Chapter 6
6
N ick
No matter what I try, my mood won’t lift. And the worst part is it’s entirely my fault.
That damn desk. Why didn’t I cover it up like I always do? More importantly, why did I feel the need to uncover it a couple of nights ago in the first place? I never give the desk more than a glance before sliding the tarp around it once again in a feverish attempt to make “out of sight, out of mind” an actual thing. News flash: it isn’t. Out of sight only means you grow more obsessive. The second that question slipped out of Low’s mouth, I wanted to strangle myself. Nothing like being the cause of your own mental downfall and having the aftereffects stretch over twenty-six hours.
I covered that sucker up the second she left yesterday afternoon and have no plans ever to uncover it again.
That’s a lie. I’ll peek at it again today, just like I always do.
So far this morning, I’ve done nothing but work on putting two disassembled bikes back together. The first one was reassembled without a hitch and is standing in the middle of the garage with the kickstand intact. The second—as it typically goes—won’t cooperate as easily. The rusty screw on the back tire needs a few more rotations to be fully secure, but it won’t budge. Consequently, the wheel is a wobbly mess. No kid could ride it safely, and the little girl it belongs to is only six. No way I’m giving this back to her mom in this condition. So, I do the only rational thing I can think of and fling the wrench across the garage, watching as it bounces against the wall and clatters to the floor. And…great. A new hole in the sheetrock. Because that’s what I need, new repairs to add to my growing list of old ones. I’m such an idiot.
What would Sherry say if she?—
I stop that train of thought cold before it freezes in place and derails my whole week. The past twenty-six hours have been bad enough already. I don’t need another trip down that mental landmine while the sun is still up. I’ll save that fun excursion for a midnight whiskey like I usually do.
My phone starts pinging from its spot on the workbench, so I walk over to answer it, thankful for the distraction.
It’s my friend Barry, currently stuck at the airport without a ride because the Uber app won’t open. After a “What’s up?” and a few “Uh huh” and “no problems” that actually do feel like a problem, I grab my keys, hop in the car, and head to the airport to pick him up.
For the entire drive, my sister’s earlier refrain of “You’re a saint” plays on repeat in my head. It isn’t a compliment.
Big sisters are a pain in the butt.
“And then she told me that if I ever want to sleep with her again,” Barry says, “I’d better get home by tonight, or it’ll never happen. But how can she say that when she’s the one refusing to pick me up from the airport? It’s not like I had other options, not when I can’t get any cell service. I mean, I was in the middle of nowhere, for God’s sake…” Barry has complained about his wife since he threw his black duffle in the back seat of my car and fell into the passenger seat with a loud huff. “Obviously, I get that she’s been home with the babies all week, but I planned this fishing trip months ago. Before we even knew we were having twins. What was I supposed to do? Cancel it? That would have affected more people than just me.”
I don’t say that canceling it is exactly what he should have done. Or that for a trip involving two dozen other men, the absence of one wouldn’t have made a difference. Instead, I exit the highway and make a right turn onto Hamlin Street. Two more blocks and Barry will be delivered safely home, perhaps into the not-so-safe arms of his waiting wife, but that is not my problem.
At the sight of his house, he starts to squirm in place, drumming an index finger on the doorframe. “Want to go out for a beer?” he says.
I give a little laugh. “Nope.”
“Watch television at your house?”
“Still no. You gotta go in and face it like a man.”
“I would really rather not.” He shakes his head and looks up at his house just as his wife’s form comes into view in the front picture window. She’s holding a baby, and even in silhouette, I can tell she isn’t happy. “Be glad you’re not married, dude. Must be nice to live however you want.”
My insides freeze the moment his careless words hit, and my vision swims an inky maroon. I click the unlock on the door and make a move along motion with my hand. I’m annoyed. I’m pissed. Either the guy doesn’t know what he just said, or he’s an insensitive prick determined to ruin my day. Doesn’t matter, and I don’t care. It worked.
This day can go straight to hell as far as I’m concerned.
“Need help with your bags?” I ask in a way that communicates I don’t want to help, then drum my thumb on the steering wheel like a metronome keeping track of the seconds it takes him to get out. Anger thrums with a hot threat of tears, and I need Barry to get out of my car now. No one has seen me cry all year—not even my sister—and no one is going to tonight.
“Want to come inside and see the kids?” he offers as he opens the passenger door and slides out to retrieve his bags.
