“Good neighbor points, Iris, good neighbor points,” I muttered, grabbing a pair of pliers from my new, yet already rusting, toolkit. “This will show him I’m a considerate, capable individual, not just the lady wrestling a haunted house into submission.” And might even lead to a friendly meeting.
The sprinkler head, up close, was a relic of a bygone era, probably installed when Bush was in office. Either Bush. It was caked with rust and mineral deposits.
“How hard can it be to adjust a sprinkler?” I muttered, recalling a YouTube video I’d half-watched while munching on Oreos last night. “It’s just a nozzle. Twist it a bit. Thump it once or twice. Simple.”
I gripped the pliers around what I assumed was the adjustable part and gave it an optimistic, firm twist.
Nothing.
Dropping to my knees, I grunted and applied more pressure. I grinned when the metal started to give. The old metal groaned, then, with a sickening snap, the entire head broke clean off in my hand. For a split second, I stared at the offending part in almost comical silence. Then, like a miniature Old Faithful, a powerful, uncontrolled geyser of water erupted from the pipe, spraying everywhere.
But especially shooting like a cannon with pinpoint, vengeful accuracy directly at my neighbor’s perfect, vibrant red hibiscus hedge.
“Oh no!” I shrieked, dropping the pliers. “Oh, holy hibiscus, NO! Not his flowers!”
Cold panic clawed at my throat. This wasn’t a gentle misting. This was a full-scale aquatic assault. The beautiful crimson blooms were being battered, petals flying like scarlet confetti. Branches snapped. The manicured ground around them was quickly turning into a swamp. I lunged, trying to stuff my hand over the break. The water pressure nearly knocked me over, soaking me in an instant. Mud splattered my jeans and my face, and my hair dripped.
“He’s going to call the garden police!” I hissed, looking wildly around. “He’s going to sue me for emotional distress to a shrub! He already looks like he could wrestle a shark and win. What’s he going to do to me?”
And why, oh why, did he have to be so unfairly, distractingly handsome? This was not how I’d wanted to introduce myself.
“Holloway!”
The voice was controlled thunder, each syllable laced with disbelief and a gathering storm of annoyance. It sliced through the gushing water, and I swore the air grewcolder. I froze, still on my knees, water careening off my arm to destroy more blossoms.
Slowly, dreadfully, I turned my head.
Austin stood at the edge of his lawn, where the swamp began. His short, dark hair was slightly messed up, as if he’d run a hand through it in sheer exasperation. His gray eyes, narrowed to slits, were fixed on his hibiscus, then on me, then back to the hibiscus, as if trying to decide which was the more offensive sight.
“Is that,” he began, his voice dangerously calm, the stillness before a Category Five hurricane, “some newfangled form of DIY plumbing you’ve invented, or are you actively attempting to hydro-blast my award-winning hibiscus into the Gulf of Mexico?”
My mouth opened, but only a pathetic squeak came out. I was dripping, muddy, and still holding the broken piece of plumbing like a particularly unconvincing scepter. “Oh! Mr. Coleridge! Austin! I am so, so incredibly sorry! It just… it was aiming a little wild, and I thought I could redirect it a tiny bit. An attempt at experimental irrigation that, uh, went slightly sideways. It seemed like such a simple adjustment.” I tried for a smile. It likely looked like a grimace of terror. “Guess it really wanted to water your side today? Extra thoroughly.”
His expression did not soften. If anything, the thunderclouds in his eyes gathered. He didn’t say a word. He just started walking toward me. Not fast, but with a deliberate, ground-eating stride that made my insides clench. He didn’t stop at the property line. He stalked along an overgrown path right into my yard, into the watery, muddy mess I had created, his bare feet squelching slightly.
“I’m really sorry!” I rose to my feet, my dark-blonde hair darker as it dripped into my eyes.
With a string of muttered curses that involved “amateurs,” “delicate root systems,” and something I thought might be “assault on private property values,” he stopped near the hedge. Propping both hands on his hips, he took in the damage.
I braced myself. For yelling. For a lecture on proper plumbing etiquette. For him to maybe just pick me up and toss me into the nearest man-eating shrub.
Instead, he moved several feet down the hedge and bent at the waist. His large, calloused, and surprisingly nimble hands found the buried shut-off valve—a valve I hadn’t known existed—and gave it a sharp, decisive twist. The geyser choked and sputtered before finally dying.
Leaving behind a pathetic gurgle and a scene of utter horticultural devastation.
He straightened slowly, wiping a muddy hand on his equally muddy shorts. His jaw was tight, a muscle twitching just beneath his stubble. I could practically feel the waves of condemnation rolling off him.
“It doesn’t look so bad now,” I squeaked.
“Holloway.” He said my name like it was a piece of garbage he’d just found on his can. “My hibiscus. My day off.” He paused, and for a terrifying second, I thought he might spontaneously combust. “Try to confine your renovation disasters to your goddamn property before you declare war on the entire neighborhood’s landscaping. And for God’s sake, next time you feel the urge to fix something that involves water pressure, call a plumber. Or a landscaper.” He took a huge, long breath that didn’t seem to steady him. “Or better yet, just… don’t.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, which was wise, since I was incapable of forming one. He turned on his heel, his bare feet making squishing sounds as he retreated across his now partially swampy backyard and disappeared through his back door without a backward glance.
I was left drenched and caked in mud, clutching a broken piece of sprinkler head, surrounded by a watery chaos of my own making. The silence he left behind was almost as deafening as the geyser. My face was hotter than the sun. My grand plan to impress him had backfired in the most spectacularly wet fashion possible.
The scary front door of Heron House, with its horrifying creak and aura of ancient disapproval, now loomed like a welcoming retreat from the righteous, hibiscus-fueled fury of Austin Coleridge. My determination to win him over hadn’t exactly vanished, but it was currently taking a serious, mud-caked, and very damp beating.
Still, as I trudged back toward the house, leaving a trail of muddy footprints, a tiny, irrepressible thought sparked.
