5. Bex
FIVE
Bex
I love fall. I love the crunch of leaves under my feet, the feel of the air, and the appearance of warm colors like burnt orange and rust in my wardrobe. It’s the best time of year. It’s not so cold that I need to bundle up, but there is enough chill to the air that a little heat feels good. Cozy sweaters are worn in abundance, fluffy blankets are pulled out of closets and brought out for a season or two, and smells like pumpkin spice and chai fill the air. At least at my house they do.
From my perch on the sofa, I stare at the fireplace in the corner and make a silent agreement with myself to light it this week if the weather stays like this.
I’d woken up this morning in a state of panic with heart palpitations banging their way through my chest and leg cramps so intense I’d had to slam my foot against the wall and press it firmly and with so much force that it felt like I was trying to put my leg through it. It’s the only way I can get relief when the cramps take control.
Things about Graves’ disease I wasn’t prepared for: all of it.
Sighing, I close my eyes and rest my head against the back of the couch. I could have stayed in bed for another few hours, but I’ve got too much to do. Graves is funny. It robs and depletes you of your energy, but you need to keep going. It’s also been robbing me of my hair lately, a shock I had last night when I was in the shower. I don’t notice it often, but every now and then when I seem to slip out of what my doctors have noted as remission, I’ll suddenly get the symptoms again. When it happens, I just go back to what I know. Taking some pills and working really hard to keep the stress out of my daily routine.
I swipe my prescription bottle from its place on the coffee table and pop one in my mouth. I don’t even need water, I’m so used to this now.
I make a beeline for the thermostat on the wall, turning the heater on. As I swallow my pill, my eye is drawn to the yard, which is my next stop. The grass needs to be mowed and I should do some weeding today, but something in the field pulls my gaze toward Austin’s house. I’m immediately reminded of who he is now and what I’m dealing with, the hitch in my stomach making me irritated with him for his actions the other day all over again.
“And to think I was going to take that job,” I mutter as I grab my gardening gloves and head out into the backyard to get some work done. I’m glad that I told Georgie I needed to think about it. I can’t fathom working with that man.
Once I’m outside, I pop my earbuds in and make sure I’ve got a good playlist pulled up. The first song is Djo’s “End of Beginning,” my latest favorite tune for those melancholy moments when my internal drama takes center stage.
I get busy with the weeding I have to do, but I can’t help glaring across the field at Austin’s. Former pro football player who has taken to hiding away in his house like an angry troll. But of course, as soon as I think about this, I remind myself what he’s been through—that it can’t be easy, especially seeing how it’s football season and the NFL is being promoted everywhere you look.
Then there’s the issue of the hedge. My hedge. I know I should probably let this one go, but it’s hard when I know I’m in the right. I can see myself sitting here, in the backyard, looking out over the pond and to the view of the rolling fields beyond. Future Bex likes this for me.
When I walk over to the hedge to give it a closer inspection, something in the recess of my mind reminds me that boxwood is resilient and can be shaped into anything. If so, I’ll show Austin. I’ll cut a hole in the middle of this sucker and make a window. Then my shiny butt will be framed when I moon him.
“Bet you’d like to see that with your binoculars, wouldn’t you, Mr. Silence of the Lambs?” I growl to myself.
I’m still muttering obscenities when something snuffling my feet makes me jump in the air. When I gain composure, I look down to find one really cute German shepherd staring back up at me.
“You’re back, huh?” I lean down and scratch her between the ears. A jangle-ing sound pulls my attention. “You’ve got a collar on today.”
Good. Maybe I can do at least one good deed and get this dog back to its owner, or at least keep it from coming here so much. Whipping my phone out of my back pocket, I pause my playlist before tapping the numbers into my phone.
It rings a few times before sending me to voicemail. Keeping my eye on the dog, whose name is Harley according to the tag, I leave a message with my contact details.
“Here’s hoping,” I say to no one in particular as I hang up. As I do, I watch Harley slowly lower herself to her belly, staring across the field directly at Austin’s.
