“Both so gross.” I always thought Thrills gum, like Big Turk, also tasted a lot like soap.
She smiles and tips her head to the side. “So does that mean you’re back for a while?”
“My dad needed some help with the books and managing his projects, and since that’s my jam, I said yes. Helps that I was in the middle of trying to find a new apartment and a new job, so the timing worked.” I don’t include that I’m unsure of the kind of job I would’ve looked for had I stayed in Chicago. Having some time to figure things out isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“Oh, right. I didn’t know that part. It’s temporary, then?” She sounds disappointed.
“I’m probably going to be here for at least a few months.” Until Billy is out of a cast and back on his feet, anyway.
“Wow. How do you feel about that? You can usually only handle a few days here before you’re gone again.” A hint of hurt threads through her tone, and once again, I’m reminded of how awful I am for ghosting everyone here.
“Eh, I’ll survive. Lots to keep me busy, and there wasn’t much left to miss in Chicago after my company disbanded.”
She nods, as if she understands, but I’m not sure she can. “Well, if you wanna grab a drink with me and Allie, let me know.”
“What about Sue?”
Tawny makes a face. “She’s a hot mess these days.”
“Wasn’t she always?”
Tawny lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “Worse than before. She got married a while back to Nelson Fry. You remember him, don’t you?”
“I think so. Lived and breathed dirt biking?”
“That’s the one.”
“Wow, he doesn’t seem like her type.”
That earns me another shrug. “Everyone was her type at one point or another. Anyway, that lasted all of six months, because he’s married to his dirt bike and can’t handle more responsibility than knowing where his helmet is. And that’s on a good day. So she went through a rough patch there. Then she started seeing someone new.” Tawny looks away and bites at the skin around her nail.
“Someone local?”
She nods.
“Are you gonna tell me who?”
“Tuck.”
“Tucker Patrick?” It’s my turn for my eyebrows to rise.
She swallows audibly and nods again.
“Wow, that’s . . . unexpected. Or maybe it shouldn’t be?” This is a small town, and Tucker was always smooth with the ladies.
“You know she always kind of had a thing for him.” Tawny bites the inside of her lip.
I nod, aware that Sue often wanted what I had. It was a weird, not entirely healthy friendship. I dated Tucker on and off for almost two years, and when I moved to Chicago for college, I ended things for good.
He said I’d come back for him. I told him he was wrong; that wouldn’t happen. Ever.
And yet here I am. Back in the place where I made endless mistakes growing up. I put him in that category. He was the devil I knew. It was easier to let him do what he wanted, rather than make my life more difficult by taking issue with the crappy way he treated me. I was always planning on leaving Pearl Lake, him included, so I did what I had to do.
“Wait a second. I thought he moved to Lake Geneva and worked in real estate there.”
“He was and he did. But he moved back a few years ago. Said he knew the area better. Between you and me, I think he got himself into some trouble out there. Not that he hasn’t gotten himself into more trouble since he moved back.”
“I guess he hasn’t changed.”
My phone buzzes with a message from my dad asking me to pick up a few missing supplies. Which means I have to head back to the freaking hardware store. Hopefully Van isn’t still there. “My dad needs me to grab a few things, so I gotta run. Is your cell number still the same?”
“Yup, so is Allie’s.”
“I’ll message you about that drink?”
“Allie and I usually get together on Wednesday nights for a drink, if you’re interested. Half-price ladies’ night at the bar and all.”
“That sounds great, actually.”
I leave feeling lighter, and like maybe being home isn’t all bad.
The rest of the day is great, and I don’t even balk when my dad forces me to join the family for a sit-down dinner, like we used to do when we were kids. I can’t resist a good burger, and my mom’s potato salad is the best. I bite my tongue when Billy takes a seat at the table, a fresh beer beside his plate.
“How’s that job for the Bowmans going? You think you’ll be done before I get this cast off?” Billy takes a giant bite of his burger. A pickle slides out and lands halfway on his place mat, and ketchup drips like fresh blood onto his plate.
My dad makes a noise. “We’d better not still be on that project, or we’ll be more behind than we already are. I have a good feeling there will be more like it, though. The neighbors from two doors down stopped by to see the progress, and they were asking what our schedule was like for the fall. Pretty sure they’ll be throwing out some stuff along the way, Marilyn, so if you have any big wants, let me know and I’ll keep an eye out.”
“We could always use a new TV,” Billy says through a mouthful of burger.
“We got a new TV last year,” Mom reminds him. “Have you taken your medication today?”
“Took it a couple hours ago.” Billy washes down his burger with a gulp of beer.
“What kind of medication?” I ask, feeling like now is a good time to broach the subject.
“Oh, just stuff to help manage the pain and antibiotics because his stitches got infected.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to drink when you’re taking antibiotics, or pain meds.” I give a nod to the beer in his hand.
Billy rolls his eyes. “It’s a light beer. It’s not like I’m pounding a bottle of rye or anything.”
My brother’s attitude these days sucks, although I can’t say he doesn’t have a reason to be grumpy. I would be, too, if I was dealing with a broken ankle, a beat-up face, and pending drunk driving charges that could include a suspended license for the next six months, and that’s if he gets the lesser charge.
