Chapter 7
7
L ow
For the past twenty-two hours, I’ve felt terrible about the way I left things with Nick. He didn’t ask for my advice or deserve a lecture, even if he clearly needs both. He also didn’t need my professional tips for setting boundaries, even if I have several in the forefront of my mind that might make his life easier. Things like, “Stay true to yourself, prioritize time for self-care, reserve the right to say no,” —that last one is his biggest issue. But nothing he did deserved my judgment, and for that reason alone, I’ve wanted to apologize.
Until now.
Right now, I want to murder him. Set fire to his house. Run over his flowerbeds and graffiti his lawn. Is it necessary to pressure wash a four-wheeler at eight a.m.? Has this man never heard of the concept of quiet hours? I’d like to drive that four-wheeler straight into a river. Or over his head. Felt that way the moment I saw some dude pull into his driveway an hour ago and unload it off a blue pickup. From that point on, my blood has been set to boil, never once letting up. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sound therapist-level calm on air when your temper is barely pressurized? I’m about to blow. Give me ten more minutes, and I swear I will.
“Well, dear listeners,” I say in the most soothing voice I can muster, considering my pulse is pounding a Phil Collins drum solo between my temples. “It seems the saga continues. My ever-helpful neighbor is at it again, except instead of chopping down trees, he’s pressure-washing the entire neighborhood. Maybe we should invite Saint Nick to have a sit down with us, what do you say?” Comments start flooding in immediately.
“Yes!”
“Ask him!”
“Is Saint Nick as hot in real life as he seems in my mind?”
“I can think of a few things he could pressure wash on me.”
Okay, that last one was unnecessary.
Even though I giggle a bit.
Still, a niggling doubt about bringing him into this podcast tugs at my conscience because, one, yes, he is as hot as the commenter thinks, and two, if he listens to my show, he’ll be even angrier at me than he was last night. But then I remember that he didn’t even know who I was before yesterday, so the odds of him finding out are?—
His sister listens to me every day. Why couldn’t I have remembered that sooner?
I’m in trouble now, so I might as well make the most of it.
“You think I should invite him to come on the show as a guest? Do a little ‘q and a’ to see if we can get to the bottom of his obsession with helping people?” I clear my throat—a podcast faux pas, but I’m uncomfortable with the way that sentence sounded, like I’m heartless or something—and correct myself. “Let me be clear: I’m all for being a helper. Some of the best people I know are helpers. But as is the case with most things, too much of a good thing ceases to make it a good thing. Spreading oneself too thin can have detrimental consequences, such as faltering mental health and feelings of helplessness. And what good are any of us if we feel overwhelmed? So maybe I’ll issue the invitation. Throw down the proverbial fleece, if you will.” I pause, unsure if this is the correct use of the Biblical fleece. Lightning doesn’t zap me, so I keep going. “I’ll keep you posted on my progress.”
More messages swamp my inbox. The sheer magnitude is surprising.
“Yes, keep us posted!”
“Oh, this is so exciting!”
“You think your interview with Saint Nick could be a video podcast?”
That last one is an interesting proposition, considering I’ve never done a video podcast before. Video teasers, sure. Everyone does those. But an entire show centered around my face? Nick’s face? The idea leaves me squirmy and uncomfortable, but I make a mental note to at least consider it. Ratings are already great, but this could up them even more.
“Thank you, dear listeners, for your enthusiasm about today’s show. Please join us next time for The Lowdown with Low Reed. Until then…” I close my laptop and stand, stretching my arms over my head as my spine cracks one vertebra at a time. Satisfying but painful, a necessary evil.
Much like the thoughts I’m currently having about Nick and that stupid pressure washer still humming in the background.
“So, I have a question for you,” I say, once again finding myself on Nick’s front porch even though I’m not sure he’ll even acknowledge my existence, much less talk to me. That dang pressure washer is still going strong, so hearing me at all might be a problem. He doesn’t look up, so it’s definitely a problem. “Nick!” That garners nothing but a spray of water toward my calf, and I jump back. “Nick!” I yelled louder, feeling a catch in my throat that made my voice crack. He still doesn’t hear me, so I do the only thing I can do. I stomp my foot and give a full-throttle scream. “Nick!”
Of course, that’s when he chooses to shut the machine off. If we were standing in a canyon, my voice would ricochet through the mountains and wrap around the wildlife and maybe split a few trees down the middle…and Nick just bore witness to my madness. The irony of him being a part-time professional tree-splitter isn’t lost on me.
Nick, who is now looking at me like I’m one sway shy of falling off my rocker. Like I’m half past crazy and on my way toward insane. The way things are heading, I should be there by dinnertime. Maybe afternoon tea. Someone pass the biscuits.
