4. Four
“It’s a great house, Rowan. A really great house.” Mira twists in the passenger seat of the fifteen-foot U-Haul as I back into the driveway. “A much better investment than marrying Dean.”
“I’m still going to marry Dean.” A low-hanging tree branch scrapes the roof as I park. “I’ll make this place so homey and comfortable that he can’t help but move in when he comes back. Besides, we discussed it at length. If he needs three months away to feel better about us, I told him I need this. He’s pursuing his dream, and so am I.”
“Sounds like you both dream of being apart.”
“No, we’re independent together,” I say, using his words. “Our autonomy has been the best part of Dean and me. He’s the first man I’ve dated who hasn’t thought of me as Silly Putty meant to shape-shift around his life.”
Mira scoffs. “Sounds like two separate lives to me. Are you still engaged? Because I don’t see a ring.”
“We are… together. That’s all that matters. Please, don’t give me that look.”
“What? There’s no look!” she defends futilely. “I’m freaking ecstatic that you bought the little house!”
“But?”
“But…” Her light brown eyes fix on mine. “I don’t think he’s coming back, Rowan. And you shouldn’t take him back if he does.”
I suppose saying what you think is a universal truth of sisters because that’s what Mira has done since she became my grandparents’ foster the same summer I moved in with them, too. It was Mom’s first deployment after I incurred my injuries, and despite my grandparents’ best efforts, I would’ve been miserable if not for Mira. We’ve called each other sisters ever since.
Still, sometimes, using a gentler friend filter on her remarks would be appreciated. I force a smile. “Well, lucky for us, what you think doesn’t dictate what will happen. This is just a temporary separation before permanent coupling. You’ll see.”
Along the street, my students park in front of the house. We slide out of the U-Haul and meet them on the driveway.
“Now, for the fun part,” I say, eyes wide with new-home-owner giddiness.
“The fun part was seeing you drive this tank. You look like a twelve-year-old behind the wheel, especially in those overalls,” Eddie Speck says, snapping a picture.
I look down at my faded jean overalls, cuffed at the ankles, white t-shirt, and white and black Adidas, and second-guess my moving-in outfit.
“Madam truck driver and insane organizer,” Ashley Morrow adds with a slight valley-girl twang. She holds up my clipboard, which contains a list of all my furniture and boxes, color-coded by rooms. Green for kitchen (to match the tiles). Yellow for bedroom. And so on. “This is why I’ll never be a teacher—I’m not organized enough. Well, and the money.”
I sigh, unable to argue. Behind us, another carload of generous teenagers with nothing to do on a Saturday pulls in, bringing extra hands, and Edgar Allan Poe, my long-haired black cat, looking stressed in his carrier.
He meows frantically when we lock eyes as if saying, “You let me ride with them?”
Mia Danvers hands him over with a short smile. “I don’t think Edgar likes car rides, Ms. Mackey.”
“Thanks for letting him tag along. And thanks to everyone for volunteering to help. It’s much more fun doing this with you than movers.”
“Cheaper, too,” Julio says, grinning.
“Much cheaper, but I’ve got a cooler full of sodas, snacks, and pizza on the way.” My teaching career has taught me that students are more willing to work when pizza’s involved. Hoots and claps precede the students jumping to action. The truck door rolls open with a screeching slap. Ashley supervises them into an assembly line to start unloading.
Julio grabs a box labeled Edgar’s supplies and follows me inside. The small laundry room offers a quiet space for Edgar to hang out away from the chaos. Julio helps me arrange his litter box, water, food, and a plush bed.
His forehead creases with soft lines. “My grandfather says that if you’re unsure about your answer, then maybe it’s the wrong question.”
An internal sigh slumps my shoulders. Nearly a month’s gone by since the proposal, and no one but Dean has mentioned my yes, no, maybe answer. Not to me, anyway. It was all anyone could talk about after it happened. Dean and I surfed the gossip wave professionally, but it created more tension at school and between us.
“I’m sure about my answer now. At the time, I was nervous.”
“Mr. Maddix told us his plan before the show. I should’ve warned you.”
“But it was meant to be a surprise. No need to worry. He asked the right question. I messed up my answer, but I fixed it—I am fixing it.”
Julio seems unconvinced but nods anyway. “And next year’s Inspiration Project? Will we team up with Mr. Maddix again?”
The second-most talked-about thing at Coastal High School has been me and Dean’s joint Inspiration Project. Dr. Evelyn Tate took full credit for our play’s success and doubled the pressure on us for next year. Curious students like Julio added more pressure. As their AP English teacher for their junior and senior years, I needed an even better plan than our Shakespeare reboot to meet their high expectations.
“Um, no. He’s teaming up with the history department for a Hamilton-style musical,” I report, trying to sound excited. “I’ll go solo this year, but I don’t have a plan yet.”
His eyes widen in shock. “You without a plan? That’s a first.”
