Saint Nick

Chapter 5

5

L ow

I’ve been watching him for a while. He is a walking catastrophe, a clear sign of a man in over his head.

It’s been nearly impossible not to get distracted. I’m now midway through today’s podcast and don’t want any more mess-ups. Critics are tough enough without having them point out a bunch of “um’s” and “uh’s” on my part. And I certainly don’t want to curse accidently. At least not out loud.

But what the heck has he been doing?

First, Nick walked two giant poodles in the oddest way, more like he was stumbling along and struggling to keep up while they were walking him. He ended up covered in mud practically from head to toe. From here, the stains on his white shirt looked like splatter paint from the early aughts, the kind we made from paintbrushes dipped in watercolors and flicked on our walls and clothes. I got grounded for this once when I forgot to cover the carpet with a cloth and wound up flinging red paint all over my mother’s new cream-colored shag, so I know this firsthand. My bedroom looked like a crime scene; I received a month-long punishment to fit the damage I inflicted. Do you have any idea how hard it was for eleven-year-old me not to talk on the phone? I talk for a living now, folks. It was on par with waterboarding, at least in my imagination.

And now, a car pulls up, and a woman and two kids hop out.

My hot neighbor is a dad ?

My grandmother failed to mention this monumental detail as well. I can’t date a widower dad. Not that anyone said anything about dating. Still, a niggling of disappointment stings my throat. I massage it while talking into my new four-hundred-dollar microphone while keeping one eye on the scene out the window. All the good ones are usually tied down. Then again, when his kids squeal a delighted hello that turns into an argument that carries on for more than a few seconds, I want to kill the whole lot of them anyway. Including the dark-headed chick he’s now hugging. Is this whole family always unbearably loud? And attractive? Who even is she?

I stare for a beat too long, then forge ahead with what I was saying to keep dead air space to a minimum. This odd group of neighbors is distracting, to say the least.

The woman makes a face and gestures to Nick’s raggedy appearance—and on this we can agree. A few seconds later, she hops into her car and drives away while he and the kids amble back down the hill the way he just came. Two minutes after that, the threesome is back to walking the dogs, the little girl stopping to pick up pinecones on the pathway while the older boy gets wrapped and unwrapped in a leash—the former by himself, the latter with Nick’s repeated help.

Now, I’m not so sure these children are his. I’m growing more and more certain he’s…babysitting? Curious, I lean forward to crack my window open to eavesdrop. After a quiet few seconds—thank the heavens above—the young girl shouts “Uncle Nick!” at the top of her lungs and holds up a weed for him to inspect. All I feel is a curious relief that, yep, he’s babysitting. I close the window to keep the microphone from picking up extra noise and tell myself to get a grip. So what if he’s suddenly and officially single?

He’s also incredibly busy.

In the eighteen hours since we met yesterday, Nick what’s-his-name has gone from a professional woodcutter to a not-so-professional dog walker to a part-time babysitter. Is there anything this man won’t do for other people? I give a little gasp to myself. Because there it is, the thing I was looking for. A prime example for my subject at hand-delivered straight into my lap in the form of the hot dude next door. I take a deep breath and forge ahead.

“And this is what I’m talking about, listeners: the importance of having boundaries,” I say into my microphone. “Take my new neighbor, for example. We’ll call him…Nicholas.” I probably should have veered further away from his actual name, but it’s too late, and it’s out there. “I’ve known him for less than a day, but so far, I’ve seen him put his own life aside to help three different people with various tasks. Sounds noble, right? But does he know how to say no? Does he have a job or a life of his own? Is he so busy helping out others that he has no time left to help himself? Now, let me be clear, I’m all for helping others, but when we start to overextend our time, burnout is a real possibility. Even more dire is the risk of losing our own value—our individual wants and needs—in the process. So, before you say ‘yes’ to things other people ask of you, make sure to ask yourself if a ‘no’ would be a healthier option. After all, we’re not striving for sainthood here, just a nice balance between saying yes and no in equal parts so that we don’t lose ourselves in the chaos of everyone else’s needs.”

On this, I am an expert.

