anything, so he left.
But then I asked him if he knew of someone who was hiring.
A job that was easy because I’m still in high school.
He asked me if I wanted to mow his lawn, and that was it. ”
Something uncomfortable that has nothing to do with the grouch next door settles in the pit of my stomach.
“Jojo, you don’t need a job. If you need money, just ask me. You should be focusing on school.”
“I’m focusing on school,” he argues, not glancing up from the page. Something about throttles I can’t even begin to understand. “But you always say I’m an adult in the making or whatever, and that I should learn to handle responsibilities.”
Oh, look, if those aren’t my own words coming back to haunt me.
“I do say that,” I concede. “What I mean is that you should clean up after yourself, do laundry, learn basic cooking skills, things like that. It’s fine if you want to keep mowing lawns, I won’t stop you, but having a job isn’t what you’re supposed to be doing at sixteen.
Not in this household anyway. I make money, and you get into flight school. That’s the deal.”
I know what it’s like to grow up too fast and be forced into a job out of survival. Joe won’t go through the same thing.
His dream has always been to become a pilot. At first, I thought it was just a phase. After trains and dinosaurs, it was airplane time. Nan joked that boats would be next, but they never came.
At ten, he started looking into flight schools.
That’s how I found out how expensive they were, but also how badly he wanted to go—he would watch video after video about aviation, read technical books, and spit out random plane facts on our drive to school; that’s how I learned that the air inside planes is drier than in the Sahara Desert.
When it became clear that Dad didn’t take his dream seriously, I started a savings account for flight school. To this day, I’m still putting money aside for it.
“I know what the deal is,” he says, sounding uninterested as he flips through the new flight guide I got him after Dad ruined his last one. “I’m gonna keep mowing, though. It’s only on the weekends. Also, he put in a good word for me, and I’m starting on his brother’s lawn soon.”
“All right. If that’s what you want to do.”
“Yep.”
“Cool.” I reach for another cookie. It’s a good thing I can’t bake to save my life, or else we would drown in these weekly. “Anyway, has Ford ever said anything about me?”
“You won’t drop this, will you?” When I don’t answer, he says, “He’s never talked to me about you.”
“Which means he hates me.”
Now he looks at me. Annoyingly, to be specific. “You’re losing it.”
“But you didn’t say I was wrong.”
“I did at the start of this conversation.”
I stick my tongue out at him like the mature adult I’m supposed to be. “Whatever. Is he usually cosplaying the Grinch minus the costume?”
“He’s not like that. Maybe a little serious, but not Grinch level. Stop asking me about him. You’re being obsessive.”
“Excuse you, I think I’m allowed to be a little obsessive from time to time. I’m usually pretty levelheaded.”
“If you say so,” the little turd muses. As if a light bulb had just lit up above his head, he suggests, “Why don’t you go give him some cookies as a peace offering?”
“Cookies?”
“Everyone likes cookies. If he turns them down or glares at you, then maybe you’re right and he doesn’t like you.”
I might be losing it more than I think, because his plan doesn’t sound half bad.
Still, I hesitate. “Are you saying we should give these precious cookies away?”
“Ethan’s mom makes something for us, like, every week. We’re her guinea pigs at this point. But you don’t have to give them all away. Take three or four.”
“That would make me look stingy.”
He groans. “Take the whole plate, then.”
“Over my dead body.”
He tilts his head back and shuts his eyes, so done with me, it makes me smirk. “Take six.”
“Fine.”
I grab a plastic container and stuff it with six cookies. Bye-bye, babies. I hope the grumpy man enjoys you, at least.
I hesitate at the door. “On a scale from one to ten, how sure are you that he isn’t a psychopath?”
Joe throws one of his pens at me, and I laugh, barely ducking it.
But it gives me an idea.
“What now?” he asks suspiciously as I pick up the pen and steal one of his sticky notes he’s using to annotate his guide. He can’t enroll in flight school for another two years, but he’s already studying his ass off. My little nerd.
“Being a good neighbor,” I mutter as I scribble in bold capital letters: I’M SORRY (AGAIN). I HOPE YOU LIKE COOKIES AND FORGIVING PEOPLE FOR DOING DUMB THINGS.
I add a smiley face for full effect, and done.
Joe sighs with a headshake.
I ignore him. “Love you, Jojo. I’ll be back in five.”
“Yeah, yeah. Love you,” he mutters, sounding tired. I can’t blame him; I am being a little crazy today.
Not so deep down, I also know I’m being ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop me from crossing over to Ford’s property. I’m just trying to be a good neighbor—that’s what I keep telling myself in the agonizing moments between me ringing his doorbell and his front door opening.
My pulse jumps when I hear a lock. Almost in slow motion, his door opens to reveal the deep scowl I’m becoming weirdly familiar with.
“Hi,” I say in what I’m hoping is a friendly voice.
“Hey.” There’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice, but at least he’s said hi back. I count that as a win. “Everything okay?”
Because I’m shameless, I let my eyes roam over him for a brief moment instead of answering his question. His short hair is slightly tousled, as if he has just woken up from a nap. His outfit backs up my guess—a T-shirt that looks as old as I am and sweatpants. Gray ones.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I rush out, internally wincing for staring. “I shouldn’t have come unannounced like this. If you have company….”
I don’t remember seeing a wedding band on his finger, and he isn’t wearing one now. Still, that doesn’t mean he can’t have his fun.
Heat rushes to my cheeks at the same time that he says, “You’re fine.”
But he’s not confirming or denying that he was with someone else before his crazy neighbor came knocking.
Why do I even care?
Before I can embarrass myself any further, I hold out the plastic container with the cookies and the sticky note in his direction. “Here. Apology cookies.”
He blinks at the container as if I’ve just handed him a human heart. “Apology cookies,” he repeats slowly.
“I didn’t make them,” I feel compelled to clarify. Maybe he thinks I would poison them. “Baking is not my forte. Or cooking, for that matter. Joe and I basically live off frozen food and—”
I stop myself because this poor man doesn’t care.
“Anyway, Joe has a friend, and his mom made a bunch of cookies for us. We have plenty at home, so I thought I’d share. Unless you’re allergic? There are no nuts in them.”
“Thanks.” He takes the container from my grip and eyes the sticky note that I’m now regretting but doesn’t comment on it. “Forget about the shed. It’s all good.”
He had said that, hadn’t he? So what am I doing here? These cookies won’t make him magically like me. That’s not how human connection works.
I take an awkward step back, then another. It would be a fantastic moment for the ground to swallow me whole. “Great. Well… see you around. Enjoy your cookies.”
He doesn’t answer with words but with a curt nod that feels a lot like a dismissal. And as he shuts the door when I still haven’t finished climbing down the steps of his porch, I get my confirmation.
This Ford guy doesn’t like me, doesn’t care about my existence, and I need to accept that nothing I can do or say will change that.