My tiny one-story Craftsman is small, about twelve-hundred square feet and only two bedrooms, but it’s mine. Grandma Whitlock left it to me in her will when she passed two years ago. There’s no mortgage to worry about, only upkeep. Mom wanted me to sell it, but I refused. The few really good memories I havein my life are the times I spent with my grandmother in this house.
Brandon takes a huge bite out of his bagel, practically inhaling half. “There’s a party tonight at John’s house.”
With his mouth full, I can barely understand what he’s saying except for party and John. Internally, I sigh loudly because party plus his friend John equal nothing but trouble. Externally, I give Brandonthe look; the one a mistrusting parent might give their child. In return, Brandon sends me a bright, innocent smile.
I like his friend John as much as I like my stepfather, Dirk. But I’m not Brandon’s parent. He’s also almost eighteen years old and needs the freedom to make his own decisions and his own mistakes. I could play the part of strict parent and tell him what to do or who to be friends with, but that’s not the sister I want to be for him.
Licking cream cheese off my fingertips, I use those fingers to count off my demands one by one. “No drinking. No sex. No drugs.”
His chair legs scrape across the linoleum floor when he sits back. “What? Come on, Ari! You can’t take sex out. Janna is going to be there. That girl’s mouth is better than a Hoover—”
“Stop!” Choking on the bite of food I just took when it gets sucked down my windpipe, I throw the uneaten half of my bagel at his head. “Jesus, Brandon, I don’t need to hear that. There is such a thing as TMI. And show some respect. Would you want a guy talking about me like that?”
Wiping off the smear of white from his cheek, he scowls, brown eyes squinted and murderous, letting me know I made my point.
“I’m going back to bed.” He gets up from the table and puts his dish with my bagel projectile next to the sink.
“Love you!” I cheerily call out when he grumps out of the kitchen.
“Love you too, even if you are a cockblock,” he grumbles.
Do people still say that?
Taking the rest of my coffee with me, I push the sliding glass door open and pad barefoot out onto the small patio deck. Muggy air scented with honeysuckle envelops me as I rest my elbows on the deck railing, cradling the mug between my palms. The temperatures aren’t as sweltering yet under the direct rays of the sun rising in the cloudless sky, but it’s getting there. Wearing only a tank top and frayed shorts, pearls of sweat begin to bead down my back and along my hairline where my ponytail brushes against my neck.
I take a moment to enjoy watching the bees and butterflies flit around the wildflowers I planted along the fence line. The square plot reserved for the vegetable garden Grandma started a decade ago is in need of de-weeding. How many hours would she and I spend tending to the tomato and squash plants or plucking pole beans off the vine?
A faint breeze that does nothing to cool things down gently rustles the green, waxy leaves of the Southern red oak tree that sits along the property line between my house and the new neighbor’s. Every time I look at that tree now, I’m reminded of the Wishing Tree. And of Mason.
It’s been well over a year since he walked away and stomped all over my heart in the process, and like a pathetic, lovesick fool, I’m still pining over the man. I’ve tried to date. Went out a few times. My best friend, Kama, lives by the adage, “In order to get over someone, you need to get under someone new.” Easier said than done. When you’ve had amazing, it’s hard to accept ordinary.
That skittering awareness from before brushes a trail of shivers across my goose-fleshed skin. Cocking my head slightly, I look past the oak tree and glance over at the neighbor’s house. My heart pitters a fast beat when a shadow moves away fromthe bay window that faces in my direction. For a second there, I thought… but no. My mind is playing tricks on me. That’s what happens when you think about something too hard. The phantom thought becomes a psychosomatic manifestation.
Stop thinking about him.
I’ll pick up something at the bakery tomorrow and drop by next door to say hello and introduce myself to the new neighbors.
“Shit.”
My phone vibrates in my back shorts’ pocket, making me jump and slosh coffee over the lip of the mug.
I wipe off one hand and retrieve my phone, unlocking the screen with my thumbprint.
Kama: What time is your date?
I groan.
My stepbrother, of all people, pushed me into going out with the assistant coach of his varsity baseball team. Michael would talk to me at every game of Brandon’s I attended. Okay, he flirted more than talked, but I appreciated it, nevertheless. What woman wouldn’t want a gorgeous guy paying attention to her?
Michael is nice. Tall, with a fit body and the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Like melted caramel dipped in gold. He’s twenty-eight years old and gainfully employed. Attributes a single woman would look for in a man, right? God, I sound pathetic, even in my own mind.
After baseball season ended, then school let out, Michael and I stayed in touch. Texted a little. Nothing deep or soul-searching. Just the run-of-the-mill stuff casual acquaintances chat about. That dynamic changed when he showed up at my house last week, a bouquet of red roses in his hand, and asked me out on a date.
Me: Eight.
Kama: Know where he’s taking you? We need to decide on an outfit. The sluttier, the better. Wear that red spandex one.
I frown at my phone. Is she for real?
