CALEB
The weed-whacker bites through the tall grass along the new fence posts and spits green clippings across my boots.
I've been at it for about a half hour, working my way down the property line, trimming everything back the way it should look.
The sun is high and hot for early May and sweat has soaked through my shirt in a wide V down my chest. But the work feels good and I need it.
My mind's been running too much lately and physical labor is the only thing that slows it down.
I hear Olivia's car before I see it. The engine roars as she zips around the corner and pulls into her driveway.
I keep the weed-whacker going without looking up.
I'm not here to be social. I'm here to trim grass and observe.
Those two things work better when I look like I'm minding my own business.
But I hear her open the hatch and I glance over out of habit.
She's standing behind the car staring at a massive cardboard box wedged into the back of her SUV.
The thing's long and heavy and she has both hands on one end of it, pulling with her whole body weight while the box barely moves.
Her shoes slip on the driveway and she catches herself on the bumper, then repositions and tries again.
The box slides about three inches before she lets out a groan.
There's no way she's moving that on her own. If she tries, she's going to hurt herself, and then I'll feel like a real piece of work for watching and not doing anything. So I kill the weed-whacker and set it on the grass.
She doesn't see me coming until I'm a few feet away, and when she looks up her face is red from effort, her ponytail having come half undone. She blows a strand of hair out of her eyes and smiles at me like she's been waiting for me to show up, which I doubt is true.
"You're gonna hurt yourself," I tell her, looking at the box. The label on the side says it's a dining table and the weight is listed at just over a hundred pounds. She has no business trying to move this thing alone.
"I almost had it," she says, which isn't even close to accurate. What she almost had was a bruised ass from falling.
"You almost had a back injury." I step past her and grab the end of the box, sliding it toward me until it clears the bumper. It's more awkward than heavy, but it's manageable. "Where does this go?"
"The kitchen, if you don't mind." She hurries ahead of me to hold the front door open, and for some stupid reason, I look at her ass in those jeans. She's not a bad looking woman by any means. "I was going to drag it through the garage, but your way seems easier."
"Yeah, well, you'd have taken an hour to get this in here and hurt yourself so…" As much as I try to push away my bitter personality, formed by years of shutting down every emotion I own, I just can't. My words are always curt and short, though I don't mean them to be.
"Not everyone can be as strong as some ex-military guy." Olivia's smile is warm as I pass her and grumble a little. And next thing I know, I'm setting it on the floor next to her rundown table, already knowing I'm going to end up putting this thing together.
"Thank you so much," she says, pulling her hair back into a fresh ponytail.
Now I'm not doubting her smarts or her ability to do simple things, but Olivia doesn't strike me as the do-it-yourself sort of woman.
That fence only needed a little sealer and paint in the spring each year to make sure those boards never rotted, but when I pulled it apart, it was crumbling in my fingers.
If she has tools, I'd be shocked. I look at the box and then back at her. "You have a screwdriver and an Allen wrench?"
She looks confused for a second, staring down at the box with her hands shoved into her back pockets calmly. "I have a screwdriver…" She doesn't sound convinced. "I don't know what an Allen wrench is, but if it came in the box then maybe I have one of those too?"
I pull out my pocket knife and cut the tape along the top of the box, folding the flaps open.
The table is flat-packed in about twenty pieces with two bags of hardware and an instruction sheet.
At least it's not one of those cheaply made Swedish things.
I sort through the hardware bags and find the included Allen wrench, which is cheap but functional.
It's not how I planned to spend my Wednesday afternoon, but it does allow me to be closer to her to observe and note more details.
I just feel like Mr. Bennett is wasting his money.
This woman is the farthest thing from deranged, though she does seem a little stressed.
But a job is a job and if I don't take the opportunities given, I'll have to make them.
Which is in itself harder work than the observation.
"I can put this together if you want," I offer as I start pulling pieces from the box.
I know I probably sound a little coarse, but my real plan was to dig in and start researching the other gig I have lined up—providing security for a fundraiser in August once a few of the guys are out and can help me.
"Are you sure? You were busy with the yard and I don't want to take up your whole afternoon."
"The grass isn't going anywhere." I lay the legs out in order and start matching bolts to the pre-drilled holes in the tabletop.
The work is straightforward. I've built enough field tables and equipment racks in my career that furniture assembly barely requires thinking.
I just need to focus and not strip any of the screws.
Olivia leans against the counter and watches me for a few minutes while I work, which I can feel even when I'm not looking at her.
She has a way of being present in a room that's hard to ignore, like she takes up more space than her body actually occupies.
And she's always so damn smiley, which is another strike against the client.
He wants to paint her as some depressed housewife who's barely holding it together.
"You do this a lot?" she asks. "Just show up and help people?"
"No." I glance up at her to see her soft smile again and those warm green eyes staring at me.
A strand of her dark hair hangs in her face, obscuring her gaze, but she pushes it away as I turn back to the work.
I can never tell whether a woman's flirting with me or just being kind.
I'm going to guess just the kindness aspect.
I can't see Olivia as having any free time in her life to entertain the idea of dating.
And with Bennett on her back trying to pressure her, I'm sure she wants fewer responsibilities or obligations.
But it's a bit disappointing to think a man my age who's single is in a home with a woman her age who's single, and both of us aren't bad-looking people, and she's not flirting.
Sometimes, situations like this make me feel like damaged goods.
Or maybe the suppression of my emotions for so long has left me unable to tap into any feeling but anger or internal ambition.
"So I'm special?" I can hear the smile she speaks around, and I tighten a bolt and don't answer.
"I'm going to take your silence as a yes.
" I hear her push off the counter and move around behind me.
"Do you want some water? You've been working outside all morning and you look like you could use it. "
"Water would be good."
She opens the cabinet above the sink and pulls down a glass, and while she's filling it at the tap, I see another bottle on the counter near the coffee maker.
It's a prescription bottle, different from the Sertraline I saw in the cabinet last time.
I can't read the full label from where I'm sitting, but I catch the word Zolpidem before she turns back around and sets the glass beside me on the floor.
Sleeping pills? She's on antidepressants and sleeping pills.
So the puzzle keeps unfolding now, giving more hints to a life Olivia may be keeping hidden from the outside world.
It's true that Derek probably knows her better than most people, considering he was married to her for years.
He knows her secrets and her insecurities, and maybe he knows if she's been abusing medications too.
I'd have to have a better look in her medicine cabinet, but even still, it doesn’t appear that she's neglecting Ethan at all.
A functional alcoholic can still live a normal life and not endanger their children. I just don't know if Olivia Bennett could really be classified as the addict her ex-husband thinks she is.
I take the glass from her and have a long drink then get back to work, fitting the support beam into the leg brackets. The cam locks click into place one at a time as I turn the screwdriver. My mind is processing the new information away while my hands stay busy.
It's just not enough to convince me something is horribly wrong, but it is concerning. A single mom using sleeping pills to knock herself out could miss important things if she's not careful.
"Are you hungry?" she asks, opening the fridge. "I have leftover pasta from last night, or I can make a sandwich. You've been out there working since before I left this morning and I'd feel terrible if you passed out in my kitchen from low blood sugar."
"I'm fine."
"Well, I have to find some way to repay you," she says, pulling out a container of pasta and setting it on the counter. "I'm heating this up whether you want it or not, so you might as well eat some with me."
The hardest part of all of this is that she thinks I'm just being a kind, neighborly man. I'm invading her world on purpose to gather dirt on her that her ex-husband can use, and all the while, she's being this charming, amazing woman with smiles and kind words. It gnaws at me, but I keep working.