2. Bex
TWO
Bex
M oving. It’s like signing up for a stress marathon, right up there in the top ten life stressors, sandwiched between “death of a loved one” and “saying ‘I do’”—and that’s not even in the right order.
I glance around at the mountain of boxes cluttering the living room, and a part of me wants to scream. That’s the drama queen side of me—the one that’s convinced calm is a mythical creature. She’s done with the chaos and was hoping to hit the reset button here in Sweetkiss Creek. But let’s face it, she’s not as good at handling stress as she used to be.
“We’re done, ma’am,” the mover says as he stands in my doorway. “All of your boxes are in the rooms according to what was written on the outside of them. Truck is empty.”
“Thank you,” I say, rising from the spot by the couch where I’ve been busy digging through a container looking for my hair dryer. Because, of course, I remember packing it with my living room things. “You guys were the best. That was a big trip from California to North Carolina.”
“Lucky for me, though,” he says, nodding his head out toward the road that runs outside my property. “My grandparents live about an hour away in Asheville. Headed there now for a few days’ respite.”
Now there’s someone who looks at the brighter side of things. Smiling, I watch as he jogs over to the truck, joining the other two men who’re waiting in the cab. With a final wave, he hops behind the wheel and pulls away.
Leaving me alone, for the first time, in my house. MY house. MY FIRST HOUSE!
I take a giant leap from the front door into the foyer. In my mind, I am a graceful prima ballerina, one who has performed on all of the stages around the world to large audiences, receiving accolades and standing ovations wherever I go. However, I’m aware that if someone was filming this, I’d come across more “past-my-prima” than lithe dancer.
But that’s okay. No one is around to see me, are they? Cause I’m in MY HOUSE!
Giggling with no self-control, I wrap my arms around my torso and spin in a circle. Look, I’ve lived in Los Angeles for a long time. Getting the chance to own my own home, thanks to my best friend, and to move away from the city and a life filled with stressors, is pretty exciting.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and, tapping the app I was looking for, press start to kick my playlist off. The fortune that Bruno Mars’s “Uptown Funk” is the first song to play does not escape me. I like it. It’s an eight out of ten on the butt-shaking scale, at least for me.
I start moving around the place, dancing from room to room. I love this house so much. When you walk into the modest two-story home, you’re greeted by a small foyer that’s basically going to be a drop zone for boots, coats, and the occasional forgotten grocery bag. There’s a wooden bench that’s seen better days, but it’ll do the job—mostly holding a pile of my mismatched shoes, but it’s a job nonetheless.
To the right is the living room, where my old couch and a couple of armchairs have set up camp around an old fireplace. That fireplace is the true MVP of the house; I can already see it working overtime in the winter and making the place feel like a cozy retreat. The brick hearth gives it that “I totally have my life together” vibe, even if the rest of the room says otherwise. Built-in shelves along one wall will soon be blessed with books I swear I’ll read someday, and I'll add a few family photos and knick-knacks…they seem to multiply when I’m not looking. A big window lets in plenty of sunlight—and I can’t wait to sit in its warmth and read on my first quiet weekend.
The kitchen is a no-nonsense space with painted wooden cabinets that could use a fresh coat but haven’t bothered to ask for one, and the back door leads to a porch that’s perfect for sunset watching—or pretending I’m on top of all those DIY projects I’m planning on tackling.
The master bedroom upstairs is small and cozy, but complete with its own bathroom, and the other bedrooms are just as modest—basically enough room for a bed, a dresser, and a lot of wishful thinking.
All in all, my house is a mix of cozy charm and mild chaos—kind of like me. It’s not perfect, but it’s home, and that’s good enough for now.
My eyes closed, I make sure to belt out the words, singing nice and loud. I’m in the middle of a giant spin when I turn around and open my eyes to find a familiar face standing in the front doorway with a large basket in her arms.
“WHAT THE…!!” My scream is loud and long and I’m pretty sure I do a whole jogging and tap dance routine while standing in place.