I release Edgar as we hear a loud “Ms. Mackey!”
Clipboard in hand, Ashley awaits me outside the laundry room. “The guest bathroom toilet won’t flush. Guests have arrived, and a cute, old couple is wandering around with a bottle of wine.”
As she speaks, I slide the clipboard away from her and retrieve my laminated sign. Keep closed. Cat inside. I affix it to the laundry room door with Scotch tape in my pocket. Then, remembering what my mom advised last night over FaceTime, I take one thing at a time.
The toilet handle hangs loose in the pink-tiled bathroom. The chain has broken, which means a trip to Lowe’s. I create a new sign. Out of Order.
In the backyard, Mira’s kids take turns on the rope swing dangling from a blooming magnolia tree. Jane watches with baby Aster in her arms while Mira nudges my shoulder.
“Grandpa Ro would love this house. I can almost see him here, lugging his toolbox and looking for things to fix.”
I laugh. “Me, too. I already have a bum toilet, so he’d have his first assignment.”
“Well, how ‘about me? Where do you want me?”
“Don’t forget me,” Kenan says, leaving the swing to his sisters.
“Technology setup?”
Kenan salutes, and we head through the sliding glass doors to the living room. We stop short at the small, stunned crowd gathered around the fireplace, including Rose and Vernon McGinty from across the street.
“What’s wrong?”
“Shh. Listen,” Julio says.
Scratching follows gentle cries and rustling from inside the brick fireplace.
Vernon sits on the hearth and leans inside the opening with a flashlight, as if he always carries one in his pocket. “Yep, you’ve got some unexpected roommates up there. Raccoons probably. Sounds like the mamma’s made a nest on the damper.”
Rose shimmies over, holding out the bottle of wine. “Welcome to the neighborhood, dear.”
“Thanks,” I say unsurely.
With an ashy smudge on his forehead, Vernon pulls out of the fireplace. “Alright, which of you young lads wants to hop on the roof for a look-see?”
“None of them. I can’t let them do that,” I say quickly, imagining broken legs and angry parents.
“I’d do it myself, but my knees won’t let me,” Vernon says.
“Let’s call Jack,” Rose says excitedly.
“No need. I’ll handle it myself.” My words bust out with more confidence than I have, but the last thing I want is to be indebted to the grumpy guy next door.
“Who’s Jack?” Mira cuts in.
“Jack Graham. The author,” Rose coos. “He lives next door.”
“The romance author?” Mira gushes. “Rowan, you didn’t tell me you were moving in next to a celebrity. Jane reads all his books.”
“I don’t.” Still, I know his name. Jack Graham’s edgy romances made front displays in every bookstore alongside the latest by Stephen King, James Patterson, and Colleen Hoover. He’s not just an author but a bestselling one. It’s a shock that he’d live in this modest neighborhood. “I don’t read romance, classics excluded.”
Rose looks offended, as if I’ve shunned her homeland. “But it… can’t be true.”
“Rowan’s too jaded for romance,” Mira says, “but it’s only because she hasn’t found her soulmate yet.”
I groan. “There’s no point in calling a romance writer to deal with critters in my chimney. I’ll call someone… a professional.”
“Hello?” Tom, the gray ponytail from across the street diagonally, enters from the hall, carrying a mason jar filled with something red and accompanied by a petite, sandy-haired woman ten years younger and a foot shorter than he is. “Oh, there you are, Rowan. Welcome to the little house.”
They shake my hand, and his wife says, “I’m Marcy Goodman. Nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise. Please excuse my mess.” I introduce Mira and my students as they go by.
Tom hands over the mason jar. “It’s homemade BBQ sauce.”
“Thanks. How thoughtful.” I set the wine and sauce on the kitchen table behind us as Tom and Marcy list ways to use it.
“Best on grilled meat, though,” Tom decides, finally.
When scratching and crying interrupt our pleasantries, Vernon points to the fireplace, informing Tom, “Critters.”
“Shall I get on the roof and check it out?” Tom asks.
“No, thanks. I’ll call a professional. I wouldn’t want one of my kind neighbors falling off the roof… not on my first day.”
I laugh, but the rest aren’t amused.
An awkward silence falls over us. I’m a bit befuddled about what to do with them. Offer them something? Make conversation? Put them to work? It feels strange to play hostess on move-in day.
“It has happened once or twice,” Vernon says, breaking the silence.
“What has?” I ask.
“Neighbors falling off roofs,” he says as if it’s obvious.
The chimney noises kick up to a frenzy, spiking my nerves. To have baby creatures die in one’s new fireplace on the first day seems a terrible start to home ownership. I half-wonder if I’ll be cursed thereafter, and a weird story of a vengeful clan of raccoons wreaking havoc on me plays out in a mental movie.
Under her reddish-gray curls, Rose zeroes in on me like she’s trying to read my mind. “Got any tea, love?” She loops her arm in mine.
