"YOU STEPPED ON A NAIL? Are you alright?" Kate's voice rang into the backyard as my knees made indents in the dirt and my fingers yanked weeds out of the ground. I turned down my phone speaker, dragging my arm across my forehead.
My tanning lotion slipped off my skin like oil on a hot surface while the sun continued baking me alive. "Yeah, and get this," my voice hushed because I knew how easily sound carried over water. "This new mysterious neighbor guy came to my rescue."
"A mysterious man? Tell me more." I told her everything from him coming inside my house to me getting a tetanus shot a couple of days ago. Then her tone changed. "Ivey..."
"I already know what you're going to say."
"I was going to tell you what you told me to say if you got distracted."
"I'm not distracted. Talk to all the blisters I'll have on my fingers and knees from the yard work I've done today." I brushed the dirt off my palms and rested back on my heels. "You have no idea what Clifton is like. The moment you cross the county line, the town sucks you into its vortex, and you become this gossiping, nosey cog who feeds off drama and other people's business."
She snorted. "Wow, who am I talking to right now? I don't know this version of Ivey. Put my friend back on the phone."
Even though I knew she was joking, my whole body sagged at her remark, and I stared up at the house—the reason I was here. "If I lose myself, I'll call Larry and have you shipped over here."
"As always, fuck Larry. I will come now if you need me."
My lips turned up into a soft smile.
"So what's the deal with this guy?" she asked.
The urge to look at his house nipped at me, so I craned my head and was met with the lifeless property. Water lapped against his motorboat, and the trees lining his property swayed with the afternoon breeze.
Not that I was watching, but I noticed he only came out at night or very early in the morning, which I concluded was because of his job or because he was a vampire. Neither were terrible options. "I think it's because I know nothing about him except that he's been here for six months. People are usually born and die here in Clifton, and the locals don't seem to like him very much even though he is very nice to look at."
"Oh, how come? Do you know why?"
"Nope. But I did hear someone say he fucked someone's daughter without any more context. I have no idea, but everyone judges me here too because I had a private funeral for my parents and didn't let anyone attend, then left, so I know how he feels."
"So he's a ladies' man?"
"I wouldn't say that. I'm a lady, and he talks to me like he's talking to a brick wall."
"Well, I guess it's good to keep it that way. If he talked to you like you were the sexiest woman alive, which you are, you'd definitely be distracted."
I laughed at her compliment, and we continued talking about my experience so far in Clifton and her time in Washington State. We ended the call by confirming what else I had to write for our research journal. As I pulled more weeds and sprinkled mulch in their place, my brain would not shut off despite cranking my music up.
No matter how much time passed between graduating high school and now, I still felt like a child. I thought it would subside as days passed, but it only worsened. It was partly because my routine was off, and the feeling my parents would waltz through the front door any second lingered in my chest.
Though, the house and I had slowly become acquaintances again. The walls and floors had stopped groaning at night, I didn't smell coffee brewing in the early mornings, and the house welcomed me with open arms anytime I came back from town, overwhelmed by the leering eyes and hushed talk.
I always dreamt of living in a house tucked away from the hustle of life. A home where I could sleep with the windows open, listen to the cicadas sing at night, and step outside on a sticky morning with a cup of coffee while the dew hung heavily in the air. Except, now I was here and never felt so alone, which was why my mind constantly lingered on the man in the blue house.
Weston might've been across the bay, but it was comforting knowing someone was close enough if I needed help, and even if he didn't want to see me, I could get the family boat out of the boat garage and sail over.
By late afternoon, the sun had lost its swelter, and I retreated inside to wash today's grime away and eat dinner. Still, my fridge looked barren, with no leftovers or fresh produce. I could have skipped dinner or made butter noodles. Instead, I hopped on my bike, pushed through the searing pain in my foot, and rode toward town.
As I whirled past quaint lake houses and watched porch lights turn on, all was quiet aside from the whooshing wind in my ears. The sky melded into dusky shades of blues, and I closed my eyes briefly and smiled.
I hoped this grocery run would be swift, and I could slip in and out of the store without being stopped for a conversation. Despite being here for almost a week, I had ventured out twice. Once for the first grocery trip and second for the tetanus shot, meaning nobody has been able to corner me.
I chained my bike and entered the store, filling my basket with only the needed things. The isles were desolate, and the harsh buzzing of the fluorescent lights and hum from the refrigerators lining the walls was all I heard.
Yet, my heart skipped a beat when I turned into the ice cream section.
Weston stood at the freezer with a basket in hand and ice cream in the other. For some reason, he didn't seem like someone who would buy ice cream. I'd expect him to eat tubs of greek yogurt with slices of fresh fruit and a strong cup of black coffee. With all that bitterness, maybe he chews the raw coffee beans?
His brows cinched as he read the label, still in his formal attire from the office. Though the tie was gone, I couldn't help but stare at the top undone buttons of his shirt. Although he looked like he belonged in Clifton in that outfit, he radiated outsider energy.
"That is a good flavor," I said to my neighbor.
His head whirled at the sound of my voice, and his hands fell to his side. Then he reread the label as though he had forgotten the flavor he was holding. "It is."
I stepped closer and reached for the freezer, grabbing my pint of cookie dough. He didn't take his eyes off me as I stuck it in my basket and smiled faintly. I hoped he would smile back but was not lucky.
Rocking on my heels once, I thought of something to say. "I haven't seen you on your dock." That was weird. Now he will think I was looking at his house, even though I was.
"Yeah, I've been busy. Have you managed to step on any more nails?"
It took a beat to register the playfulness through his stoic expression, but when I did, I faked a laugh. "Ha Ha, very funny, but no."