“When’s your court date?” I ask my brother.
“Geez! Can you get off my ass for two fucking seconds? I screwed up. I know that. I don’t need you rubbing it in my goddamn face every time you see me.” He pushes back his chair and tries to get up but loses his balance, knocking over his chair and landing on his ass.
My parents’ chairs screech across the floor in tandem, and they both push out of their seats.
“I’m fine. I got it.” He struggles to pull himself to his feet. His face is red, and he’s huffing by the time he manages to right himself. He’s tall and gangly and the spitting image of our grandfather when he was Billy’s age. He plants one fist on the table, grabs his half-empty beer, and chugs the rest of the contents while glaring at me. He finishes his tantrum by slamming the empty can on the table. Then he grabs his crutches and wobbles his way through the living room to my old bedroom and slams the door.
Dad sighs, and Mom pokes at her potato salad with her fork.
“I wasn’t trying to rub it in his face. It was a simple question. And he really shouldn’t be drinking if he’s taking painkillers and antibiotics.” I leave out the part about how the drinking is the reason he’s in this predicament in the first place, since that’s a whole different beast to tackle.
“I know, honey. Remember that this is hard for him. He’s always felt like the moon to your sun, so he’s more sensitive than usual, especially with you coming home and helping out with the business while he’s healing. I’ll have a talk with him,” my mom says, always standing up for her little boy.
I don’t push it, in part because I’m tired and this conversation requires energy I don’t have. Besides, Billy’s room is down the hall, and the walls are thin in this place.
We finish up dinner, and I head back to the trailer, glad
that I don’t have to worry about running into my brother for the rest of the night. It’s weird being in my late twenties and dealing with teenage-style sibling squabbles again.
The low tones of rock music come from next door, accompanied by the repetitive pounding of a hammer and the occasional obnoxious whirl of a skill saw. And of course, because the night wouldn’t be complete without a campfire, he has one going, except he must be burning something wet because the plume of smoke is thick and acrid. I immediately zip up the interior lining on the big window in the dining area so the campfire crackling less than thirty feet away doesn’t choke me out. It’s meant to keep rain out and let fresh air in—when there isn’t a stinky fire going next door.
I don’t bother to shower. It’s pointless with a campfire raging beside me. Instead I turn on my TV and flip the limited channels I have access to. My parents have basic cable with a sports package add-on, so finding something semientertaining that isn’t a football game can be a challenge.
The TV drones in the background, mostly drowned out by the noise from next door, but I’m so engrossed in setting up a new online version of my dad’s invoice form that I don’t notice it for the most part.
Two hours later, I have several new streamlined forms that I’ll introduce slowly, one at a time, so as not to overwhelm my old-school dad and uncle. I’ve also revised all their spreadsheets, categorized their expenses for the bookkeeping software, and created a spreadsheet for billable hours to use moving forward. My hope is that I’ll be able to increase their bottom line, lower their expenses, and give them a better sense of exactly how much each project is going to cost with built-in incidentals—especially if they’re looking at more projects on the other side of the lake.
It’s well after ten by the time I finish getting ready for bed, and still I hear music and hammering next door. Not to mention a giant spotlight aimed in this direction. I still don’t understand why he’s trying to fix up Bee’s place. It’s not like an investor is going to keep Bee’s cottage. Not when they can knock it down and build something better. All it will take is one McMansion on this side of the lake to drive up property taxes and make it harder for the locals to stay afloat.
I pull my pillow over my head and try to block it out, but I’m a light sleeper and this is honestly too much. Plus, now I’m spitting mad because all I want is Bee back and not Douche McJerk who has no respect for his neighbors. I toss my pillow aside and inchworm to the end of the bed, slide my feet into my flip-flops, grab my phone, and step out into the inky darkness.
It’s a muggy night with the promise of rain in the coming days, which reminds me that I need to patch the bigger holes before that happens. We’ve had a few little showers, but not an actual summer storm that can pull shingles off roofs and raise the water level a couple of inches. I turn on the flashlight and trudge through the brush and past the campfire, which incidentally has been left unattended. It’s down to a smolder, but Van has left out hot dog sticks and a bag of buns.
I keep going, toward Bee’s front porch and the blinding spotlight. Standing in front of the cottage is Van. Shirtless. Sweaty and shirtless. The bright light shines directly on him, accenting the dips and ridges, the smooth planes of muscle.
Van is ripped. Probably because he spends a lot of time at the gym, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. He lifts his ball cap from his head and runs a hand through his deliciously sweaty dark hair before he flips his cap around and replaces it, backward this time.
I roll my eyes at myself. What the hell is wrong with me? Deliciously sweaty. “Hey!” I bark.
He startles and the hammer in his hand goes flying, but he was on the back swing, so it heads in my direction. I sidestep it, and it manages to miss me by about six inches. He spins around, eyes wide as they land on me. “What the fuck?”
“Do you realize what time it is?”
“Do you realize that you scared the living shit out of me and I could’ve hurt you, or myself?” He motions to the hammer lying on the ground next to me.