I follow her gaze; if you ignore the hedge that’s practically screaming, “You’re not welcome here,” it’s actually kind of picturesque. Through the leafy barricade, I catch a glimpse of the pond, which is quite charming—if you’re into that whole “rustic serenity” thing. It’s not exactly the Grand Canal, but it’s doing a decent job of looking serene, with its occasional ripple and a few ducks that probably have grander ambitions.
Austin’s house is framed by this pastoral scene like it’s trying to be the poster child for Country Living . I suppose if you squint and ignore the fact that the hedge is having a personal vendetta against my right to a clear view, it’s actually quite lovely. It’s the kind of scene that makes you want to grab a blanket, a cup of tea, and contemplate life’s mysteries—or at least try to figure out how I ended up with such an entertaining neighbor. Oh, the absurdity of it all.
A chill snakes its way down my spine, a gentle reminder that it’s fall and tonight could be a cold one. I’m blissfully unaware of the weather patterns here, being from Southern California. I guess to me everywhere is cold until I get used to it.
I make my way back in, Harley hot on my heels. Opening the door to the kitchen, I’m shocked when I’m hit by a wall of frigid air rolling out to greet me.
“What is happening? That’s cold!” I exclaim as I sprint over to the thermostat. I thought I’d hit the wrong button, choosing the air-conditioning option and not heat, but no. It’s set on heat. The thermostat says it’s seventy-eight degrees.
“Liar.” I turn the dial up and put my hand to one of the vents in the living room. Yep. Freezing cold air.
Acting fast, because I know I need to fix this now, I pull out my phone again and do a quick search online to find a local heating specialist I can hopefully coerce into coming out today.
The workman before me looks like he’s seen more sunrises than I can count. His face is etched with deep lines, like a comfy and worn leather sofa, each one a testament to years of hard labor or time spent in the sun. His hands are rough, calloused, and marked with scars, evidence of a lifetime spent building, fixing, and toiling. A few strands of silver are threaded through his thick, dark hair, and his eyes still hold a sharp, assessing glint.
“Yep, exactly as I thought,” he says as he scribbles on a notepad. “The unit is going to need to be replaced.”
“Noooo,” I moan. The lurch in my stomach almost pulls me to my knees. “Replaced?”
“That thing is old,” he continues, nodding sympathetically. “It’s practically a fossil. I’m surprised it’s still running at all.”
“Great,” I say, trying to mask my panic with sarcasm. “So, what’s the damage? Do I need to start selling off family heirlooms, or should I just empty my savings account now?”
The repairman chuckles. “Well, it’s not quite that bad. But you’re definitely looking at a decent chunk of change to get a new unit.”
“Perfect. Just what I needed,” I mutter. “Another thing to add to my ever-growing list of ‘Things I’d Rather Not Deal With Today.’”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “I know it’s a hassle. But a new unit will be more efficient and save you money in the long run.”
“Yeah, assuming I don’t have to live on ramen noodles to pay for it,” I reply, shaking my head. “Well, I guess I’ll be shopping for an HVAC unit instead of groceries this week.”
“Let me know if you need any recommendations,” he says, gathering his tools. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
I should sit and let this sink in, but hearing you need to replace a whole heating and cooling unit in your home right before winter does not sound appealing. Nor does it sound inexpensive.
“Out of curiosity, do you know how much they cost?”
He shrugs. “Last one I worked on ran close to eight.”
“Eight?” Fingers crossed, I smile his way. “Like eight hundred?”
“That’s a stretch,” he says. “I wish. More like eight thousand.”
I feel ill. It’s not like I can call my landlord to come fix this. I am the landlord.
He gives me a number to call when I’m ready to order the unit, and I thank him as he walks out to his van to go. Leaving me staring into the distance wondering where I’m going to get that kind of money from right now.
I can’t ask Spencer, even though he and Amelia would loan it to me in a heartbeat. Grabbing my phone, I tap on the app for my bank and stare at my balance. This would make the largest dent in what I have managed to save over the years. A scary thought when you have no income coming in.