“ You need to stay home and help me clean the garage,” said my overbearing mom when I was ten years old and walking out the door for my very first sleepover at the neighbor’s house.

“ I want us to go prom dress shopping together,” said my two-faced best friend, who took my favorite gown I’d just tried on to the register and bought it for herself.

“Tell me what kind of ring you could see yourself wearing ,” said my no-good college boyfriend, who wound up buying it and giving it to the girl he proposed to the very next year.

Saying no more helps you get hurt less. That’s just a fact.

I pause and take a deep breath to collect myself.

That’s when the word “Sainthood” comes to me again, and I blink. He’s a Saint Nick in the flesh. I barely suppress a little chuckle at my own internal joke. It is December, after all. The time of year when cliché phrases start popping in and out of my head so often that I could string them together to make a festive garland for my Christmas tree. The tree I haven’t bought yet. My grandmother has an artificial flocked one in her attic and told me I was welcome to use it, but I have a personal line and fake trees cross it.

Maybe I’ll look for a place to buy a real tree tomorrow. For today…

“Anyway, dear listener…” Dear listener is a sort of catchphrase for me, one that stuck during my first few months on the airwaves, and it’s remained with me ever since. I like to think the words make me sound like a modern-day Dear Abby on the radio instead of newsprint. Some people don’t agree—like the dads and Brads and Chads of the world who think women shouldn’t be quite so independent as me, and of course, the judgmental Karens who tune in just to tell me how obnoxious my catchphrase sounds. But I like it, and that’s what matters.

I’m also currently the number two most popular podcaster out there behind Glennon Doyle, so that doesn’t hurt. Anyway, where was I? Definitely not on the hot neighbor currently walking back up his sidewalk with two kids in tow. He’s changed into sweatpants that somehow make him look hotter than he did while chopping firewood, which is supremely unfair. They climb into his car and drive away while I wrap up today’s episode.

“…Remember to put yourself first as often as you can this time of year. It’s vital. It’s necessary. No one needs to be a self-appointed Saint Nick or Helpful Holly, especially if, in the process, you help so many other people out that you forget to help yourself. Thank you for listening to The Lowdown with Low Reed. Until next time…”

I close my laptop and stand up to stretch, working the kinks in my back until I hear the satisfactory triple crack from the bottom of my spine to the top. I suffered a volleyball injury in tenth grade that led to a fractured lower vertebra, so sitting for long stretches has the worst effect on my back. I’m only twenty-nine. I can’t even think about how my body will handle this job a few years from now. Probably with a bottle of ibuprofen and daily acupuncture. Or a fifth of whiskey and traction. Take your pick. That’s what happens when you stress fracture your back; even after it heals, it’s never quite the same.

I power down my microphone and turn off my ring light. Even though it’s a podcast, video teasers are a necessary part of the job. There’s no such thing as a “face for radio” anymore, which, in my estimation, is entirely unfair. From the waist up, at least, I have to look professional and put together every morning from nine a.m. to noon, the time it takes to prepare for and air my one-hour show each day. After it’s over, however, all’s fair in work and fashion.

I shed my wool sweater as fast I can, then reach for a pair of sweatpants and an old sweatshirt I bought at the campus bookstore during my freshman year of college. I slide into both, nearly moaning in relief at the instant comfort the outfit brings. Zippers and button-downs are the bane of my existence, even though I have a closet full of both for business meetings, work, and promotions. For now, I’m done with all of it. Polar fleece for the win. I throw on some sneakers and my black North Face coat and matching beanie, opt for leaving my long auburn hair down to help ward off what will likely be an unbearable chill and head for the door. Two hours of editing is still in my future, but right now, I could use a walk.

Just before I reach the front door, my grandmother’s parrot, George, chirps at me from his cage in the living room. This incessant bird never shuts up, and his catchphrase is the worst.

“George needs a shot of bourbon,” he says in the most annoying tone. To George, “bourbon” is code for “cracker”, something apparently my grandmother thought would be a hilarious alternative to a clichéd phrase. It isn’t. Listening to a parrot recite alcoholic humor all day and night is the emotional equivalent of a toddler whining non-stop for candy at a supermarket checkout. Not fun. Tiring. And honestly kinda weird.