"I hope you're giving that foot a rest." He motioned to the appendage, still causing a limp in my step.
"Oh, I am," I lied. "Thanks for helping me again."
"Have you fixed the dock?" He put the container of ice cream back in the freezer instead of his basket and began walking. I took the question as an invitation to follow.
He picked a couple of items from the shelves as I answered. "No, I haven't got around to it yet."
"Are you renovating or something?"
"More like straightening up the place."
"To sell?" He asked. I glanced at the few people surrounding us, including the lady at the register who rang me up on the first day. I noticed their fleeting stares as we meandered the isles. They watched us like we were stray animals, digging in their garbage, and the last thing I wanted was for them to overhear our conversation.
"I don't know yet."
He slowed and looked at me, then at the others in the store. I watched the wheels turn in his head, and when our eyes locked for a second time, I knew he understood my answer—or lack of it. There was something cathartic about his awareness.
We parted ways to finish shopping but reunited at the register, with him in line behind me.
"Hey, Hun." The cashier smiled as I placed the food on the conveyor belt. "Nice to see you again."
"You too." A full second barely passed before I caught her shrewd inspection of the light-brown-haired practitioner over my shoulder. My forehead wrinkled, and when she faced me again, her darkened eyes widened, and her lips curled up as though she had not been judging him.
"You've been cooped up in that house for a couple of days. I'm glad to see you out in town."
I was about to tell her I had been busy, but I did not want her asking what. "It's great to get out."
"You know, we have a town meeting every Wednesday evening at Town Hall. It's super laid back, and Oliver supplies pastries and coffee. You're a resident, so you're always welcome to join. I'm sure everyone would love to see your beautiful face again."
I noticed her emphasis on 'you're a resident and a second sideways glance at Weston.
Their town meetings were code for politically correct gossip sessions. My parents used to go as a form of entertainment and report back to me with croissants and scandals. Clifton's version of a scandal was as frivolous as someone wearing white after Labor day.
There was no doubt she had an issue with Weston, just like the ladies in his office waiting room, which only made me want to push her buttons further. He may have been a little on the emotionless side, but I was not going to let their attitude slide.
"Thanks for the offer." I turned to my neighbor, stooping to their level. "Do you attend the meetings since you are the town practitioner?"
"I wasn't aware of these meetings." His hands fisted his pockets, and he leaned against the register counter.
"That's odd for someone devoting their time to caring for sick patients."
The cashier looked between us, h mouth hanging open slightly. "Nobody has invited you?" The shock in her voice was over-enthusiastic. "How strange. Feel free to join us too, Mr. Turner. The town would love to get to know you."
He nodded, and the rest of the conversation fell flat.
Triumph simmered through me. I had done my job.
I slid my grocery bags onto my arms as Weston unpacked his basket. When I thought I could leave unscathed, the woman caught my attention one last time. "I don't know if you're aware since it's been ages, but there is a memorial for your parents at Cliff beach. I'm sure they would love it if you paid a visit. A lot of people put great effort into it."
My veins went icy, and the hissing electricity sounded like it was coming from inside my head. I hardly cracked a smile as I thanked her for the information about my parent's memorial and hurried outside without looking at Weston.
The humid air did nothing to help my needy lungs.
Something about her comment struck a cord. Who was she to say my parents would love it if I visited a memorial nobody told me about? I had dealt with my grief, been to therapy for my trauma, learned to cope with the tragedy of their death, and I didn't need a monument or shrine to remember them.
Maybe the town needed a memorial because I didn't give them a chance to say goodbye at a funeral, but that didn't mean I didn't say goodbye. That did not mean I didn't mourn every day.
Hopping on my bike, my legs burned as I pedaled home.
The four walls and roof at the end of the street were the only thing keeping me going until a car zoomed past and slowed to my pace. I looked to my right as Weston rolled down the window to his black car. "You biked to town with that foot?" his voice rang over the noise from the engine.
"I needed the fresh air!"
"Cars have windows."
I slammed on my breaks. Seconds later, his tires screeched to a halt, and he put his car in reverse and backed up until we were face to face again. His chiseled features were incredibly displeased with me as he glanced at my foot.
"You're in the middle of the road."
He ignored my comment. "Get in the car, and I'll give you a ride back."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you biking on that wound."
"My wound is fine."
"I disagree."
I laughed and shook my head, pushing forward. "I don't take rides from strangers."
He followed beside me. "I'm not a stranger. I'm your neighbor."
"Well, actually, Weston, that still makes us strangers. I know nothing about you."
"You know my name, where I work and live."
I slammed on my breaks again, and so did he. Was I really going to take him up on his offer? I would consider him somewhere between a stranger and an acquaintance, although I still expected there was an ultimatum behind the ride. Nevertheless, I climbed off my bicycle and collected my groceries out of the basket.
He put his hazard lights on and got out of his car, wheeling my bike to the trunk. I slid into the passenger seat as two cars sped past. The vehicle rocked when he slammed the driver's door and started toward my house.
His car smelled of mahogany and rain on a hot summer day. I couldn't tell if it was coming from him or the open windows, but I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Thanks for driving me."
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. "No problem."
As the paved road turned rocky, I pointed him toward my house. He pulled up to the front door, and I watched him scan the house from top to bottom, probably analyzing the dreary state of the place.
We met at the trunk as he hoisted my bike out of the car. "Thanks again for the ride."
"Sure thing." He put his hands in his pockets, and I watched his lips purse and then relax. I could tell he wanted to say something but didn't.
Like children, we stared at one another in silence, unable to say goodbye. I don't know how long we stood there before he climbed into his car and drove through the canopy of trees, past the front gate, and out of sight.
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