He looks annoyed by me. Surprise, surprise.
“Is someone trying to kill you?” he growls. “Is your house on fire? Did George finally get his fifth of bourbon and you’re having trouble reviving him? Because those are the only reasons I can come up with for why you would be shouting at me in my own front yard.”
Well, this just ticks me off. “Those are the only reasons you can think of, huh?”
He makes a gesture like, “obviously. ” “Is there a different reason I didn’t list?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.” I glance toward the pressure washer hose in his hand.
He has the audacity to act clueless. “Want to fill me in, or do you just enjoy shouting at your neighbors for fun?”
I barely suppress a growl. “You call this fun? I’m shouting at you because it’s the only way to get your attention, what with you blasting that thing all morning long.” I wave a little erratically in the direction of the pressure washer. “You’ve been cleaning that four-wheeler forever. No one uses a pressure washer this many hours in a row unless they’re either trying to annoy someone or they’re a germaphobe. Are you a germaphobe, Nick?”
Nick’s gaze narrows. “Yes, Low, I’m terrified of catching a disease from my neighbor’s frequent temper. Step back a few paces, will you?” The sarcasm in his voice tells me he is not, in fact, afraid of that.
I stay put. “Then why have you been using it so long? And what is it going to take to convince you to stop blasting machinery through my office window before noon?” At least Nick has the decency to look chagrined. He sighs.
“Did it mess up your podcast again?”
“It’s almost like messing it up is your new favorite hobby.” I put ‘messing it up’ in air quotes.
“I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ve kept the same schedule for the better part of a year now, and I don’t even think about it anymore. Just get up, pour coffee, and get started on projects. I’ll do better to remember in the morning. What was today’s podcast about?”
The question disarms me in its sincerity, and I’ll admit feeling a little touched. “Setting boundaries in your relationships. That’s essentially what every podcast is about. Boundaries are my brand, if you will.”
“Boundaries are your…brand?” Emphasis on the word brand, as though it’s a preposterous idea to have one. Or maybe it’s just the subject matter he doesn’t like.
“Well, yeah,” I say, not liking the sudden need to defend myself creeping into my tone. “Every podcaster has one.”
“Ah.” That’s all he says. One word. One word that can mean enough things to kick start my neuroses into high gear.
“Ah…what?” You can’t give one-word responses and expect to go unchallenged.
“Nothing, just…I thought Brene Brown had that market cornered already?”
This comment. Nothing gets under my skin more, and it’s a comment I’m on the receiving end of often. No one person can corner a podcast market. Can Stephen King ‘corner’ the thriller market? Can Steven Spielberg ‘corner’ the movie industry? Can Colleen Hoover ‘corner’ the romance book market? Okay that last one might be a stretch considering the woman sold more books than the Bible a couple years back, but you get my point. It’s arrogant to assume one person is the master of anything.
Or maybe it’s just my ego taking a hit. Whatever.
“No, she does not have the market ‘ cornered’ as you so eloquently put it. My corner of the world is doing quite nicely, thank you very much.”
He smirks, clearly amused by my little tirade.
“Struck a nerve there, did I?”
My nerves are, in fact, struck. But he can’t know that.
“You wish.” I add a scoff that almost guarantees he knows it. It also guarantees I sound like a third grader. “Now, do you want to know why I came over, or not?”
“I’m waiting on pins and needles.” He picks up the nozzle again and makes to turn on the machine.
I clear my throat. “I want you to be a guest on my podcast.”
His hand freezes mid-air, but I see his lips twitch. “Excuse me, what?”
“I want you to come on my podcast. And it’s not just me who wants it. There are?—”
“No.”
That’s all he says: no. Normally, I love short and sweet answers, but now I’m annoyed all over again. He didn’t even give me a chance to make my case.
“You didn’t even give me a chance to make my?—”
“I don’t need to give you a chance. I already know that I don’t want to be on your show.”
My fists plant on my hips, almost against my will. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to be interviewed, especially about boundaries.”
Well, now he’s just being obstinate. “And you feel that way because…”
He lowers the nozzle he’s holding and faces me. “Because here’s how it will go.” He clears his throat and raises a hand like he’s presenting a vision board. “Ladies and gentlemen, on today’s episode of ‘setting boundaries,’ we brought in a guy who doesn’t know how to have any. As a matter of fact, he’s a classic case of being used by all the people traipsing in and out of his house. I know this because I watch him out the window every morning…” He trails off and looks at me. “Am I close?”