“Here, but next time, try to say, ‘George needs a cracker’ like a normal bird.” I toss him two birdseed cookies and sigh, turning toward the door only to hear George say, “George needs a shot of bourbon,” once again. I swear, recording a podcast while a lush of a bird squawks about hard liquor in the background is its own sort of challenge, one that has me closing all the doors in this house multiple times a day lest my listeners think George is some drunk guy I let sleep over to stave off a bender. Between the bird and the neighbor, blocking out background noises has become a full-time job.

The cold afternoon air washes over my face when I step out onto the porch, and I suck in a sharp breath. This might be a short walk, a brisk jaunt to the end of the driveway and back before frostbite settles in. The weather in Rhode Island is no joke, and my thick, humidity-laced Texas blood is screaming obscenities at it. Seriously, this place is built for Eskimos and polar bears, not in-the-flesh humans like me.

The citizens of this town must be half dead.

“Did you say something?” a male voice asks from across the yard, my first clue that I must have said the intrusive thought out loud.

“What?” I ask, holding out hope that I didn’t. It’s neighbor Nick and his apparent niece and nephew, both holding McDonald’s bags in their hands. Of course, it is. I can’t embarrass myself to only myself, can I?

“It sounded like you said something about murdering people from Rhode Island. Or something like that...”

I feel my face redden when the younger girl looks up at Nick. “Is she gonna kill us, Uncle Nick?”

I hesitate at that. Uncle Nick. It’s adorable the way she says it, and suddenly, I forget to be embarrassed, the emotion swiftly replaced with a foreign sense of admiration. But what’s so admirable here? The guy clearly has boundary issues, and I am not attracted to men who have those. I’m not.

Still, I kinda like the way he’s looking at his niece like she hung the moon and stars and all the planets in between. Has anyone ever looked at me like that? I shake the nostalgia out of my mind and work to bring my head into focus.

“No, I’m not going to kill you,” I answer for him. “But as cold as it is out here, I may gladly let you kill me. How do you live like this every day?” I say all this while blowing barely lukewarm air into my hands, so my words come out a bit muffled.

“It isn’t cold,” the boy says, sounding confused. “It’s like, thirty-two degrees.”

The incredulous laugh that bursts from my throat is unintentional but genuine. “You realize that’s an oxymoron, right?”

“What’d she call me?” the boy says to Nick, who busts out with a laugh of his own.

“She didn’t call you anything, buddy. An oxymoron is…never mind.”

I raise an eyebrow at Nick, wondering if he knows the meaning of the term or not. Do lumberjacks know grammar?

“She’s just telling a serious joke,” he says with a wink, not breaking eye contact with me.

So, I guess he does know. I’m slightly ashamed and feel a blush warming my cheeks. This seems to be my most popular reaction to him.

“Serious jokes aren’t funny, are they?” the boy asks, and Nick and I both smile at each other.

I clear my throat and look up at the sky just for something else to gawk at.

“I suppose not,” I say. “What are you all up to this afternoon? Besides walking dogs and gathering pinecones, I mean.”

“Saw that, did you?” Nick asks.

“Yep, every muddy bit of it.”

“I think I managed to ruin my shirt. Guess I’ll find out in a day or two.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t get my hopes up. I know I live a ways away, but even I couldn’t see many white patches left on it.” When Nick laughs, I bite back a smile. The shirt really was awful.

He rubs his hands together. “Well, actually, we were just getting ready to?—”

A car pulls into the driveway then, and his attention is diverted to that same pretty brunette climbing out of the car that I instantly don’t like. She’s beautiful in the way sorority girls are beautiful, intimidating and polished, just shy of accessible, and the smile on his face makes my heart twist more than I’d like to admit. Maybe this is his girlfriend. Maybe these are her kids. Worse, maybe he’ll even be a future stepdad.