“I gotta get home,” I say, looking straight ahead, squeezing my left eye shut and then my right. In the past eleven months, I’ve discovered that keeping calm is occasionally a full-time job.
“You sure?” he asks. The invitation is genuine, possibly also mixed in with a desire to have backup when he faces his wife—but I’m not up for it. Ten minutes ago, I might have been. Funny how it only takes a handful of seconds for life to turn on a dime. Of all people, I should know.
“I’m sure. I’ll try to come see them next week.” Barry no sooner closes the door than I pull into traffic, the desire to put as much distance between myself and his words as I can in an effort to outrun them. “Be glad you’re not married.” They say words can hurt, but no one ever said this type of hurt is on par with open heart surgery without the benefit of stitches or painkillers. This hurt stings. This hurt never lets up. This hurt wants to bury you in an abandoned grave just to escape into permanent blackness. This hurt just slipped out in the form of two fat tears trailing down my jawline.
The sound of my phone pinging from the cupholder brings me out of my dark thoughts. I swipe at my face with the back of my hand and glance at the message lit up on the screen. “I’m so sorry, man. I just realized what I said…”
An apology from Barry. Short and to the point. Genuine and sincere. The words take most of the burn off the center of my chest. I breathe deeply and force myself to calm down.
The burn fades.
Most of it.
I pull into my driveway to find that chick Low from this morning back on my front porch. A laugh catches in my throat at the sight of her butt in the air, but the laughter fizzles when I notice the way she struggles to lift a box off the ground. Another huge package was delivered to the wrong address, namely mine. Our local delivery driver needs to be fired; I don’t care that he’s a struggling college kid. All this shuffling boxes between houses is ridiculous.
“Let me get that,” I say when I climb out of the car. She whips around like I startled her, a long section of reddish hair falling unkempt over her forehead. She reaches up to brush it away from her face, and that’s when I feel it. A flutter. A trip in my pulse. A weird, skipped heartbeat or two. A restlessness in my lower half. A knot in my throat that has to be swallowed down. I resent that knot and every feeling that comes with it.
But the feeling is there all the same. And that is something I’m not prepared to deal with.
She’s beautiful.
Why the hell am I noticing?
I clear my throat and work up a joke, something to lighten my own darkening mood. “So, who gets first dibs on strangling the mailman, you or me?”
“Me, one hundred percent,” she says with an eye roll. “Because all my packages are the size of small houses, while all your crap comes to my house in tiny envelopes.”
She’s not wrong. Rowan could build quite the playhouse out of this box on my porch and have extra room for a backyard patio. Which begs a question.
“What the heck did you order this time? This is even bigger than the desk chair, so I can only assume it’s a double-wide trailer.” When she snorts, that dang knot in my throat makes another appearance. I ignore it as best I can, but darn if that laugh wasn’t cute. I move to the other side of the gigantic box. “Here, you lift that side, and I’ll lift this one. We’ll toss it in the back of my truck and drive it over to Loretta’s—um, your—house.”
She frowns. “You don’t have to help me.”
“You have a better idea? Because I could just stand here and watch you attempt to pick this up. It would be more entertaining than what I had planned for the rest of the night, that’s for sure.” She gives me another eye roll and moves across from me, then bends down to grab the bottom of the box while I copy her movements.
“What did you have planned?” she asks with a groan. This box is freaking heavy.
“A beer and a ballgame.”
“Why did I ask? Oh, dear god, I just broke a nail.”
“Specifically, football. And are you okay?” We’re both groaning now. I don’t appreciate feeling weak.
“I’m fine, but why did he put this box on the porch? Walking down five-six steps isn’t exactly easy.”
“I think we’ve already established that our mailman sucks. But we haven’t established what the heck is in this box.”
“It’s a recliner. The one in my grandmother’s office smells like mothballs and bird feathers. I can’t take sitting on it another day.”
At that, I laugh. “So, I take it you’ve met George?”
We push the box inside the truck, and she sighs long and hard. “That bird is a pain. He sure knows how to ruin a podcast. And a movie. And a shower. And a good night’s sleep. And an otherwise decent existence overall. And apparently, in another life, he was a drunk playboy.”
“So you’re saying you don’t like his incessant demands for bourbon?”
She raises her hands, palms up. “What kind of woman teaches her pet bird to say that? It’s ‘George wants a shot of bourbon” every second of the day and night, even when I’m trying to sleep. I have to use a sound app turned all the way up just to drown him out, and even then, it doesn’t work because he just squawks louder.”
