Chapter 12 Gwen - Howdy, Neighbor
Istare at the sold sign. It stares back at me.
For some reason, I didn’t expect Mrs. Johnson’s house to sell so fast. Sure, it’s a nice neighborhood in a cute small town, but really, what’s the demand for property in Merrymount?
It’s only been on the market a couple weeks. I don’t know the ins and outs of realty given the only two places I’ve ever lived have been here in this town and both were given to me by my parents, but this feels sudden.
I’m rooted in place in the middle of the sidewalk with my hands on my hips, heavy breathing after a crisp early evening run.
While it’s what I would consider chilly, I still have to wipe the sweat from my forehead and focus on getting air in my lungs. I don’t think I need to reach for the inhaler I keep in my little running pack just yet.
Don't ask why the asthmatic girl likes to run to clear her head. I just do.
I haven’t heard from Dean in a few days, and it’s messing with me. I thought ignoring him was in my best interest, but now I’m dealing with the unknown. And I know that he knows something like this would bother me to no end.
So, I refuse to play into his little mind games. I know his tricks. I’ve lived through them too many times. I can handle my overthinking on my own, like a big girl.
What I don’t expect is to see Dean motherfucking Fitzgerald waltz out the front door of Mrs. Johnson’s freshly sold house.
I’m so caught off guard I don’t give myself a second to think before words are just falling out of my mouth. “What in the everloving hell are you doing here?”
“Howdy, neighbor.” Dean holds up and jingles a set of keys. There’s the most rancid, vile, putrid, mortifying, every other disgusting ass adjective you can think of smirk on his face.
I want to saw it off with a rusty nail file.
“Get away from Mrs. Johnson’s house. You’ll stink the place up. She deserves better.”
“Mrs. Johnson is dead, Red. And this isn’t her house anymore. It’s mine.” He jingles those stupid keys again, and I have half a mind to stab him with them.
What are the chances that I actually didn’t finish my run, and I passed out somewhere along the way due to an asthma attack, and this is just some big hallucination? That’s like, way more likely than what just came out of Dean’s mouth…right?
“From the way you’re standing there, gaping like a fish, which isn’t very becoming by the way, I’m assuming you had no idea we bought the place?”
“We?”
As if on cue, Katie St. James steps through the doorway behind Dean, holding their bastard baby.
I stare at the newborn for the first time.
Most newborns aren’t cute (despite what most parents say.
It’s not a dig, they just usually look like they need some more time to cook), and unfortunately, he’s not the exception.
But it’s shocking to see how many of his features really do mirror Dean’s.
The paternity test was very clearly a waste of money and resources, but hey, what do I know?
Okay, no more jabs at the child. He’s a victim here, after all.
My head is definitely still spinning, and I’m really not having a good time right now, but I am surprised by how little I feel about…him. Dean’s son. The baby. Whatever his name is.
The longing I normally feel, the ache in my heart, the desire to reach out and tickle tiny toes, all of that is nowhere to be found right now. It’s kind of confusing.
“Slow to catch up, Red? Always was a struggle for you.” Venom laces every word of Katie’s faux singsong voice.
I pull myself together, mentally throwing every single emotion I possess into a box and chucking it into the darkest corner of my brain.
I pull my shoulders back to reach my full height.
The move would normally put me at eye level with Dean,—something he hates—but I’m still standing here on the sidewalk like an idiot, while they’re at the top of Mrs. Johnson’s front steps.
“No, Kathryn. I’m just surprised.”
“You wouldn’t have been surprised if you answered my texts,” Dean chimes in.
“You were texting her?” I watch Katie swap the baby from one hip to the other to turn to Dean in seething anger.
I interrupt before I’m forced to be the audience to their squabble.
“I mean, I’m just surprised you two are doing this. Like, you’re not even a little embarrassed?”
They both try to talk over each other, with Dean saying, “Financially, it makes sense” and Katie snapping, “We’re in love.”
I roll my eyes, channeling my inner Penelope. “Well, isn’t that…lovely. Congrats, really. Couldn’t have happened to better people. Don’t be surprised if I forget to drop off a welcome basket.”
Get me the hell out of here.
“Red…” Dean starts, but doesn’t continue.
For a split second, his voice reminds me of who he used to be to me. What I thought our life was going to look like. It’s a fleeting moment where I almost think he could be sincere.