Suddenly I get the sense I’m intruding on a private family moment, and I turn to leave. “Well, I guess I should?—”

“Hi, I’m Susan.” The woman extends her hand, and I take it. Even her French manicured fingernails manage to make me feel inferior in my opposing dirty sweatsuit and mismatched stocking cap, and I’m normally a very confident person. Where is my bravado? I’m a well-known podcaster, dang it. This is ridiculous. You know what else is ridiculous?

How is she wearing skinny jeans and heels in this weather? Next to her, I look like a frightened turtle.

“I’m Low,” I say, my voice weaker than I’d like it to be. So, I clear my throat and try again. “Low Reed. I’m staying here for a couple of months while my grandmother is?—”

“Low Reed, the podcaster?” the woman asks with raised eyebrows, injecting no small amount of enthusiasm into her words.

And what do you know, the turtle comes out of her shell.

Not wanting to be obnoxious, I bite back a smile. “One and the same. I’m working out of my grandmother’s house while she’s off touring the world.”

“I know, she told us.” Susan nods vigorously. “I just didn’t know you were her granddaughter. That’s crazy. I listen to your show all the time.” She looks at Nick with an open mouth while she points at me. “All the time!”

“So, like, you’re famous?” he asks, more surprise in his voice than awe. I shouldn’t be offended, but it’s there a little bit.

“I mean, people don’t usually recognize me around town, but?—”

“Yes, she’s famous,” Susan interrupts. “She’s friends with Glennon Doyle!”

I mean, we did an episode together once, but I wouldn’t exactly say we’re friends.

“Who’s Glennon Doyle?” Nick asks, and suddenly, my ego prickles.

“She’s a friend of mine,” I lie. Wow, I’m a fickle thing. “Only the most famous podcaster in America.” That might be a stretch, but apparently, I’m making a habit of bending many truths to suit my situations. What’s one more?

“You’re pretty famous, too,” Susan continues to gush.

As for Nick, he’s clearly had enough. “Okay, we get it, she’s cool. Are you kids ready to go?” he asks, spinning toward the children with his arms open wide. They squeal and lunge for him, the older boy into his waiting arms and the young girl onto his back. She’s hanging from his neck in a way that makes my own head hurt by default, sympathy pains and all that. Also, I want to say that I am cool, but I let it go. Hopefully, the opportunity will knock again.

“I’ll let you guys get back to what you were doing,” I say, once again turning to leave.

“No need. My sister has to get these two rug rats off to piano lessons anyway.”

The older boy immediately groans while the young girl squeals. More of note…his sister? The wave of relief that crashes over me is embarrassingly large, but at least no one here is a mind reader. Another smile threatens to take over my face, one I force into submission lest I look like a lovestruck schoolgirl. I’ve never been that, and I have no plans ever to be.

Much to my dismay, I realize my smile has escaped.

His sister notices and side-eyes me with a raised brow. “I owe you one,” she says to Nick, kissing him on the cheek.

“Stop saying that,” he responds. “I’d watch these kids every day if you need me to. You don’t owe me anything.” The boundaries part of me is erecting walls on Nick’s behalf because no one should ever over-commit to another person, sibling or not. But the soft side of me just felt her ovaries flip.

“Really? Then could you watch them tomorrow afternoon after school for a bit? Just long enough for me to do a grocery run and maybe make a quick stop at the gym?”

My ovaries sputter at the brief flash of annoyance that crosses his features. He recovers with a smile and a quick “Of course” before he pulls her in for another hug. But I saw it. He’s agreeable but not happy about it. Has their relationship always been built on his give and her take?

“You’re a saint, dude,” his sister says, and I nearly choke on air. Saint Nick. Isn’t that what I mentally called him only minutes ago when I was wrapping up the latest podcast? Great minds and all that. Even if she is taking advantage of him. My mother is the same way.

And just like that, my mood dips before it’s pulled back up at the sound of Nick’s protest.

“I’m hardly a saint. The furthest thing from it.” Nick mutters the words with force and a miniscule trace of bitterness that has me wondering at the hidden meaning inside them. When his sister pulls back and pats him on the cheek, it’s clear they just shared some sort of sad story. I’ve never felt more like an outsider and have never wanted to push my way inside a conversation so much in my life.