I laugh. “Funny thing about that,” I say, knowing the kind of reaction I’m about to get. “The kind of woman who’s actually her thirty-year-old male neighbor. Lorretta had me bird sit this past summer when she went to visit her daughter—your mother, I presume? I got bored just hanging out with a bird all day and night. And you’re welcome.”
Her mouth drops open. “You jerk.”
At that, I cackle. This chick might be a lot of things I wish she weren’t, but I do appreciate her sense of humor. I like it even more when she grins.
“Resident jerk, at your service.” I give an emasculating little curtsy.
“I cannot believe you’re the cause of my current misery. When my grandmother told me about her pet bird, I thought I would get to spend a few minutes every day staring at his pretty feathers, not arguing with an animal about the downside of day drinking. Go over there and teach him a new phrase right now. I demand it. He won’t listen to me. I’ve tried.” She rubs her lower back as though carrying the box made her muscles ache.
“I’ll promise I’ll work on it. You okay?” I ask.
She sees me staring and shrugs it off. “Just an old volleyball injury that comes back every now and again.”
Back injury. Noted. She won’t be doing any more heavy lifting while I’m around. “Climb in the truck, we’ll run this next door, and I’ll give it my best shot with George.”
“Deal.” She does as she’s told, but not without a backward shot at me. “But just so you know, if you can’t train him to say, ‘Low is my favorite person ever,” then the next thing I’ll be dropping off at your house won’t be a small envelope.” She closes the car door while I climb in beside her and start the engine. “Hope you like birds.”
“I do; I just prefer them fried crispy on a Chick-fil-A sandwich.”
She shrugs. “Whatever suits you. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
I laugh and put the truck in Reverse, knowing full well if Loretta could hear us talking, we’d be the ones sitting filleted on a sandwich.
“Against this wall?” I ask after moving the chair across the room a second time. The wall opposite where we stand is too crowded, and the one connected to this one is bathed in afternoon sunlight—not the best view for reading unless you like a blinding light slashing through your pages.
“Yeah, that’s good. I’ll probably wind up taking the chair with me when I leave anyway, so it doesn’t need to be perfect.”
We both stare at the chair, a brown leather recliner and ottoman that look so expensive I can almost feel my old credit card shaking inside my wallet. It absolutely needs to be perfect. I use my foot to adjust the ottoman a quarter inch until it’s lined up perfectly with the chair.
“Is Loretta still planning to stay gone a couple more months?” I ask, already knowing the answer but suddenly feeling the need to fill all silences with small talk. The obvious solution to quiet my racing pulse. I haven’t been alone in a house with a woman in?—
Let’s just say it’s been a long time.
“She actually extended her trip. She won’t be back until late April now.”
My head jerks back in alarm before I can stop it. “But that’s five more months.” Five more months of living next door to Low? You can get to know a lot about a person in five months. Why does this suddenly seem like the worst kind of torture?
She flashes me a puzzled look. “Yep, five more months. But I’m not upset about it. A few more months of forced isolation won’t necessarily be a bad thing. Plus, Austin, Texas has gotten a little tiring lately…”
The way she sighs has me thinking there’s a specific reason for tiring of Texas, but I drop it for both our sakes. We all have issues.
“So, you’ll just stay here until she gets back?” So, I don’t exactly drop it as much as I ask more questions for clarity’s sake. A guy needs to be sure what he’s dealing with when the subject at hand could prove to be a huge distraction. I’ve always had a thing for redheads.
Shame descends at the memory of Sherry’s black hair.
“That’s the plan,” she says, interrupting my private guilt trip. “Someone’s got to take care of that bird, and?—”
“ George wants a shot of bourbon! ” Loretta’s bird chirps from the other room as though it’s capable of understanding English. “ George wants a shot of bourbon! ”
Low raises an exasperated eyebrow at me. “On second thought, maybe I’ll place my bets and let him take care of himself. If that bird can ask for alcohol, chances are it can pull up a chair and pour it for himself, right?”
“Bourbon!” the bird demands as though he’s protesting Low’s joke.
“That bird is a certified lush,” I say with a shake of my head.
“And you’re the one he learned it from,” Low quips, twirling a finger in the air between me and the bird. “Time to work your magic and undo it. Remember, Low is my favorite person ever . That’s the new phrase we’re going for.”
