1
Haven
The rumbleof his engine pulls me out of my comatose state induced by watching endless reruns of Nashville. I thrash my lilac-patterned comforter off to the side as my feet fall to the cold hardwood floor. The truck door slams, metal against metal, urging me to creep to the window where I peek outside to appease my assumptions. It's Saturday and ten in the morning. As always, he's punctual…never a minute early, never a minute late.
Six feet of tall, dark, and beautiful, steps out of his truck right into the blazing sun as the orange rays illuminate the dark strands of his hair, forming auburn highlights I haven’t noticed before. His eyes appear half lidded today as if he’s tired from what must have been a late night that bled into this morning. I can't help wondering what he was doing, orwhofor that matter. That man, with all his allure, must have women eating out of the palm of his hand—with the slight swagger in his walk, the way his jeans hug his ass, even the way he mows; he oozes sex.
I continue to observe as he stretches each of his muscled arms overhead while glancing toward my window.Can he see me?Does he know I'm here, watching him? No more than a second passes when his gaze falls from me—my window—and he moves around to the back of his truck where his equipment is.
I have exactly seventeen minutes before he tends to the lawn outside of my window and thirty-three minutes before he trims the nearby hedges.
"Haven," Mom yells from outside of my room. "I'm fixing to go to the grocery store. Why don't you come with me?"
I step away from the window, flopping back onto my bed. "No. Thank you," I assert. "I'm not dressed in the appropriate attire for that type of occasion." The level of my sarcasm is enough to provoke more questions. There’s always a fine line between annoying her just enough so she walks away and pushing her to continue the fight.
The door to my bedroom opens, and Mom is standing in the one beam of light raging in from the open window. "It's ten o'clock. Why aren't you dressed?" she asks, as the muffled ring on her phone blares against her smothering grip. With a quick glance at the display, she holds a finger up. "Oh, dear, hang on a moment." She re-closes the door and steps back into the hallway. I listen as she blabs loud enough for me to hear. "Of course we'll be there this evening, Mrs. Lake. Frederick and I wouldn't miss it for the world," she gushes, bubbling with fake excitement.
Another Saturday night alone, just my books and me. I didn't ask to be a part of a family where everyone is too busy to acknowledge each other, nor did I ask to be a self-proclaimed prisoner of this four-thousand-square-foot house that feels like an endless maze of rooms—most of which we don't use. It has been five years since our normal lives turned into this. Five years since Dad "came into money" and subsequently became the mayor of this town. Thankfully, I only have a short time left before I can break free from the lifestyle of the rich and obnoxious. Then, I'll be able to go out in public without an hour lecture, warning me of what I can say and what I can't.I can't say my dad—the mayor—stole a lot of money. I want to say it, but evidently, that's considered being a rebel, rather than a good Samaritan.
Mom opens the door once more with a sigh. "Are you sure you don't want to join me? I figured you might need the fresh air. It's not healthy to stay inside all the time." She pauses for a moment, giving me a once-over. "Of course, you would need to shower and get dressed, though. You almost look ill like that. Are you feeling okay?" Dad has a reputation to uphold. Being the mayor of a small town does not come without moral and physical obligations. Detaining their daughter until I adhere to these qualities and lies is also necessary. However, only they think they're holding me hostage. The people in this town think I'm a sick person, frail and too weak to leave the house. What other assumptions could there be when the mayor's daughter is missing from most town events and gatherings?
Along with my distaste for community, our appearances, and the way I'msupposedto act, I'm homeschooled too and will continue to be until I "change," and agree to act in accordance with their standards.Otherwise, I could hurt Dad's image, and they can’t allow that.
Mom only offers to take me out of the house because she knows I will not slip into a daytime dress and heels, and cake my face up with makeup just so we can visit the Main Street grocery store for an hour. She likely spent two hours fixing herself up for this lone trip to purchase food.
"No," I respond with an exaggerated sigh. "I think my poor little mouth is feeling kind of frisky today."
"Haven…really…I don't appreciate your attitude or threats. Have it your way, though.Lord have mercy, I can’t deal with you sometimes."Don't I always have it my way?The door closes, and a conversation in the hallway commences between Mom and Dad. "Honey, I reckon she'll come around soon," Dad says. "She's a teenage girl testing her boundaries. Eventually, she will appreciate the life we're giving her. Wearedoing the right thing."
"Are we?" Mom asks. They won't win this one. I refuse to be someone I'm not.A thief."I miss our daughter, is all."
"And she will grow out of this, Pamela. All teenagers go through this at some point."
"How would you know?" she snaps.
Their conversation ends as fast as it began. Then, as always, Dad locks himself into his office on the other side of the house, and Mom's Mercedes peels out of the driveway.
I look at the clock on my wall, noting I have five minutes until my eye candy—and only excitement for the week—mows the area of grass in front of my bedroom.
I glance back out of my window and see him striding back and forth with his mower.Back and forth, back and forth. As I continue to watch, I notice his steady gaze is locked on the lawn ahead as he listens to music through his headphones. I love the way he looks while concentrating.Back and forth, closer and closer.He's mesmerizing.
As if he knows I'm waiting for him, he releases the gas on the mower, pausing as he yanks off his sweat-covered, navy blue shirt, revealing the chiseled, tan body I drool over every week. Beads of sweat have formed in the crevice between his chest muscles, and the freckles that were dull in the cooler months are becoming darker and more prominent now that we are in the middle of summer.
He runs his fingers through his overgrown hair, pushing away the loose strands that have fallen into his eyes, then runs the back of his arm across his forehead. It must be hotter than usual outside because it’s hotter than the devil’s armpit inside our air-conditioned house. As he tucks his shirt into the waist of his grass-stained jeans, he restarts the mower, just like he reignites me every time I see him.
I've stood at this window every week for the past six months that he has been mowing our lawn, watching and waiting for him to notice me. We have made eye contact twenty-three times, and he has smiled at me twenty-one times. Today, I'm not looking for a smile, though. Today, I'm looking for something different—something more.This is what loneliness has done to me.It has turned me into a desperate person who yearns for attention,any kind of attention.
I keep my head turned to the side, waiting and watching for him to appear in plain view. With the roar growing louder, my heart thunders inside of my chest as he passes by my window the first time—now less than ten feet away from where I'm standing. His stare catches mine just as I fall from his line of sight.Like I hoped.
The sound of the mower powering down excites me. Careful to calculate the number of steps he must take toward my window, I wait three long seconds before I cross my hands around my waist and slither my shirt over my head, revealing the lacy, almost see-through bra I stole from Mom's top drawer. I turn away, acting casual as if I were just getting dressed for the day, and he happened to stumble upon a glimpse.
With my back to the window, I drop my drawstring pants to my ankles, exposing the thong that matches the borrowed bra. Then with slow, graceful strides across my bedroom, I reach my closet, making it appear like I didn't realize the hotty gardener was watching me the entire time. He must not have noticed the mirror above my long dresser or the fact that it allows me to see out of the same window he's glancing into.
Just before I step into my closet, I glance over my shoulder, catching his fierce stare. He startles when our gazes meet, and for that reason, there is no smile today. Instead, I suspect there's a lump in his throat, as droplets of sweat cover his forehead. Maybe it's because the sun is overwhelming, and it's making everyone act crazy and inappropriate…or it could just be me.
I hold up a finger, mouthing, "Wait right there." He looks nervous, peering around to see who may be watching, and in this neighborhood, it's possible everyone is watching. Maybe I should also be nervous, acting like this with a man I know little about, but it's a type of excitement I’m in need of.
I yank a t-shirt and jeans from the shelf in my closet and dress with eagerness while almost tripping out of my closet.