“Okay,” Nick says to the kids. “I guess I’ll see you two again tomorrow. But fair warning: there won’t be any McDonalds, but there will be both of you helping me clean the garage. So, pack an old T-shirt in your backpack if you know what’s good for you. Remember what happened to Rowan’s new clothes last time.”

The boy named Sam laughs loudly while the little girl groans. “No fair, Uncle Nick. I really liked that dress,” she says with a pout while her mother ushers both kids to the car. A few seconds later, they drive away, a plume of dust rising from the gravel driveway in her wake.

It takes a moment to realize I’m just standing there watching them next to Nick, but at the first hint of awareness, my face warms. One of us doesn’t belong in this cute little family scene, and it sure as heck isn’t him. Still, I’ve got to ask.

“What happened last time?”

He raises an eyebrow at my question before he laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way I find far too attractive.

“Well, first, she missed the last rung on the ladder and tripped across the garage, where she collided with a paint can and knocked it over. An old gray color that had separated into one part paint and another part oil. Her foot landed on the oily side, and she slid right into it. Landed hard on her backside, and I kid you not, there’s still a Rowan-sized butt mark in the center of the garage floor that I can’t bring to cover up because it makes me laugh so hard every time I see it. Figure it’ll be a fun story to tell her high school boyfriend someday.”

“Oh wow, was she hurt?” My heart pricks with concern at the same time my lips tug upward. Nick is still laughing, and the sound is cute.

“Other than a bruise on the side of her foot, the only thing hurt was her pride and my bathtub. Took almost an hour and a whole bottle of kid’s body wash to get her cleaned up. The paint ring she left behind on the enamel has only just now faded. That kid is a walking accident, but she’s cute.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks at the ground with a shake of his head. “Want to see it?”

My heart sputters because I’m not sure what he’s asking. Do I want to see his bathtub? Like, inside his house? Most likely his bedroom? This might be a good time to remember something about relational boundaries or—whatever it is I blather on about in my podcast. Yes, boundaries. No blathering. Because there is no way I can just waltz into this guy’s bedroom, no matter how hot he?—

“I mean, it’s only a garage, but the paint mark is kinda cute,” he says.

My face flames at my own internal dialogue. Presumptuous much? He only wanted to show me a slab of concrete with a child’s paint smear on it. Not all that exciting. Which is why I’m puzzled to find myself responding with an eager “Sure” as I follow him toward the house like a lovesick beagle. If I had a tail, it would be wagging. I mentally whack my nose with a newspaper and straighten my shoulders, and I don’t even believe in that sort of harsh puppy discipline.

He stops walking just inside the garage, and I come up short behind him, my chest nearly colliding with his back.

“There, see it?” He points to the left, and I follow with my eyes, unable to stop the snort that erupts from my throat. It really looks like a child’s backside, complete with a heart-shaped indention and a line down the middle. “Told you it was funny.”

“Someday, she’ll kill you for leaving it there.”

He winks back at me. “Well, someday, she should learn to follow directions. I told her to stay off that ladder.”

“Touché.” I start to laugh but then look up and see the rest of the garage. If you can call it a garage. It’s messy, like a forgotten storage building. Filled with discarded furniture—a rocking chair, a sofa with a bolt of fabric propped against it, and a beautiful antique desk that’s been sanded down to raw wood and pushed into a corner. Two bikes with the tires and kickstands off leaning against the wall. An interior door with a fist-sized hole through the middle. A couple of dismantled lamps and one cuckoo clock. And that’s only what I can make out at first glance. This place is stacked with so much broken crap, I feel like I’ve stepped into a rerun of the television show Hoarders .

“Wow. You sure like to collect things.” Except my wow doesn’t sound impressed. If he’s offended, he hides it well.

He shakes his head. “Only the desk is mine. Everything else is projects I’m working on for friends and neighbors.” He gestures in front of us. “That chair belongs to my sister. The bikes are for two kids across town. The door is for some lady who works at Walmart up the road. I need to get all of it finished and out of here by spring, but it’s been hard to find the time, what with?—”

“Babysitting? Dog walking? Tree chopping?” The words are out before I can stop myself, and we both hear the tone of judgment in my voice. But honestly… some lady who works at Walmart? So, he just offers to help anyone at all without discrimination?