“Sorry!” The visitor cackles as she puts the basket on the nearest cardboard box and covers her mouth with her hand in a sad attempt to hide her amusement from me. “In my defense, the door was wide open.”
“I was busy dancing,” I say, waving my hand in the direction of the door as I turn down the volume on my phone. “Couldn’t really close the door now, could I?” Slowing my breath down, I stop and cock my head to the side, smiling at my friend. “It’s so good to see you Georgie!”
“Bex Madden!” With a little squeal she runs to me and throws her arms around me. “Welcome to Sweetkiss Creek. I am still in shock that you’re here now. Who would have thought it could be this easy?”
“I wouldn’t call moving easy,” I say with a snicker, wagging my finger in the air. “One thing for sure, this is a lesson in patience. If the journey so far had its own soundtrack, let’s just say the song ‘Life Is a Highway’ would for sure be on there.”
Georgie frowns. “Not, ‘On the Road Again’? I would have thought Willie Nelson for the win.”
“Nope. No Willie on this trip, funny enough. But I didn’t pick ‘Highway to Hell,’ did I?”
Georgie is in on the secret that I like to put a soundtrack to all the moments in my life. It’s a funny habit from when I was little that has stuck with me as I’ve grown up and moved into an adulthood-adjacent time in my life.
“Well, you’re here. I’m sure there will be more theme-song moments and memories to be made, now that you’re on the East Coast.” Georgie scans the room, whistling with approval. “This place is super sweet.”
“Thank you,” I say as I peek at the basket she’d discarded on top of a moving box. “Books! Perfect. I’ve got just the spot for them,” I say, nodding toward the built-in bookcases in the living room that flank the fireplace. It’s good to have a bookstore owner as a friend, let me tell you.
“When you said you were going to need to fill some shelves, I took that as a challenge,” she says with a wink. “Get ready, I’ve got more to bring by as soon as you say when.”
“Once I have a chance to go through the boxes and see how much space I’m actually taking up on those shelves, I will let you know.”
“Amazing,” Georgie coos as she claps her hands together. Turning around, she scans the room before pointing out the large bay window that faces the back of the property. “Ummm, that’s a big hedge.”
“I know. I like it, but only just this much,” I say, holding up my hand and pinching my thumb and forefinger so they almost touch. “I appreciate boxwood hedges, but I think I want to see about removing that one.”
Georgie turns to face me slowly, her eyebrows arching almost to her hairline. If I’m not mistaken, it looks as if she could be chewing on her cheek, like she’s trying to stop herself from laughing.
“You want to remove the hedge?”
“Not remove as much as maybe cut into it some,” I say with a flick of my wrist, indicating beyond the hedge. “There’s a beautiful pond on the other side of it and I’d love to have a better view.”
Georgie crosses her arms and looks at me, her eyes dancing with pure delight. “Have you spoken to your neighbor about this?”
“Not yet, but I plan on it. Although, I think that hedge is technically on my property. If that’s the case, I don’t need to discuss it with my neighbor, do I?”
Something in the way Georgie looks at me makes me take a pause. “Why, Georgie?”
She closes her eyes. “That hedge belongs to Austin.”
That’s a twist I didn’t see coming. “Austin?”
She nods, opening her eyes back up wide. “Yep.”
Now, there’s a name with the power to make my heart skip a beat.
“How is he?”
“He’s pretty much sequestered himself in that house,” she says with a shrug, her gaze wandering across the field in the direction of his property. “He’s always there, going nowhere and doing nothing.”
“Really?” I shake my head. Surely I didn’t hear that right. “Austin?”
“He’s angry now, Bex. Not the same guy. You know how they thought he had a knee injury? Turns out it was his Achilles. He’s been retreating into a solo world of loneliness and bitterness for months. It’s like watching a really slow train wreck.”
A sadness washes over me. Angry, bitter Austin? It doesn’t seem to gel with the person who I know. Or knew? “I remember he was pretty down in the dumps, or at least appeared to be, at your wedding.”