But then I hear a baby wail and realize it’s his baby. A product of reality that I need to keep at the forefront of my mind. Katie starts bouncing, trying to soothe her son. It’s choppy and unnatural to watch, and I find myself wanting to reach out and help.
Katie lets out a frustrated sigh and tries to pass the crying baby to Dean, but he marches off the steps, walking up to the front gate of the fence.
I instinctually step back and toward the direction of my house. I don’t actually think this scene could get worse, but I’m not about to wait around to find out.
“As fun as this was, I should get going,” I shout over the sobs. The poor kid isn’t letting up and his face is beat red at this point. This isn’t my problem, I need to go. But— “For fuck’s sake, Katie. He’s hungry. Feed him.”
Her demon eyes find mine. I definitely just poked the bear, but come on, she’s standing here monitoring Dean like he needs supervision just because I’m out here. I guess that’s the price you pay when you “find love” in infidelity.
“And how would you know that?” she snaps.
She’s trying to get a rise out of me, and unfortunately for her, my compartmentalization skills are off the charts thanks to her deadbeat baby daddy, so I have nothing to offer here except unwelcomed, but clearly very much needed advice.
“His head is bobbing looking for your boob. You’re breastfeeding, right? The cues are there, you need to watch for them. Google dot com, babe.” And with that, I dash the short distance to my house and slam the door shut.
I peep through my blinds to see Mr. Little Baby Accident latch and immediately calm down.
I know I should have more grace and patience with a new mom. It’s the hardest job in the world. It’s a huge transition. It’s a lot of learning. But I’m a human with big feelings, and before Katie was a mother, she was a nightmare first.
She’s still a nightmare. This whole thing feels like one bad dream I’m begging to wake up from.
How could he do this to me?
Because he never actually cared, I remind myself.
Everything else wasn’t enough? He had to move in next door?
I put my back to my front door and slide all the way down until my ass hits the floor, and I throw my head in my hands.
There are no tears coming. I don’t have anything left in me. I threw my all into putting up a wall out there in front of Dean and Katie, and now that wall feels so solid, I don’t know where I would begin trying to break it down.
I don’t think I want to either. This emptiness feels safer. I can’t hurt anymore.
At least that’s what I tell myself while I sit on my entryway's floor, listening to the sounds of my new neighbors bickering and moving trucks backing up and unloading next door.
I don’t know how much time passes. I don’t think I care.
“Don’t do this to me. Not tonight, I’m begging,” I plead with the lock on the back door, uselessly shimmying the knob.
It’s 1:00 a.m., and I once again find myself fleeing to the cafe in the middle of the night because I can’t sleep.
And you know what, maybe I’m subconsciously fleeing to someone else.
But I’ll use the cafe as a front. Except this time the lock that’s been giving us problems on and off for months has finally decided now is the time to fully and completely shit the bed.
I’ve somehow gotten the key jammed so far back that I think the entire thing is going to have to get replaced. But, I hold my phone’s flashlight up and try one more time to at least wiggle the key out.
With one more last ditch attempt to pull, I feel a ridge of the key dislodge and then stick again. I give one more aggressive tug, and I have to catch myself as I fly back.
Once I’m on solid feet again, I hold up the piece of metal in my hand. It’s the top half of the key. The bottom part is still stuck in the lock.
Excellent.
I don’t even know why I dragged my feet on getting this fixed, John’s Locksmith is right down the street, and I see him or his busybody husband at least twice a day.
Lazy. Scatterbrained. Space cadet.
These are a few things Dean used to mutter to himself, but loud enough so I’d hear, whenever anything like this would happen.
It’s not that I enjoy forgetting to address things. It’s just that there’s so much. All of the time. I’m bad at delegating and prioritizing and sticking to lists, but I try. I try so fucking hard.
But sometimes, like right now, the effort isn’t good enough, and I land myself in a situation, and I have no choice but to agree with past Dean.
I am a lazy, scatterbrained space cadet who has left myself with no other option except to get back in my car and drive my ass home.
I’ll have to deal with the lock later this morning, when it’s socially acceptable, and I’m not at risk of disturbing the normal residents of Merrymount who are probably peacefully sleeping.
I let out a deep sigh and blindly chuck the remaining bit of the broken key and it noisily clangs off the dumpster. Whoops.