Chapter 1 Bethany
I roll over and pick up my phone from the nightstand.
I sit up and thumb through my overnight notifications. Two weather alerts that read more like drama than weather. A reminder about a sale ending when I never cared that it began. Two emails I’ll pretend don’t exist until after coffee.
Then I check the news. The world’s still turning, and still complaining.
I toss back the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
I sit there for a minute, my feet dangling just above the cold hardwood floors, before reaching for the blue bkr water bottle Emory gave me. Every morning I drink a bottle before coffee. Without exception. She made me promise, and I keep my word.
I’m three swallows in when a heavy guitar sound blasts through the quiet.
Then drums.
The unmistakable opening of Highway to Hell.
I lower the bkr.
It’s five in the morning. It is five in the morning, right? I turn my phone over. The screen confirms. 4:58 a.m.
Who the hell around here is, one, playing AC/DC and, two, doing it at this hour?
Willard’s awake, sure, but Willard’s idea of loud is turning his hearing aid past six.
It wouldn’t be Mrs. Kravitz. Right now she’s probably darting from bush to bush to report the incident in the town chat.
Maybe Hattie, but she and Maddy were playing gin rummy last night and that usually goes past sunrise.
“Who the actual hell?”
I set the bottle on the nightstand and walk to the window.
The houses here sit close enough that you can borrow a cup of sugar from your neighbor without either of you leaving the porch.
Which means whoever’s playing the music is basically standing in my bedroom.
I yank the curtain open.
Every light in the house next door is on.
Some guy is standing in the middle of the living room wearing nothing but tighty whities and tube socks pulled halfway to his knees, dancing with absolute, unapologetic commitment.
Hips thrusting, shoulders bouncing, head bobbing.
A spoon doubles as both a microphone and a drumstick while he balances a bowl of cereal in his other hand.
He shimmies down along with the lyrics.
Then he spins.
And freezes.
Our eyes meet just as AC/DC proudly declares they’re on the highway to hell.
His entire face lights up.
He pulls the spoon from his mouth, milk dribbling down his chin and a big grin spreading across his face, and gives me an enthusiastic wave like he isn’t standing there in his damn underwear.
“Mornin’,” he mouths.
“No. Nuh-uh.”
He waves again. Big wave. Whole arm. Like he’s Forrest Gump and I’m his Lieutenant Dan.
“No. Fucking. Way.”
I flip him off and yank the curtain closed hard enough to rattle the rod.
I stand there in the dark while AC/DC continues enthusiastically informing the neighborhood of everyone’s eternal destination.
I grab my phone, tap open the message app, then the contact that’s pinned at the top.
Whitney.
Years ago, when the Buccaneers assigned me to babysit Jake, he decided calling me Kevin, as in Kevin Costner from The Bodyguard, was the funniest joke ever created.
I thought naming him Whitney would shut him up.
It didn’t.
I’m going to kill you.
The bubble appears almost instantly. Professional athletes are disturbingly functional before sunrise.
What?
Thanks for telling me.
What?
Damn it, Jake!
Good morning, Bethany. Meet your new neighbor?
I stare at the screen. My left eyelid begins twitching.
You couldn’t have mentioned this?
Thought it’d be more fun this way.
I shake my head and toss my phone onto the bed.
I’ve got to be dreaming.
Because there is no universe where this is actually happening.
Where the loudest man I’ve ever met…
The human equivalent of a golden retriever after three espresso shots…
The NFL fullback who somehow turns every conversation into halftime entertainment…
Is living next door.
Highway to Hell ends. For one glorious moment, there’s quiet. I think maybe—
The opening riff of Thunderstruck blasts through the window. A second later comes his voice. Not singing. Belting. Entirely off-key.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.
It’s five in the morning.
My wall is vibrating.
My coffee isn’t even made.
And Wayne Kerr is my new next-door neighbor.
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