Georgie nods. “He’s been sliding downhill since then. We’ve all tried to get him to see his way out of the dark, but he seems to like it there. The other day, I had to stop by with some paperwork from Levi, and I was really surprised at how he’s let himself go.”
Georgie is married to Levi Porter, Austin’s brother and a former NFL star himself. As chance would have it, I was in town looking for a place to live and had just met Georgie when she started dating Levi. So, by proxy, I’d gotten to know Austin some. We were the extra friends/wingman and wingwoman on dates here and there. It’s fair to say I started crushing on him, and a small part of me thought he was feeling something, too.
But after his injury, he disappeared. I saw him briefly at Georgie’s wedding, but we never spoke. It was like we’d never met.
Still. I am curious. “What do you mean, let himself go?”
“Austin was always the kind of guy who had his beard either trimmed or was clean shaven. He liked being pulled together. When I saw him a few days ago, he was sitting in his threadbare sweatpants on the back porch, no shirt on, hadn’t shaved in weeks, probably, and he was really busy trying out his new binoculars.”
There’s a red-flag moment if I ever saw one coming. “Binoculars? Good to know.”
“I wish I was kidding.” Georgie gives me a look as she rolls her eyes. “So, don’t be hanging out around here in your underwear…”
“Oh, stop it,” I say, taking a playful swipe at her arm while she cracks up. “He can’t be that bad.”
“He’s not horrible, but he’s not the guy you met originally. At least he isn’t right now. He’s cranky, reclusive, and harmless. You don’t need to worry about him—unless you want to do something about that hedge.”
Eyeing the hedge, I shrug. “I’ll see. I’ve got a lot on my plate. These boxes won’t unpack themselves.”
“What about work?” she asks.
“I’m going to figure it out. I’ve got some time with what I’ve saved, but I’ll need to secure steady work soon-ish. It’s going to be a bit of a mission, though.”
“Because of the Graves?”
Georgie knows another little secret of mine: I have an auto-immune disease called Graves’ disease. Not that I want it to be a secret. It’s just…it’s mine and I’ve been dealing with it for only a couple of years now. Graves’ disease is when you have an overactive thyroid and it can cause a myriad of problems. Like many auto-immune diseases, this one is not the same for each person who has it.
“Exactly. Spencer knew me when I was diagnosed, so when he offered me the job to be his assistant, he was well aware of what I was going through. Made it a lot…”
“Simpler,” Georgie finishes for me. She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “You have a good friend in Spencer.”
“Right? Without his help, I would not be standing in my own home.”
Spencer Stoll is not only my former employer and one of the most sought-after stars of stage and screen right now, but he’s also my best friend. He and his wife, Amelia, had moved to Sweetkiss Creek a couple of years back, and after a few visits here, I too saw the heaven that they did in this little community.
Sweetkiss Creek is like something created for a Hallmark show in that it’s picture-book perfect. You fall in love with the people here as much as you do with the area itself. I know I fell in love with Sweetkiss Creek and vowed to settle here. When I did, Spencer and Amelia surprised me by investing in a small house on the outskirts of town and kind of gifted it to me. By gift, I mean I don’t owe the bank, I owe them, which is winning.
“Not everyone gets the chance you’ve gotten to move into their own house like this.”
“I’m still paying for it, though,” I remind her.
“True,” she says as she glances at her watch. “Time is slipping away from me today. I need to get going, but I had to come see you.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” I say as I embrace her.
“Welcome to Sweetkiss Creek, Bex,” she says as her eyes flit to the house behind mine. “Just watch out for those crazy neighbors.”
Closing the door behind her, I lean against it and sigh. My muscles, which were feeling strong and ready to go a couple of hours before, are now feeling tired, worn out. Stress can make Graves rear its ugly head, so I know it’s time for me to slow down soon.