The realization hits me that I am going to have to work. Seeing as I need a new heating system, I can’t take the time now to worry about who it is I’m working for. I need a job and I need it fast.
Sighing, I text Georgie.
Let Levi know I’m going to call him in the morning about that job. I can start ASAP.
In a matter of seconds, she answers.
WOO HOO! He’ll call tomorrow. Thank you!
Leaning my head against the window, I stare out into the yard, willing this issue to go away. I let my eyes wander over to the front garden beds, which need to be cleaned up a little more, then over to the magnolia trees that line one side of the drive, right where I’d left my car. While I stare at it, something waves in the air, like an errant piece of paper flapping in the wind but seemingly stuck to my windshield.
Curious as to what it is, I head outside, snatching the small piece of paper from its spot behind my windshield wiper and read it. A surge of rage-like heat fills my body as I let the dumb words written on this stupid piece of paper sink in.
If your dog ever, EVER poops on my property again, I will scoop it into a shovel and bring it to your front porch for you to deal with.
To think I ever thought this man was hot. Not just hot, but hot. The kind of hot a man can be when his insides match the outside. But this is the sign that the guy I thought he was isn’t there anymore.
I’m stunned. The way he’s acted since I arrived is unstable. Irritating. Ridiculous. First, the welcome note. Then, his unhinged incident with the spraying of the mud. Now this?
Fine. You wanna play, football boy, we can play.
I look around the yard, searching for something. Anything. I can’t stop the tiny devilish sneer that pulls my lips upwards at the corner when my line of vision lands on one of Harley’s little stinky treasures over by a magnolia. Bingo.
I quickly head inside and grab a small baggie and a paper bag. On my way out, I spy some ribbon sticking out of a bag from my present wrapping station (still need to unpack that), and grab a piece. It’s Christmas ribbon too, so even more perfect.
Once I have his present prepped, I stomp across the field to Austin’s, toss the present onto his porch with a note attached to it of my own, and knock on his door. Within seconds, old man crank bottom opens it, eating a giant red apple, wearing an old football jersey, and glares at me.
I point to the gift. “There. Wrapped up for you in a spectacular package. Is this better? Is that how you want your feces?”
“Do you think I was worried about the presentation?” he says between bites as he steps out onto the porch. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving that I worry about.”
Do my eyes get pulled to his lips, watching the way they glide across the skin of that piece of fruit as he wraps them around it and takes each big, delicious bite? I could smack myself; since when do someone’s lips become this seductive while they’re eating? I start to contemplate this when the movement of his jaw as he chews each bite so mindfully drags my attention there. When the chewing stops, my eyes flick to his, only to find him staring at me. Yep. Caught in the act.
I shift my gaze away as he snickers. Ugh. What is my problem? This is a man with an apple. A good-looking man holding an apple. A good-looking man with a sexy jawline who appears to be enjoying eating this apple in front of me.
I need to get a grip.
“I don’t really care that it bothers you, Johnny Appleseed. This”—I hold the note he left me in the air—“is insane.” I tap the side of my head with my pointer finger. “You’re making me crazy and I just moved in.”
“That’s got to be a record,” he says as he takes a lazy bite out of the apple.
“Or a statute of limitations,” I zing back.
I don’t know what comes over me, but it’s like I am sitting in silent witness as my hand lifts itself into the air and all of my fingers clench into a fist except one. I’m not proud, but yes, I hold up my middle finger and flip this man the bird like an unrelenting explorer who has discovered a new mountain range and is lifting their fist in the air. I also do it with such dramatic force that it feels like I may have tweaked my wrist.
“You’re such a lady. Perfect addition to the South,” he purrs.
I’m so mad I’m spitting tacks. “You’re insane. I do not know how anyone on this earth can deal with you.”
“Well, good thing you don’t really have to,” are the last words I hear as the door slams in my face.
With a sickness floating in my tummy, a lightbulb suddenly turns on over my head in true cartoon-realization style.
I have to work with him now.