There’s no way that bird will learn that phrase or any other, but I lead us out of the office and into the entryway where the birdcage resides. As far as parrots go, George undoubtedly has the best living arrangement of any bird in history—at least of those in captivity. His cage is a mini-mansion, complete with five swings and a slide off to the right—do birds even slide?—more branches than you might find on an actual tree outside, and a hammock made of feathers, cotton balls, old bits of rope, and plaid fabric secured to the top of the cage with leather straps. I’m not sure birds need beds, but no matter, George has one.
After only five minutes of trying to get Loretta’s bird to say anything other than “George wants a shot of bourbon,” Low sighs long and slow and walks across the room to the other side of the sofa. I watch as she opens a cabinet and peers inside.
“Giving up so soon?” I ask.
“Yep. I surrender.” The words are muffled behind the open cabinet door.
“You surrender, how?”
She reappears with two tumblers and a bottle of amber liquid in hand, pushing the door closed with her shoulder.
“By getting bourbon. You know what they say, if you can’t beat them…”
I leave George and take both glasses out of her hands, unscrew the top off the bottle, pour two shots worth, and hand her back a glass.
“Join them?”
She raises her glass in a resigned ‘ Cheers ’ and we clicked them both together.
“Bottoms up,” she says. We lift our glasses and do exactly that.
I drain mine in one swallow.
“What is all this?” The effects of a second shot of bourbon have fueled my curiosity, and I’ve been wandering around the house. So far, I’ve opened all the kitchen cabinets—surprisingly empty, by the way—stopped by the master bath to find a navy claw-foot bathtub and brushed gold faucets, and opened the door to what I thought was a basement only to discover a safe room complete with concrete walls, stacks of canned green beans, and old House Beautiful magazines. Apparently, Loretta is a survivalist. A survivalist with plenty of prepared reading material. Who knew?
We’re in Loretta’s office—now transformed into Low’s temporary office—and there’s equipment everywhere. Ring lights, a desktop and laptop, a keyboard off to the right, two microphones connected to a single large speaker, and an oversized silver reflector screen standing tall in the corner. I pick up a microphone and say “testing, testing” into it like one does, but it’s turned off. The big picture window behind the desk has a straight shot to my front yard, a fact I never realized. I can see the base of that fallen tree trunk lying next to my driveway, still waiting for me to finish chopping it up. In the three years I’ve lived next door to Loretta, I’ve never come this far inside her house.
“It’s all the equipment it takes to make sure my podcast runs smoothly,” Low says nervously, slipping the microphone from my hand and setting it carefully on the desk like she’s scared I’ll break it. No touching Low’s equipment . I make that mental note to myself. “I need the microphone and speakers for obvious reasons, the lights for filming video teasers, and both computers so that I can record with my desktop while the laptop behind me feeds me questions and notes.” Low stops talking and locks eyes with me. “Sorry, it’s kind of a boring subject.”
Maybe I looked bored, so I readjust my face to appear the opposite of that. “I think it’s fascinating.” And I do. “Tell me more about your job.” My interest is piqued despite my ignorance of the subject at hand. After all, my sister knows Low, so she must be pretty famous. “I’m a virgin to the podcast world.” I immediately cringe at my own careless description. Virgin, really ? At her slight blush, I give myself a mental punch.
“Well, I like my job, so that’s the best part.” She clears her throat. “I’ve developed a good following, so that’s another positive.”
“How many people listen each week?”
“A couple hundred thousand, give or take a few.”
My eyes go wide. A couple hundred thousand ? Who knew podcasts were such a popular thing? Although come to think of it, I’ve watched every episode of Only Murders in the Building , and isn’t that about a podcast? I think it is. When I get home, I’ll look it up.
“Susan wasn’t kidding. You are famous.”
Low laughs at that. “My name is famous, but not one person would recognize me in a grocery store checkout aisle. It’s a strange kind of fame, but it’s the kind I prefer.”
“You’re more of a loner, are you?”
Her gaze sweeps the room in a what do you think way. “Well, my job is just me sitting in a room alone, looking at a wall, talking to myself even though a lot of people hear me. But in the day-to-day, I often pretend I’m alone, so…yeah, you might say I’m a loner.” She smiles. “I like to help people. I just don’t necessarily love being around them.”
