Me
You had company.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Asher
Ginny brought a casserole. I didn’t ask her to.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I could be gracious and say it’s no big deal; I was busy anyway. I could pretend I’m not bothered. But I am bothered.
Me
You don’t owe me an explanation. We’re just neighbors.
I set the phone face down on the counter and go back to sweeping. Let him sit with that. Let him hear his own words thrown back at him.
An hour passes before he responds.
Asher
Eva.
That’s it. Just my name. No explanation, no apology, no clarification. I don’t write back. My phone is useless. Whatever magic data wave brought me grump texts from Asher has sailed away into the cloud.
I sit at the kitchen table in Pierce Acres, surrounded by photographs of Walter and June, half-sorted boxes, and a growing list of equipment that needs repair, and my phone might as well be a brick with a camera lens.
Nothing loads, not even my group chat with my sisters. And they’re not even sending GIFs. This is ridiculous. I live in the twenty-first century. I shouldn’t have to climb a tree and sacrifice a chicken just to check my messages. I apparently need to get hooked up with Meow Mobile, but I honestly have no idea how to achieve that without cell service or Wi-Fi to look up where their office is.
I swing back and forth between anger at my father for inadvertently sending me to this cell-free town, and embarrassment because I had the audacity to think Asher was going to kiss me.
My face heats, remembering it. The way I leaned in. The way he leaned in, too… and then reached past me for his stupid crutches like I was invisible.
Fine. Since we’re just neighbors, I’ll just go make better friends with my other neighbors, who are more talkative anyway. I grab my laptop and head out to the golf cart.
Gran answers the door wearing gardening gloves and a huge smile. “Eva! What a lovely surprise. Come in, come in.”
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could use your Wi-Fi? I have some work stuff I need to take care of and my service at Pierce Acres is?—”
“Say no more, dear. Password’s on the fridge.” She waves me toward the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. I’m just down in the basement with my plants. Come find me when you’re done if you want to see my setup.”
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.”
“Anytime, honey. Door’s always open.”
She disappears through a door I assume leads to the basement, and I settle at her kitchen table. The vibe is just like being at Esther’s house, only without the furrowed brows from my sister trying to hold back a comment or twelve.
Ethel’s Wi-Fi connects immediately, and reality slaps me in the face: I have forty-seven unread emails. I start scrolling, dread building with each subject line.
From Esther: “Need final approval on spring menu graphics”
From Eden: “Urgent - honey label deadline moved up, can you send files today?”
From Eila: “Spam comments AGAIN, can you look?”
From Eliza: “Reed needs help with grant application photos”
The messages go back days. There’s a message from a potential client I completely forgot to respond to. A collaboration opportunity with a Pittsburgh food blogger that I missed. I was too busy chasing sheep and fixing up a property I’m probably going to sell anyway and drinking coffee with a hermit who made it very clear today that I’m nothing to him. My throat tightens. I probably have strep.
