Chapter 11
THE GUY NEXT DOOR
SKYLAR
“This is awful. Just awful,” I pant out as I round the edge of Alamo Square Park, talking to my brother on the phone while Simon lags behind me on his leash. Even the Painted Ladies can’t make up for the pain of running. “I think I might be dying.”
“That makes two of us,” my brother deadpans as I slow my pace. Or slow my pace even more, since I wasn’t going that fast in the first place.
“Please. You’re not suffering,” I say as my lungs seize and my legs bark at me.
Simon barks too—nothing but canine expletives as he waddle-trots alongside me, expressing his displeasure with exercise.
“Oh, I would say it’s suffering, listening to you breathe as you run,” my brother says.
“Hey, not everyone is naturally aerobic like you. You were born part cheetah,” I say.
“And you were born half hyena. Why are you even calling me while running?” he asks.
“To be nice?” I retort as my heart threatens a mutiny. It’s beating so fast from ALL THIS CARDIO.
But that’s not true—I’m calling to be nice. And I’m calling to gloat about my handywoman accomplishments at his home.
“Also, why are you running with Simon? I thought he hated running,” Adam says.
I slow even more. Fine, I’m walking now. “He does,” I say, and my dog side-eyes me. “But humped the neighbor’s dog, so it seemed like I should try to get his excess energy out, and I read that exercise could help. He can’t do the elliptical with me. Ergo…running.”
“Wait. Did you just say your dog humped the neighbor’s dog?”
I didn’t see what was confusing about that. Even so, I give a simple: “Yes.”
“Skylar,” my brother chides because he has never not played the role of the older brother who knows best.
“It’s fine. It was over a week ago. He’s not even upset anymore,” I say.
“But he was then? Is it the hockey player?”
“Yes, but everything is good,” I reassure him. “Plus, it turned out he’s my brand-new client,” I say, then quickly explain the coincidence.
I leave out that I might also find Ford Devon ludicrously handsome, surprisingly entertaining, delightfully sarcastic, and full of layers that are fun to peel back.
I was legitimately touched to learn about his care for his parents and impressed, too, that he’s as fond of his mom and her overbearing ways as he is.
He’s a kind man underneath a rough exterior, and somehow, that’s hot to me.
“But everything is fine, right?” Adam presses.
“Of course it’s fine. Why are you so worried? Is it because of Jessica?” I ask, wondering if there’s more to his crush on the artist neighbor.
“No, it’s just…well, I was cautious to pursue something with her because,” he says, then sighs, and I can tell this is hard for him.
“You never know when you’re going to need a neighbor’s help, you know?
I have friends who’ve gotten into arguments with their neighbors.
They argue over yard signs and such, and then before you know it, it turns into a fight over property lines and other things, and then someone’s stealing your mail and your packages.
And they know too much about you and could hurt you. ”
He’s always been the bossy big brother, but I hear real worry in his voice. Good thing he doesn’t know I like to check out the neighbor when Ford’s shirtless on the back porch. That I touched his arm the other day in the store. That I maybe have thought about him late at night when I was alone.
“Look, it’s all good. We were literally texting last night about plants. Ferns, Adam. Ferns. We’re not arguing about property lines or putting dog poop bags in a neighbor’s bins.”
“See? That’s another thing to worry about. People don’t like it when you use their bins.”
“But again, I’m not using his bins.”
“Things can go south quickly,” he says.
I hate to admit it, but Adam’s not wrong. “Yes, Dad,” I say.
“Skylar,” he chides.
“I hear you,” I concede. “But don’t worry. It’s all good.” I shift gears, finally getting around to gloating about my accomplishments. “Adam, have I mentioned the rod in your closet fell yesterday, and I hung it back up?”
“Um, thanks.”
“Exactly. You’re welcome,” I say as Simon drags me to a grassy knoll in the park.
“Well, did you break it, though? I mean, you’re the one using it.”
“I don’t use your closet. That’s gross.”
“I’m sorry, why is it gross to use my closet?”
“Because it still has some of your clothes in there. All those old radio station and coffee shop T-shirts you hang up—the rod must have finally given out. I wasn’t going to mix my girl clothes with your yucky boy clothes, okay?”
“You are so ridiculous,” he says, laughing.
“Don’t worry. I’m taking care of everything. The house is fine. And Cleo also had a message for you.”
“That so?” he says, sounding a little wary.
“She said she originally wasn’t going to forgive you for moving, but now she has because she discovered she prefers me.”
“You’re the worst,” he says, but there’s laughter in his tone. “Why did I rent to you?”
“Imagine if you had rented to somebody you didn’t even know, and then boom—they’re stealing your mail and trolling you with yard signs.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says.
I say goodbye and flop down next to Simon, who rolls onto his back in the grass. He has the right idea.