“Wouldn’t that have been a pity,” I snap.
“What the hell is your damn problem?”
“You.” I point a finger at him. “You are the problem. It’s after ten. There’s a bylaw in place around here that stipulates all construction takes place between the hours of seven a.m. and nine p.m. from June to August, and you’re violating that. And for what? It’s not like whatever you’re doing is going to matter when your damn plan is to parcel out the property!” I’m yelling now, and heaving. And my nipples are peaking under the white tank I wore to bed. I hug myself to hide them.
“This is the second time you’ve said that. What the hell are you talking about?”
“What do you mean, what am I talking about?” I flail for a second and then cross my arms again. “You called me about it. Bee wasn’t gone a couple of weeks, and you were already asking about acreage and subdividing. It doesn’t take a genius to know what your plans are!”
“I don’t even know what you mean by subdividing, and I never called you.”
“Yes, you did!” He’s just so infuriating.
“No. I didn’t. Believe me, I’d remember dealing with someone as hostile as you.”
“I am not hostile.”
“Really?” Van props a fist on his hip. His narrow hip.
I follow the movement, which leads my eyes to his waist, that enticing V of muscle dragging my gaze down farther. Of course, because my brain is a jerk, the image of him naked pops back into my brain.
As if he’s reading my mind, his brow arches. “You’re picturing me naked right now. Aren’t you?”
“What? No!” My eyes snap back up to his.
“Yeah. You are.” His lip curls, somewhere between a smirk and sneer, his tone needling. “You were staring at my crotch, probably thinking about the last time you visually molested my junk. Is that why you stopped by? To check me out again? This whole fake phone call thing is an excuse for you to come back over here and get a look at the goods again.” He runs a hand down his chest.
“You’re an egotistical asshole. I realize that this might be some kind of fun holiday for you, and that you’re probably sleeping until noon every day, but some of us have to be up at the crack of dawn. Bylaw hours are seven a.m. to nine p.m. Next time you break them, expect to get a visit from the sheriff.” I spin around and stomp over to the extension cord, find the place where it’s joined to the lamp, and break the connection, submerging us in darkness. “Next time I won’t be so nice about it.”
“Hate to break it to you, but you weren’t very nice about it this time,” he calls after me.
It drives me crazy how easy it is for him to push my buttons.
A few seconds later I hear an oof and a clatter, which means he’s tripped over something in the dark. I smile to myself. Hopefully this time he’ll get the message.
CHAPTER 7
WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO PRETTY?
Dillion
Two days after the hammer incident, my neighbor comes knocking on my door, very early in the morning. I know it’s him because he tromps through the bushes like a moose, making a racket. He’d make a terrible sniper.
At first I assume he’s finally stopping by to apologize.
I should know better.
I open the door, and his annoyingly attractive, very angry face appears, unfiltered by the screen. I get that fluttery feeling in my belly. The one that tells me I’m probably going to fantasize about him during my shower later. It’s happened a couple of times since I moved back. Okay. More than a couple. But he really is stunning. Apparently, I’m a sucker for dark hair and eyes the color of maple syrup. And chiseled features and an athletic physique. It’s why I ended up dating the quarterback in high school, and also how I ended up with Jason for two years in Chicago.
I have a type, and as much as I don’t want to admit it to myself, this guy is 100 percent it. At least physically. Personality-wise, I’ve tried my best to stay away from the asshol
es since I left Pearl Lake. I haven’t always been successful, but I’ve done better than Tucker.
Van waves a bunch of papers. “What the hell is this?”
I bat them out of my face and step forward so I’m blocking the way into my trailer.
He’s a big guy. Giving him an opportunity to barrel his way into my personal space doesn’t seem like a smart idea. Sort of like inviting a grizzly bear to lick honey off your face in a cave.
My move forces him to step back down, putting him a few inches below me. I grab the papers and scan them. It’s a cable bill. For a grand. And a printout of this month’s bill as well, which has already amassed a similar amount in charges. “It’s an expensive cable bill.”
I try to hand it back to him, but he shakes his head. “I’ve been here a week! How could I rack up a thousand dollars in charges?”
“Why are you asking me? It’s not like I know what your TV habits are.”
“It’s all for on-demand porn! Hundreds and hundreds of dollars on porn! You don’t even need to pay for that shit. You can watch it for free wherever and whenever.”
He has a point, but the internet connection up here is basically crap. At least the package my family always had is. I have never been an internet-porn watcher, but I’ve tried streaming, and I can’t even watch a music video or a news clip without it buffering at least once. I imagine with actual porn it’s probably way worse. I flip through the pages, noting charge after charge for on-demand adult movies with bad titles like Buffy the Penis Slayer and Let’s Get Pucked. They all seem to be toward the end of the month and have increased in frequency and volume over the past two weeks. I had no idea that a cable bill could be so detailed.
I drag my eyes back up from the endless list and meet his angry maple gaze. “I don’t know what you want me to do with this. Unless you’re looking for a referral for counseling or something because you’re a sex addict.”
“I’m not a sex addict! I haven’t even had sex in, like . . . months!” He tries to flail but hits his hand on the trailer door.
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