Looking at the boxes in the foyer, I make a silent agreement with myself: I’ll put away two of them, then call for a pizza to be delivered and spend the rest of the day relaxing.
The true measure of a good night’s sleep? The puddle of drool on my pillow. So, on my first morning in the new house, I wake up and immediately notice the damp spot on my cheek. Yep, nothing says “welcome home” like a face full of your own spit.
“Oh, wow,” I mumble, sitting up in bed and looking at the room around me. I’d chosen to sleep in the guest room last night. No real reason, only that it was the closest one when I was ready to pass out. The morning view is a good one, as I’m greeted with a view of a maple tree with fire-red leaves that signal autumn is here, and it is breathtaking. I put my feet on the floor and get out of bed, the cold of the hardwood on my soles assisting me in waking up a little faster.
Reaching for a sweatshirt I’d abandoned at the end of the bed before I fell asleep, I’m busy pulling it over my head when I hear what sounds like a car’s engine outside of the house. Thrusting my head through the neck hole, making good on my promise to Georgie to stay dressed at all times since prying eyes have binoculars, I hurry over to peer out the window. There’s a car idling, which has pulled over inside the lane I share with Austin. I watch as what appears to be a giant chicken trots over to our mailboxes and pulls them both open. The chicken shoves a small bundle inside of each box before it turns and jogs back to its station wagon and pulls away.
Scratching my head, I wonder what I’ve just witnessed. How often do you see a chicken standing in your lane and putting things in your mailbox? I grab my garden boots and slip them on before making my way down the stairs to trudge out to the mailboxes for my first adventure today.
I open the side door by the kitchen, the closest one to the drive, and as I do, I can see a big red Ford truck slowing down and stopping next to the mailboxes. I can hear the mailbox doors being open and shut, making me think it could be Austin?
As I get closer, I see someone who kind of resembles Austin, or the Austin I remember, sitting behind the steering wheel. I raise my hand and wave, making sure to also smile really wide so he can see it’s me. Here I am, standing and waving at this guy like I’m royalty, or a homecoming queen, as his eyes lock with mine. My pulse quickens—I know that face. It’s him.
Surely he’s going to wave back. Of course he will now that he sees it’s me. We’d made each other laugh and we’d gotten along well. So, yes, I fully expect this man to see me and recognize me, and at least…I don’t know, nod his head?
So I keep waving.
And he keeps staring.
And…nothing.
He sits there for another awkward second or two before he does us both a favor and pulls away.
“Well,” I gripe under my breath as I watch him speed up his driveway, a cloud of dust in his wake, “that’s not very welcoming of you, Mr. Porter.”
I walk down my driveway to where it meets the shared lane. Spencer had mentioned the realtor telling him this whole area used to be farmland before the owners split off a parcel about ten years ago, intending it for rentals. That’s how my two-story house came to be. It was first rented out, then sold to an older, retired woman. When she passed away, the house went on the market, Spencer found it, and voilà—now I’ve got a home.
When I reach the bank of mailboxes—and by bank, I mean there’s two of them—the door to mine is ajar. Peering inside, I find two things. One, the local newspaper. Wagging it in the air, I now know what the guy, or chicken, was dropping off earlier.
The other is a small envelope with nothing on the front of it. Eyeing the note, I hesitate, but then I open it. I’ll be honest, I’m half expecting it to maybe be a weird “welcome to the block” note from Austin.
In case you weren’t told, your boundary for your home, as in the property line that separates us, is the boxwood hedge in your backyard. Respectfully, I ask that you don’t cross it. Thanks.
My jaw goes slack. I read it again, making sure those are the actual words I’m reading with my very own eyes. Is he serious?
“No muffins, Austin?” I call out to no one in particular. “Not very Southern of you, sir. I expected at least a loaf of bread.”
Eyeing the hedge, I crumple the note and shove it into the pocket of my pajamas as I make my way back to the kitchen for my first cup of coffee of the morning.
If this is any indication of what life is gonna be like here, I’m gonna need all the caffeine I can get.