“Um, yes,” I sputter as she steers me toward the kitchen.
As I’m escorted away, Mira says, “I’ll ask Jane who to call for the chimney. She’ll have a guy for that.”
“Make yourselves at home,” I call to the others, but they’ve already moved on to Kenan and my entertainment system.
Rose sets me in the white and sage banquette as if I don’t have a million things to do. One thing at a time. Mom’s words recycle through my thoughts, and I realize I always have a million things to do—moving-in day or not—and they’ll get done regardless of tea breaks. Rose rummages freely through my labeled boxes, finding what she wants quickly.
“Ah, ginger tea.” Rose sorts through my small collection. “Soothing and good for the tummy.” She fills the kettle from the same box and heats it over the stove. Grabbing mugs from the MUGS box, she says, “Trash and recycling day is Thursday. We do a caravan to church on Sunday and beach outings. I’ll need your email for our weekly newsletter and your number for text alerts.”
She slips me her phone. “Add yourself as a contact… And, oh, Jack’ll be by later to talk about the tree.”
Her side glance tells me this is her main tidbit of information, and it comes across like a warning. “What tree?”
She motions to the backyard through the window. Thick hedges separate our properties, flat-topped as if he keeps them at head height but wild on my side, in desperate need of trimming. In the far back corner, a large pine tree caps off the hedges like a bookend and stretches tall with billowing needle branches cresting its peak.
“It’s on both your properties, and he’s anxious to get it taken down,” Rose explains, fixing our teas with sugar and cream without asking. “If he shows up, go easy on him, love. It’s been hard on him—”
Blaring music interrupts, luring me to the backyard to uncover the culprit. “Just Don’t Give a Fuck” by Eminem blares from next door and is joined by laughter, splashing, clinking bottles, and basketball thumps against the concrete.
Mira edges between Rose and me as we peek over the shrubbery. With its extended deck, pool, mini-basketball court, bar, and outdoor kitchen, it isn’t a backyard but a party zone. Men in various states of thirty, some with the start of dad-bods and receding hairlines, drink beers and comment on the inflatable big screen airing a baseball game.
“Oh, yeah, he seems very broken up about it,” I huff sarcastically.
Rose shrugs. “We all have different ways of coping, love.”
“Holy shit, is that him?” Mira gapes through the bushes with enlarged eyes and a devious laugh.
“He’s the hottie with the tatts, dear,” Rose confirms.
I peer closer and see Jack sitting on the pool’s edge. Wild, thick-lined, colorful tattoos pull my stare into his chest and arms. The diamond cuts of his arms, shoulders, and ab muscles ripple like the water’s surface dancing around his legs. He is cologne-model attractive—like he should be shirtless next to a horse in a black-and-white photo advertising a scent called Man or Muscle. More surprisingly, he’s smiling—a crooked, playful thing that looks almost easygoing and inviting—unlike the brooder I met on proposal night.
“Rowan, send Dean a picture of that guy and say you’ve moved on,” Mira chuckles.
I scoff. “Dean doesn’t need to worry, especially not over a guy like that.”
As soon as the words fall out, I want to suck them back in, especially when Mira’s coy grin transforms into a scolding stare-down. “Why not a guy like that?”
This is an argument we have often—Mira gets upset with me for knowing from experience that men like him don’t look twice at a woman like me (not in a good way), while she argues that I’m gorgeous and shouldn’t settle or sell myself short. Then, I argue that the last semi-hot guy I dated before Dean ended up being an obsessive psycho, so looks aren’t a good indication of anything. She counters by bringing it back to Dean and our perfectly fine, but, yes, slightly routine sex life. Sex shouldn’t be like getting an oil change, Rowan—it should be better than maintenance. To which, I protest that regular oil changes are key to the health and longevity of a vehicle. And certainly better than never getting my oil changed at all.
We argue like this at least once a season, sometimes more if dating is a hot topic of conversation.
For now, our back and forth comes across in our stare—no words necessary.
From the outside looking in, I understand what she thinks she sees. Her decade-long relationship with Jane has been a passionate one. They are the sweetest, closest couple I know, cute to the point of annoying, especially since they think everyone else should be like them. Even half of what they have is more than enough for me. And in ten years, Dean and I will undoubtedly grow into each other as they have.
But there’s no use trying to convince her what time will surely prove.
She points across the hedge. “A guy like that knows how to curl a woman’s toes—you need some toe-curling.”
Rose giggles, giving Mira’s shoulder a gentle bop. “I like you. You’re saucy.”
They share devious smiles, like they’re kindred spirits.
Turning to Rose, I wince. “Please tell me I haven’t moved beside a man-baby who parties all the time.”
Rose’s slight brow pinches. “Well, I wouldn’t say man-baby.”
My shoulders slump at her unwillingness to negate the partying.