“The fire chief. Jo’s fiancé.Levi’s brother.”
“Oh, that Dean Beckett.”
“How many Dean Becketts do you know?”
“Well, there was a Dean Beckett in my graduating class, but he moved to Oregon in the eighties and got really into woodworking?—”
“Mom. Focus. Did you or did you not know that Levi’s brother lives one street away from your house?”
A pause. When she speaks again, her voice is coated in enough innocence to qualify for sainthood. “I may have heard something about that. You know how neighborhood gossip is. Just floats around. Hard to keep track of specifics.”
“You’ve lived in that house for twelve years. You know everyone’s business within a five-block radius. You know which neighbors are having affairs, which ones water their lawns during restrictions, and which ones—and I quote—‘have suspicious recyclinghabits.’”
“The Millers put their cardboard in with regular trash, Delilah. It’s not suspicious, it’s criminal.”
“Mom.”
“And the Jeffersons’ son comes home at two am every Thursday, which I’m not saying is nefarious, but it’s certainly worth monitoring?—”
“Mom. The point.”
She sighs, and I can picture her settling into Aunt Patricia’s wicker chair, preparing for a conversation she’s probably been anticipating since I moved in.
“Fine. Yes. I knew Dean lived nearby. I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“You didn’t think—” I make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scream. “You didn’t think to mention it? ‘Oh, by the way, Delilah, your ex-boyfriend’s brother lives close enough to see your bathroom light from his kitchen window’?”
“Can he really see your bathroom light?”
“I don’t know! Probably! That’s not the point!”
“You should get better curtains.” She’s laughing. “Why does this matter so much? You and Levi ended things a decade ago. Ancient history. Water under the bridge. Spilled milk that’s been thoroughly cried over?—”
“He was just in my backyard.”
The laughter stops. “In your backyard?”
“His dog escaped. Ended up here. With Ruffy.”
“You got a dog?”
“That’s not—yes, I got a dog. His name is Ruffy. He’s perfect and suspicious of everyone and currently mourning his new best friend like they served together in a war.”
“You got a dog and didn’t tell me? What kind? How old? Is he eating the azaleas? Because your grandmother’s dog used to eat the azaleas and it gave him terrible gas?—”
“Mom. Levi. Backyard. Focus.”
“Right, right.” She clears her throat. “So Levi was in your backyard. With his escaped dog. And?”
“And we talked. On the porch. Like civilized humans who don’t have a history of me fleeing the state whenever things get serious.”
“What did you talk about?”
“His brother’s wedding. He’s writing a song for the ceremony and he was stuck, so I...” I trail off, realizing how it sounds.
“You helped him,” Mom finishes. “You sat on your porch with your ex-boyfriend and helped him write a love song.”
“It’s not a love song. It’s a wedding song.”
