She snorted. “You have a pathological need to be liked.”
I shrugged. “Nah, I just like helping.”
“That’s almost worse.” Tori shook her head.
But I could have sworn I caught the slightest hint of a smile before she turned and walked off. Didn’t stop me from watching her all the way until she disappeared behind her front door.
A few days later, it was furniture.
Not ours this time.
Two suburban moms — one wearing a visor and a tennis skirt and the other clutching a tumbler definitelynotfilled with water — had enlisted Tane and me to carry an antique dresser from their garage to the living room.
They claimed it was ‘too heavy for their husbands,’ which was probably true, considering one of those husbands was standing on the porch giving instructions and drinking a beer.
We heaved the thing through the doorway, nearly taking out a light fixture on the way in. The moms hovered nearby, cooing like we were prize horses.
“Oh, look at those arms,” one of them whispered, not even trying to hide it.
Tane’s cheeks flushed.
“They’re circling.” I adjusted my grip on the dresser.
When we finally put it down, the two women applauded as though we had just won a ribbon. One of them even offered me some lemonade. I declined, fearing it might turn into something stronger.
Stepping outside into the heat, I caught sight of Tori again, standing on her porch with her arms crossed and an expression somewhere between unimpressed and amused.
“Making house calls now? What’s next, rescuing kittens from trees?” she mocked.
“Already did that last week.”
“You’re joking.”
“Wish I was. Cat hated me. Still have the scratch marks.”
“You reallydohave a pathological need to be liked,” she observed, tilting her head.
“Nah. Just terrible at saying no.”
“That’s even worse.”
A couple of days later, a storm had clogged Mel’s front drain with leaves and God knows what else. Since I’dalready built her a new fence gate the previous week, it made sense I should handle this issue too.
By the time Tori got home, I was crouched by the drain, elbow-deep in murky water, fishing out what looked like half the Amazon.
“Disgusting,” she observed flatly from right above me.
“Good morning to you too.”
“You volunteering for swamp duty now?”
“Mel reckons her patio floods when it rains. Figured I’d give it a go.”
She blinked down at me, deadpan. “Ever heard of boundaries?”
“Ever heard of gratitude?”
“Ever heard of gloves?”