He’s so far off base it’s ridiculous. First of all, I never start my show with ‘ladies and gentlemen.’ Second of all…
My ‘second of all’ is struggling to reveal itself.
I cross my arms to hide my impending lie. “You’re not close at all.” When he laughs, my arms fall. “What is your problem? Podcasts are a lot more popular than you’re giving them credit for. Especially mine.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that. My sister told me that when she called earlier this morning. Odd how you both mentioned me coming on your show in the same half hour, don’t you think?”
Oh. That. The glare I had good and worked up slides right off my face.
“Yeah, that’s strange.” My voice cracks at the last word. Is it too much to hope she didn’t mention this morning’s show?
He picks up the nozzle again. “Not as strange as hearing that you gave a play-by-play of my morning routine over the airwaves. Or hearing you referred to me as ‘Saint Nick’ on air to—how many did you say?—two hundred thousand listeners. That was the real strange part.”
My tongue feels dry like it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth. I work to pry it off. “It’s Tuesday. There probably weren’t more than eighty thousand listeners at most. Tuesdays are slow.” That’ s my defense?
“Well, thank God for Tuesdays.” He turns the pressure washer on again, effectively drowning me out. When a splash of water lands on the toe of my shoes—not sure that was an accident—it’s clear he’s literally trying to drown me, too.
“So that’s it?” I say to no one in particular unless you count the cardinal perched on a branch in the tree behind us like a Christmas scene come to life. Nick sure isn’t listening. But don’t red birds signify good luck or something? I take it as a sign and smile to my future self despite my current self being freaking annoyed with the guy making a pointed effort to ignore me. “Fine, but I’m not done asking,” I shout into a void of loud buzzing. The chainsaw might have been preferable to this.
With another childish stomp of my foot, I turn and march toward my grandmother’s house. When I make it to her driveway, I glance over my shoulder and lose my footing a bit.
Nick is still spraying that stupid pressure washer. Except it’s aimed at the ground.
And he’s staring right at me.
Well, well, well. Methinks someone might have protested a bit too much.
But when he looks away, I begin to wonder if maybe that’s just my own wishful thinking.
Back inside, I sink into my new desk chair and spin it toward the window to see Nick still spraying that stupid hose on a metal file cabinet he’s somehow dragged onto the driveway. I don’t get him. Doesn’t he have a job? One that pays in more than pats on the back and atta boys? It’s weird that he spends so much time doing favors for other people, right? Life is about so much more than odd jobs and fair-weather friendships, babysitting nieces and nephews, and walking neighbor’s dogs. I blink, uncomfortable with the stalker I’m currently being.
Dragging my eyes away, I spot that dang envelope Nick asked about yesterday and sigh. I’d nearly forgotten about it—nearly. But now it’s once again in the forefront of my mind right next to the image of my hot neighbor chopping firewood wearing nothing but tight jeans and sweat. I had a dream last night that swiftly replaced the t-shirt-wearing, real-life version of events. Dreams are better, anyway. Real life is what gets you every time.
“We cordially invite you to the offices of Doubleday, New York, on the evening of December nineteenth to discuss plans for ‘The Lowdown with Low Reed’ and its impending publishing agreement titled Healthy Boundaries in Relationships…”
But it’s the last line that gets me every time.
“We look forward to meeting you and your significant other.”
My significant other. The guy who turned out to be just another creep easily threatened by a woman’s success. My “significant other” who broke up with me five weeks ago, the night before this letter arrived in the mail. Two days later, I decided to uproot my life and take my grandmother up on her offer to house-sit. When she first asked me, I couldn’t imagine being away from Josh that long. After his breakup bombshell, I couldn’t leave town fast enough. As it stood, I had to wait three weeks to make it a reality. I spent most of that time barricaded in my apartment, afraid to leave lest I run into him at our favorite market or shared gym. We had a joint membership that blessedly expires around the time my grandmother gets back from France. But that does nothing to help my current predicament.
How am I supposed to meet with the editors of Doubleday to discuss Healthy Boundaries in Relationships when I can’t even keep a relationship going through Christmas? No one breaks up at Christmastime. It’s the natural law of averages. Too many parties to attend that require a date; case in point, the Doubleday thing. Their editors will think I’m a fraud or, at the very least, ill-equipped to write this book. Crazy how you can hold a dream in your hand one day and watch it disintegrate into nothingness the next afternoon. But seeing how I can’t seem to follow my own advice, maybe this is what I deserve.
I push the letter away and watch it fall to the floor.
Much like my career, well on its way to crash landing into the slush pile of failed podcasts.
Healthy boundaries, whatever. I can’t even convince my neighbor to stop pressure washing other people’s crap.