Chapter 2
Asher
My only neighbors are my sister and her husband. And they’re all the way down the hill on their farm, so it’s quiet up here.
I like quiet.
I lean back in my office chair. It’s expensive and ergonomic and highly recommended for programmers who work the sort of hours I put in.
The cursor blinks at me, waiting. Outside my window, the late afternoon light slants through the trees that separate my property from the abandoned maple grove between my house and my sister’s.
Except it’s not abandoned anymore.
Word around town is Lionel located the heir of Walter and June Pierce at long last. I rarely talk to people when I venture into the Quick Lick market for supplies, and I certainly don’t gossip with Latonya at the Lick Your Fork diner, but my ears perk up when the chatter involves my solitude.
This morning, Ginny Quick talked around her gum while I tried to pay for my frozen pizza. At first I was too distracted by her chewing sounds, thinking I misheard her. But when Latonya brought me the daily meatloaf special, she confirmed some out-of-towner inherited the whole mess next door.
Tires crunching on gravel disturb me around three. An unfamiliar car engine grinds up that disaster of a driveway. I try to ignore it. I have a product launch in two days, and this API integration is fighting me at every turn.
The cursor keeps blinking.
A car door slams.
I give up on the code and swivel my chair toward the window. From here, I can just make out movement through the trees—someone’s over there walking around with a phone, gesturing. I tell myself it’s probably a realtor doing a walkthrough before listing it.
Good. The faster someone sells the place, the faster things go back to normal.
She moves with loud energy. That’s the only way to describe the woman in painted-on pants invading my peace.
She’s on her phone, gesturing with her free hand, pacing while she talks.
Even from this distance I can see she’s young.
Early twenties, maybe. She has dark hair and wears boots that look better suited for a coffee shop than a neglected maple grove.
City girl. She’s probably here to take some photos for the listing and leave.
I should get back to work, but now I’m invested.
She disappears around the trees, and I stare at my monitor, pretending the API suddenly makes sense. After ten minutes of accomplishing nothing, I push from my desk and stretch. My back cracks. I need more coffee.
In the kitchen, I make a fresh pot and lean against the counter, looking out the window that faces Pierce Acres. I can’t see the house from this angle, just trees and the overgrown path that used to connect our properties back when Walter and June were alive.
Walter used to bring over mason jars of syrup every spring. June made bread. They’d knock on the door and chat with my parents about the weather or the deer population or whatever neighbors talk about.
I miss them—my parents and the Pierces. Which is strange; I hardly ever feel like I miss people.
I should call my parents. I create a calendar reminder to do it later and pour myself a mug of the now-finished coffee. No sugar, no cream. My sister, Lia, says I drink it like I’m punishing myself. I just can’t be bothered with extra steps to improve something that’s already perfect.
I carry the mug to my office, but instead of sitting, I stand at the window. The car is still there, parked at an angle like she gave up halfway along the driveway. Smart. That asphalt is more pothole than road.
I check my phone. No messages from Lia, which is good.
That means they successfully made it to their flight to paradise, and Ethan’s probably drowning her in food and attention.
My sister and best friend—now married with a baby—are finally taking a trip together, leaving my nephew home on the farm with about a dozen noisy relatives at his beck and call.
Not me, though. I have a product launch.
Feeling restless, I set down my coffee and grab my jacket. I’ll just check the property line. Make sure she’s not doing anything that’ll cause problems, like spray-painting the trees or something.
The air is cool with that late-afternoon chill that deepens when the sun starts setting. I move through my yard and into the trees, following the invisible line I’ve memorized after thirty-plus years of living here.
I can see her now. She’s still outside with a phone held out in front of her, walking toward the maple grove. She moves like she’s never walked through woods before—too focused on the phone, not watching where she’s stepping. Her voice carries through the trees, bright and animated.
I move closer.
“—so many trees,” she’s saying. “They’re huge. Old. Some of them have, like, taps still hanging out of the trunks…”
I don’t like the idea of someone inhabiting the space that’s been a silent buffer around me for so long.
I duck behind a thick maple and watch her spin in a slow circle, phone out, taking it all in. Even from here, I can see she’s pretty. Really pretty. My blood rushes to my crotch, startling me as I realize I am deeply attracted to this chipper person in inappropriate footwear.
Her dark hair falls in waves, and her pants cling to curves I have no business staring at. I can see from here her lips are stained berry red, and I briefly wonder if it’s makeup or whether she’s been eating fruit.
She’s temporary, I remind myself. Everything about her screams elsewhere. She starts drifting toward my property, toward my house. I freeze. Can she see me? I’m partially hidden by the tree, but if she looks directly this way—
“There’s someone over there,” she says into the phone.
Shit.
I press my back against the rough bark, heart hammering.
“I should probably introduce myself at some point,” she continues. “You know, be neighborly.”
Her voice grows louder and leaves crackle as she drifts closer. I need to move. I need to go back to my house before she sees me lurking in the trees like some kind of—
Our eyes meet.
For one frozen second, we’re both perfectly still. Her mouth drops open slightly. I can see her face clearly now—younger than I thought, with wide eyes that reflect the golden light filtering through the trees.
She looks directly at me… and runs.
Instinct takes over. I jerk backward, away from her, from the cracking twigs and squawking birds, and my boot catches on an old collection tank or something. My ankle twists wrong, and I’m falling.
The ground hits hard. Pain explodes up my leg, white-hot and immediate.
I hear the snap as I feel it. Or maybe I feel it before I hear it. Either way, I know immediately that my ankle is broken.
“Fuck,” I gasp, trying to sit up. The movement sends fresh waves of agony through my leg, and I collapse against the dead leaves and dirt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Through the ringing in my ears, I hear her voice, distant and panicked. “I’m fine, I’m fine! I just—there was a person. A really big person—”
I want to be offended, but I’m too busy trying not to pass out.
I need help. I need—
Through the trees, I can see her backing away, phone clutched in both hands, eyes wide. She’s going to leave. She’s going to get in that car and drive away, and I’m going to lie here in the woods with a broken ankle like the world’s most pathetic hermit.
“Wait,” I try to call out, but it comes out as more of a grunt.
She can’t hear me. She’s too far away, hurrying now, stumbling over roots and undergrowth in her impractical booties.
I try to stand and immediately regret it. My ankle is already swelling inside my shoe, the joint bent at an angle that turns my stomach. I lower myself down and start crawling.
This is humiliating. This is beyond mortifying. I’m a thirty-five-year-old man crawling through the woods after spying on the new neighbor.
“Karma,” Lia would say. “This is what you get for being a reclusive weirdo who watches people through the trees.”
I make it to the edge of the treeline, my vision swimming, sweat dripping down my back despite the cool air. The car is still there, but I can see her through the windshield now. She’s inside, staring straight ahead with her hands on the steering wheel.
The headlights snap on. She’s leaving.
I force myself forward, dragging my useless leg behind me. Pain lances up my spine with every movement. I reach out with one hand, trying to signal, trying to—
Our eyes meet again.
This time, through the glare of the headlights, I can see her face clearly: shock, confusion, maybe fear. I realize how I must look—a huge, bearded man crawling out of the darkening woods, arm outstretched, face twisted in pain.
I try to say, “I need help,” but what comes out is a blend of groan and wheeze.
The engine cuts off.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. I’m lying half in the driveway, half in the undergrowth, my ankle screaming. She’s frozen behind the wheel, staring at me like I’m a particularly horrifying wildlife encounter.
Then, mercifully, her door opens.