He raises an eyebrow at me like I’m the weird one. “I was going to say my own house repairs, but I guess you have a point. So, we’ll go with everything you said.”

I’m chagrined and embarrassed, because what business is it of mine how the man chooses to spend his time? On the other hand, even I can see that his volunteer work is out of hand.

“Do people pay you to do this?” Maybe all this repair work is his job, which, in that case, I can hardly fault him for?—

“Nope. I do it out of the goodness of my heart,” he quips. And oh, good lord, that’s just ridiculous. Nobody is that good. Nor should they be.

It’s all I can do to keep myself from launching into a lecture on the importance of putting up walls between yourself and all the ways others can demand your attention. If you’re not careful, you’ll overextend yourself so much that you wind up with no time for things that personally matter. And what is the point of life if you’re always bowing to the whims of everyone else?

No, Dad. I will not carry your drunk self to my car and drive you home before Mom notices!

Even though, of course, I did. Every single time.

I grit my teeth against the memory and say nothing. I’m a lot of things, but rude isn’t one of them. A bit bitter, maybe. Definitely cynical. But not rude.

“Well, I should go,” I say, suddenly wanting to leave before a lecture comes bubbling out of me. It’s happened before.

“Okay yeah, and I need to get back to work anyway.” He gives another sweep of the garage with a flick of his hand. “At the very least, I need to get this sofa finished.”

At the very least. That sofa and about twenty-seven other projects are stacked around the garage. I just nod and look at him, then study the antique desk again, taking a step toward it. “Who is that for? It’s beautiful.” I could care less about the desk other than why he feels the need to refinish it. But honestly, it really is beautiful. I’m not prepared for the way he grows nervous and presses his lips together.

“Uh…no one.” He doesn’t say more, and suddenly I do care. Why the secrecy? He volunteers nothing else.

“Well, I hope you get it finished for…no one. And in record time.” With a small smile of resignation, I walk out of the garage, the steady pound of “tell me who it’s for!” drumming inside my head. My father used to call me a Nosy Nancy, and I hate knowing he might’ve been right.

I despise not knowing things.

“Thanks. I’ll see you around,” Nick says, and I give a little finger wag over my head. “Hey,” he adds, “I keep getting packages delivered to my front porch that disappear before I can do anything about it. Are you the one picking them up, or is someone else?”

I spin around with a hand on my hip. “Literally everything I order is sent to your house. I don’t understand why the delivery driver always gets it that wrong.”

“It’s the senseless numbering system on the houses. According to Andy, that’s always been a problem.”

“No kidding. Who puts odd and even numbers on the same side of the street?”

“Town leaders who can’t be bothered with annoying things like math. Don’t get me started on what happens when you attempt to order pizza. Let’s just say finders keepers in that scenario.”

“I would murder you if you ate my pizza.” Why did that somehow sound suggestive? The stupid blush makes a rapid return.

He gives a small laugh. “Scout’s honor, I won’t. But next time you need help getting a giant box off the porch, feel free to ring the bell, and I’ll come out.” At my embarrassed shrug, he takes a pretend photo with his fingers. “I have an external camera and saw you. The struggle was a real thing with that box yesterday. What did you have in there?”

My embarrassment runs deeper. I dropped that box three times and nearly broke a rib, trying to hoist it on my hip. And that was before it fell out of the truck.

“A new desk chair…and noted. Next time, I’ll ring the bell.”

“See you around, Low,” he says. There’s a finality to his tone that has my stomach sinking a notch or two. The whiplash between wanting to leave and wanting to stay is giving me phantom neck pains.

“See you around,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel as I make my way down the driveway. Just before I reach the edge of it, I turn and raise my voice a few notches. “But just so you know, if your pizza shows up at my house, I’m keeping it.”

“That’s hardly fair,” he shouts back.

“We’ll call it back payment for me always having to grab my own mail.”

I walk home to the sound of Nick’s laughter echoing behind me.