I sigh. I may not be good with confrontation, but these houses are not that close together. For their music to bother my dad, it must have been some party. And during the day? Geez.
So, if they’re going to be that inconsiderate, I’ll have to muster up my inner Boss Harper, as Steven has started saying, and go ask for them to keep it quiet. If it happens again, which surely it won’t. How many daytime ragers can these kids have?
Boss Harper kicked butt with the Bully today. Just said no and stood there, like I owned the place. Which I don’t, not really. I own the bakery but now Vanderbutt owns the building. Still, I held it together.
I reach Dad, ibuprofen in hand, and start to open my mouth to tell him about it. He’d be proud of me standing up for myself. But he’d lose his ever-loving mind about the fact that I did it in the store and with a paying customer. Then he’d start thinking about his shop and how he’s not running it anymore. How he’s not able to do much of anything anymore.
Then he’ll snap at me and I’ll go to bed sad. Again.
So I just confirm that Stu is plugging away in the garage, as always, and then say, “I’m going to go freshen up and then in a little bit I’ll make us some dinner.”
I head up to my room and flop onto my actual happy place, my bed.
I wish I’d gotten home at my normal time so I could squeeze in a nap. I can’t, but I can just lie here and appreciate this little space for a moment. Don’t love the house, don’t even like my room anymore butman,do I love this bed. I love the fancy mattress I saved for, linens I bought straight from an Instagram ad like a crazy person—pillows and all, extra throw blanket, expedited shipping, didn’t even use the discount spinner thing—right after Stuart moved in permanently.
A thump below my room reminds me I should go check on him in the garage. I want to sigh. To flail. To whine and whack that mattress like a toddler. But I don’t.
I just go downstairs and get to work.
_____
“I don’t know how your eyes are open right now,” Janie says from where I’ve got her propped up against the coffeepot. Her husband’s FaceTime habit is rubbing off on her.
“Well, I only had to get up at 4:30 today, not 3,” I remind her.
“Still, up late cleaning, up early baking, a full day of maple recipe planning, which all sound delicious, by the way, then you get home pooped just to take care of your Dad and Stuandyou make a lasagna from scratch?”
“I was craving it,” I shrug, then admit, “But yeah, I am kinda running on steam.”
“Fumes. Or runningout ofsteam,” she corrects my stupid brain, simply to be helpful, without irritation or judgment. Like she has since eighth grade.
“Right, one of those,” I yawn the last word.
She chuckles, “Then why don’t you go to bed and leave the dirty dishes for the morning?”
“Because Morning Harper hates when Nighttime Harper does that.”
“Well, whichever one of those is Boss Harper tell her she’s killing it and the Maple Tap is going to be amazing.”
I put another dish in the washer and smile at my friend, “Thank you.”
“Ben’s just walked in, but I’ll call back soon to hear how it went!”
“Okay, bye,” I say. It takes a few more painfully long minutes to finish the dishes and go through my night time lock up routine. I change, wash my face and brush my teeth, fighting to stay upright. Finally, around eleven, I crawl into my amazing, overpriced Egyptian sheets.
Yesssssss!
Bump bump bump bump
No.
Surely not.
It’s 11pm!
This is a quiet neighborhood, which Mr. Newman explicitly spells out in his rental agreements!
They’ll turn it down.