I laugh. I’m a total people person. I like crowds, groups, audiences, gatherings. The more the merrier, the larger the better. Some might say my affinity for big groups is how I avoid personal introspection—namely, my sister. I hate it when she says that. And though I’ll never admit it, I also know she’s right. There isn’t much worse than being alone with my own thoughts.
“I’m exactly the opposite.” I’ll admit that part, I guess. There’s a letter on her desk with an interesting return address. I inch a little closer to make sure I’m reading it right.
“You don’t say…” At her tone, I look up.
“What does that mean?”
She gives a little eye roll. “There’s a constant stream of people coming in and out of your house all day long.” She flicks her hand toward the picture window. “I can see them.”
Touché. When you’re right, you’re right.
“I also like to help people, just maybe in a different way than you. What’s this?” I finger the corner of the envelope and raise an eyebrow. Doubleday. I’m not a big reader, but I recognize the name of a publishing giant when I see one.
She grasps the opposite corner of the envelope and slides it back a few inches. “It’s nothing.” By the look on her face, it is not nothing. I don’t push it, but file it away for later.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” So, I do push it a little. Sue me.
When she sighs, I know we’ve reached the end of that conversation window. I sit on the corner of the desk and look over at her.
“Fine, you don’t want to talk about it. Then, tell me about your podcast. What’s it about?”
Curiously, she hesitates. Almost like she doesn’t want to tell me that, either. Don’t bigwigs like her love to talk about themselves? It’s an odd dynamic; finding out your preconceived notions about someone might be a bit off base.
She runs a finger up and down the desk. “Um…it’s about setting healthy boundaries, mainly in relationships, but it can also be applied to all areas of life.” It’s a weighted sentence, one I feel myself bracing against for no good reason. That is until she continues. “You might want to consider giving it a listen sometime.”
Turns out my reasons are valid, and my invisible hackles are up. If I were a dog, I’d be an ankle biting Shih Tzu, an ugly one with a snaggle tooth, one that’s been shaved because of terribly matted fur.
“And why is that, exactly?”
She clears her throat. “No reason, really. I just noticed some things and thought maybe you could experiment with some of my suggestions.”
And here we go. Time for the weekly lecture about how I do too much, spread myself too thin, need to learn how to say no more often, and need to quit giving in to the needs of others while completely ignoring my own. It’s bad enough that my sister won’t let up, but I don’t have to be psychoanalyzed by this chick. I’ve known her all of five minutes, and from my estimation, that’s about four minutes too long. Who cares that she’s hot?
Okay, I might care about that. But still.
“What suggestions?” I ask.
Her head tilts to the side. “What?”
“You said you had suggestions. What are they?” Money, mouth, and all that.
“Well…” she stammers. “Maybe you could start by telling people ‘no’ occasionally. Maybe you could practice it on me at first and?—”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes. There, I did it. Now do you often go around lecturing people you just met?”
Her hand freezes on the desk as she looks up at me through black lashes. “I’m not lecturing you. But I have built quite a following of people who think I know what I’m talking about.”
“Meanwhile, you can’t even get along with a talking bird.”
“It’s a podcast about boundaries, not getting along with people.”
“Good thing since my statement still stands.”
“He talks all the time!” She rolls her eyes. “And I’ll have you know that some people find what I have to say helpful. If you give it a try, maybe you’ll be one of them.”
In one fluid motion, I hop off the desk and brush off the back of my jeans. “Or maybe I won’t.” I walk out of the office but keep talking over my shoulder. Maybe she’ll hear me, maybe she won’t. Either way it’s not my problem. “Next time you have a package you need help with, ring my doorbell. But right now, I need to get back to work.” Even as I say it, it hits me that “work” is a broken faucet that Mrs. Peters across town asked me to fix. She’s elderly and can’t get out much, but the reality of the situation pisses me off. “You could start telling people ‘no’ more.” I hate it when I make other people’s points for them without even trying.
I make an angry beeline for the doorway, aware Low is trailing behind me but not caring enough to acknowledge her.
“Nick, I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do, I just?—”
“Ah, but you were. And Low, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” I open the front door and turn. “A piece of advice? Try walking in someone’s shoes before you try to size them up. You might find that the fit is all wrong, that maybe you just don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please don’t?—”
But I stop listening, take the steps two at a time, climb inside my truck, and drive straight home. But no matter how much distance I put between us, no matter how angry I feel…
I can’t shake the deep knowing inside my mind that Low might be right.