I don’t sprawl on my back, but I do enjoy the rays for several minutes. I sit up, snapping a shot of my snoozing dog, then write a post for later with the caption: Mom made me run today. I feel like she’s trying to send me a message, but little does she know I’m not listening.
When I turn onto my block, I run into my brother’s crush checking her mail outside her townhome.
I’ve talked to her a few times, since, well, nosy girl here.
“Hey, Jessica,” I say to the pretty woman with the sleek black hair.
She’s wearing a T-shirt that catches my eye—there’s a drawing of bees and the words Protect Pollinators on it. “Nice shirt.”
With a small smile, she plucks at the blue V-neck. “Thanks. I designed this one.”
I knew she was an illustrator, but had no idea she made cute T-shirts with sayings I love. “I hope it’s getting”—I pause theatrically—“all the buzz.”
She laughs kindly at my pun. “It is. I can’t keep them in stock, but I found a local distributor of fair-trade T-shirts—” She breaks off and waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t want to hear all the details.”
O ye of little faith. “Actually, I do.”
“Yeah?” She sounds enthused.
“One hundred percent.”
We chat for another fifteen minutes about her business and how she sources her hand-printed tees.
I can’t get enough of the details. We’re kindred spirits, it seems. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she gestures to her home.
“I should get back inside and do some more work. But,” she says, with a hopeful smile.
“I’m traveling to Korea next week to see my mom.
Is there any chance you could check the mail while I’m gone? ”
“Absolutely,” I say, then exchange info with her.
After I say goodbye, I head up the steps to Adam’s home, my gaze swinging to another neighbor’s home.
Ford’s place looks quiet. I don’t notice any movement inside.
I pause by the door, Adam’s words echoing.
He’s wise about the importance of getting along with neighbors.
The world has both become more global and much smaller.
From Jessica’s request to check her mail, to stories from friends of mine in Seattle who lost power after a bomb cyclone several months ago and took turns with neighbors charging each other’s phones based on whose portable battery had the most power, it’s common sense to get along with your neighbor.
Not to date them.
When my phone dings with a text later that night from Ford as I’m making cauliflower mac and cheese, I figure it’s neighborly to answer. I’m just practicing good getting-along skills. I swipe it open as I sprinkle the cheese into the casserole dish.
Ford: Remind me never to get on your dog’s bad side.
Skylar: Hate to break it to you, but you’re definitely at the top of his burn book.
Ford: I took him for a forgiving guy. My bad.
Skylar: Just kidding. He loves everything, even ornery people. Well, everything except exercise. He rebelled today when I took him jogging.
Ford: He can jog?
Skylar: Is this a reference to his short legs? Your dog has short legs too.
Ford: Fair point. But she also doesn’t jog.
I’m tapping out a reply when I stop, wondering why he wrote. There’s nothing practical in his note. It’s…a remark. A throwaway comment. Something fun. My lips curve into a grin as I dictate a response.
Skylar: Why don’t you want to get on his bad side?
Ford: I looked him up. His commentary is withering.
That’s too delightful. Opening the oven, I picture Ford checking out Simon’s social. I imagine the smirk on his face. The roll of his eyes. The temptation to leave a like or a heart. It’s a nice image.
Skylar: Scathing reality judges have nothing on Simon.
Ford: Truer words.
I close the oven and set the timer. The phone goes quiet, and something soft settles into my chest—the awareness that Ford had written simply to compliment…my dog. And to let on that he’d looked him up.
I peer out the back window, but there’s only one light on in his home. Same as earlier. I check the hockey schedule. Ah, he’s in Los Angeles. They played this afternoon—I hop over to the sports news—and won. I stay on the site to watch a few highlights. Then a few more.
Skylar: I’m making cauliflower mac and cheese. I bet it’s not on your meal plan, but I can leave some on the front porch for you.
Ford: Sounds delicious. I’m landing soon. Will be home in a little while.
A little later, I put the food in a casserole dish and then write a note from Simon on his branded stationery. The one where he’s lounging on his side, giving, naturally, the side-eye.
You’re lucky. She serves me the same dry brown rocks every night.
As I head to the door, I feel a little fizzy knowing Ford wrote to me from the plane. Though I absolutely should not be feeling anything for my neighbor. Correction: My brother’s neighbor.
But that’s okay—nothing will come of this.
No matter how much I hope Ford enjoys the mac and cheese.
I trot up to the porch and set it down on the doormat…which has an illustrated dog and says Wipe Your Paws. There’s just something about a man who loves dogs.
I turn around to head back to my house when I stop in my tracks. “Oh.” My pulse speeds up. My chest…tingles.
Ford heads up the path, wearing a suit, walking his dog…
And looking straight at me, like I’m a good surprise.