Chapter 5
Wade
(FORMERLY SAMMY THE MALAMUTE)
The hot tub is chill. Which doesn’t sound right. More like chilling in the hot tub. That’s what I’m doing.
Bossman’s set up on the upper deck is sick. Fairy lights, a beverage station, a hot tub that has more jets than I can count, and a fully integrated sound system. There’s even a little cabinet thing by the door that is heated and contains towels, bath robes, and rubber deck shoes.
Some day when I’m rich I want heated towels too.
But for now, it’s just a cool way to spend my night alone.
I’m sipping on a sparkling water—gotta hydrate in a hot tub—and getting blasted with half a dozen jets. My legs keep floating up and out which makes me think maybe I need to hit the gym more often or something. I shouldn’t be this buoyant. I don’t think.
I’m not bad on the ice. I could join one of those hobby hockey leagues and bulk up my thighs.
My Christmas tunes are filling me with some holiday spirit.
I’ve earned this time alone.
School, work, my traitorous roommate, moving back in with my parents.
It’s been a busy year.
A good one, for the most part.
Though people do like to dump on me for some reason.
Whatever. I like me.
Mariah Carey starts singing.
Damn. I don’t need her bouncy optimism right now that Santa can deliver.
Even if I don’t ask for anything else from the big guy this year, he can’t make Erika change her mind.
“Hey, Google, change this song,” I say.
I’m not sure if the speakers out here can hear me or what, but I figure it’s worth a shot. Each high note Mariah hits pierces my heart.
“Okay. What do you want to listen to?”
I’m starting to understand why dudes have AI girlfriends. This Google chick’s voice is oddly soothing.
“The saddest break up songs ever.”
I’m going to regret this.
But you gotta feel the hurt to move through it, man. Can’t ignore the hard feelings. Respect the heart or you’ll poison it.
I’m singing along to The Bangles when I hear a voice. Not my Google girl, but a man.
“I can’t decide if I should call the police because you’re in my neighbor’s hot tub or because of your singing voice. Put a cork in it, mate.”
I whip my head around and realize the neighbor is sitting out on his deck, smoking a cigar. These houses are close together. I can practically reach out and touch the guy. He’s bundled up in a hat and coat, a tumbler glass resting on the deck railing.
“Oh, um, hello. Sorry about that. Just going through some stuff.”
“Well go through it faster. I come out here to relax, not experience karaoke night.”
That hurts a little. My voice isn’t that bad.
Okay, maybe it is.
The guy is older, probably in his seventies. I feel like he shouldn’t be smoking a cigar at his age, but everyone has their own journey. I guess his includes cigars.
“I’ll take it down a notch,” I tell him. “Google, turn down the volume by three.”
“Okay.” The music dims a little.
“Better?” I ask the grumpy neighbor.
He nods. “I can live with that. So what are you going through, kid? And are you one of those social media daredevils who breaks into hot tubs for views?”
That wouldn’t be a bad gig. But I’m kind of a straight arrow. The only thing I’ve ever broken into was my own piggy bank when I was five. I really wanted to buy the new Mario Kart game and my mom wouldn’t let me so I tried to make shit happen on my own.
It didn’t, if you were wondering. I only had five bucks and no wheels to get to Game Stop.
“No. I work for Nathan Armstrong. I’m house sitting.”
“Ah. Heard they were headed to Aspen for a few days. So is the stuff a romantic partner? Trouble in relationship paradise?”
I sip my water. I don’t feel like this dude is going to be super sympathetic but at the same time he can’t be any worse than my sisters, who had advice that ranged from “Stay single, trust me,” to my mother’s super not helpful, “She’s awfully short,” like Erika’s damn height has anything to do with anything.
“There’s a girl. I really like her. She’s smart and funny and very competitive. She checked me on the ice the first time I met her. I think I fell in love right then and there.”
The man nods. “Confidence is sexy. So what happened?”
“She lives in Texas. She broke up with me in a text last week. Said she doesn’t feel like the relationship is real.”
“It is hard to be apart like that. She in the military or something?”
“No. That’s where she’s from.”
“She can’t move here?”
“She doesn’t want to.”
“You can’t move there?”
I think about that. I’ve thought about this before. I always come to the same conclusion. “That feels too risky, you know? My whole life is here. Family, friends, my job. Don’t want to lose all of that.”
“Then you must not love her. And she must not love you. Because love is all about risk. If you wanted to be together, you’d take a leap of faith. One of you would move or hell, you’d pick somewhere in the middle. Meet me in St. Louis. That kind of thing.”
“You want me to move to St. Louis? I’ve never been to St. Louis.”
The guy actually chuckles. “That is not the point. The point is, if you want to be with her, talk to her. Tell her.”
“Oh.” I mull that over.
“Do you miss her?”
“Yes.” Like, everything would be better if she were in this hot tub next to me. I’m lonely without her. “I’m just going through the motions.”
“Then call her. None of this text bullshit. Pick up the phone and call the girl. If I were you, I’d want to know I tried everything to make it work. If I loved her.”
For the first time in days, hope sparks in my chest. “Right on,” I say. “Good call, man.”
He nods. “Good luck, son. I’m heading in. Enjoy your night.”
“Thanks, you, too.”
I need to get out of this hot tub.
Time to stop feeling sorry for myself.
No more securing the perimeter of my heart like Erika is a thief out to steal it.
She is not the enemy.
She’s my person.
I think about the way she smiles at me and flips her blond hair.
The way she puts my name into songs when she’s casually singing.
How she can do a high kick in her mascot costume.
Hopping out of the hot tub I snag a towel from the heated cabinet and wrap it around my waist. I slide on a fluffy robe and step into a pair of the sandals. Even though the December air is cold, I’m on fire from both the hot tub and the knowledge of what I need to do.
Shoot my shot.
Get the girl.
Or go down trying.
By the time I get down a flight of stairs to the middle of the three story house, I hear my Google girl talking in the kitchen.
At least I think that’s her.
If not, then someone else is in the house.
Hell, no, that isn’t happening.
Not on my watch. I told Mr. Armstrong I would protect his house and I fully intend to.
I tighten the belt on my robe and kick off the rubber sandals.
Gotta go into stealth mode.
Phone in hand in case I need it as a weapon or to call 911, I creep down another set of steps to the first floor.
It is the Google chick.
“Motion detected on front steps,” she tells me.
Well, that can’t be good. It’s the middle of the night.
Maybe it’s a raccoon. Do they have raccoons in rich neighborhoods?
I tap the tablet and find a view of the front door.
It’s a person.
A tiny blonde person.
Wearing no hat and no scarf and a denim jacket.
Like she’s from Texas.
Holy shit.
That’s Erika.
I gallop to the front door and throw it open.
Erika blinks, taking in my robe and bare chest.
Then she smiles up at me.
“Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.”