Miss Trailerhood

by Carina Taylor

  “You know that guy?” Tony asked. I ignored him.

  I thought I had cleared it up with Nate. I'd hoped that I'd been mean enough that he wouldn't want anything to do with me. I needed to burn that bridge—possibly blow it up. I needed Gabe the Gunrunner.

  “Oh, I see. Did he steal your Jeep for you too?” Tony kept going.

  “For the last time, I bought that Jeep. I didn’t steal it,” I ground out.

  Why would Nate come back? For my sanity, I couldn’t be around him. It would be best for him to not be around me.

  At the same time, I missed him. I missed Nola. I wanted to be with him again. I wanted to be back with the Mercier family—the closest thing I had to a family of my own.

  But I couldn't. I’d made my choice to leave them before they could leave me. There were too many complications.

  I didn’t want him coming here and reminding me of what I’d given up.

  Shaking my head, I was tired of the back-and-forth battle in my head. I had to do what was necessary.

  I stepped toward the single-wide. He would not live here. I wouldn't let him just waltz back into my life like this.

  I would go in there and drag him out. Whether it was figurative or literal, I wasn't sure yet—that depended on him.

  I didn't even knock when I reached the narrow porch in front of the single-wide. I opened the door and walked in.

  Nate was setting a box down on the kitchen counter. The single-wide had seen better days, but it wasn't the worst in the park.

  No one had been cooking up anything illegal inside—at least not in the last couple of years. And now, Nate would make this his home unless I did something about it.

  "You are not staying here."

  He glanced up with a small smile on his face, as if he’d known I would come. "I'm not?"

  "No, you are not," I replied firmly. I marched into the kitchen, grabbed the box off the counter that he had set there, and walked back outside. I set it down on the small porch and then walked back inside, planted my hands on my hips, and glared at him.

  I took a deep breath, determined to not lose my temper at him. He assumed I’d outgrown my rash temper; he was wrong. I was barely containing it. “Were you not listening yesterday when I told you you were not welcome here?"

  He started whistling a tune as he walked past me, his shoulder brushing against mine as he opened the door. When had his shoulders become so sculpted? He grabbed the box off the porch and carried it back into the kitchen to set it on the counter again.

  "No!" I exclaimed. He glanced over his shoulder at me, raised his eyebrows, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a knife and slowly flipped it open.

  I watched in horror as he used it to cut open the box. He whistled a tune and dragged the knife against the tape.

  Who did a ceremonial opening of the first box in a new house? He exaggerated his motions and accentuated it with the song he was whistling.

  "Home sweet home,” he said as he pulled out several frames and leaned them against the wall.

  "No," I whispered.

  "Right. They'd be much better on that wall over there." He picked up a frame in one hand while he grabbed a hammer and nails with the other. “Now, do we want this one to be the centerpiece, or should we make a collage?”

  “You need to put that back in the box,” I exclaimed. “You are not living here. Don’t you have a life?”

  “Well, you said you had your own life here,” he replied. Then he grinned. “What's enough of a life for you is enough for me!"

  "I wish you had a life," I retorted. "You need to get out of here."

  "I don't think so. I own this house and a nice house it is." He tapped his fist against the counter and a piece of laminate countertop chipped off and fell to the floor with a soft click. He cleared his throat, and I did my best to not laugh. He marched past me into the living room and held up the frame. “Picture it right here! I think it’s the perfect spot,” he said. He stuck a nail in his mouth and readied the hammer, all while juggling the frame.

  This was it. This was him putting down roots. It was like a homesteader driving a stake. He couldn’t. If he stayed, I would become too attached—again—and then he would leave me, just like everyone else did. I preferred to be the one in charge. I controlled who was in my life now. I couldn’t afford to be hurt—not when I needed to look after Wren.

  "Put it down!" I stomped across the empty living room. It took me three steps in such a small space. Wrapping my hand around his wrist, I pushed the hammer back down. Next, I gently took the nail from between his lips. The tips of my fingers brushed against them. I jerked my fingers back and set the nail down on the windowsill with a slam.

  The thin trim below the window fell to the ground with a crash.

  Nate sighed loudly. "This is why having guests is such a pain. They always break things. They never take care of your home the way you would."

  He leaned the picture frame against the wall. I glanced at it. It was a picture of him wearing a suit and posing like a James Bond character. I wished it surprised me. I wished I could take my eyes off of it. Nate was all grown up. Why couldn’t I think of him as a little boy anymore? He was much younger than me—at least six months. I was practically old enough to be his mother. I should not be admiring how he looked in a suit. Or remember the ease with which he picked me up the day before.

  I shook my head to derail that train of thought and bent down to pick up the nail before one of us stepped on it. "You need to leave now. You'll ruin everything."

  He pointed at the broken windowsill and raised his eyebrows. "Looks like you're the one ruining everything around here."

  I grunted in frustration as he picked up the hammer, pried the nail from my fingers with ease, and nailed it into the wall. Next, he bent down, picking up the frame and hanging it on the wall.

  He took a step backward and tripped—he really should have looked where he was going. It wasn't my fault that I needed to stretch my leg right as he moved.

  A large hand latched onto my shoulder as he steadied himself. "A little petty, even for you, Riley."

  I didn't dignify him with a response. "Your hand is still on my shoulder."

  Instead of removing it, he brought his second hand to my other shoulder then gently squeezed. He worked his hands up and down my arms, squeezing and patting them.

  "What are you doing?" Inwardly, I stomped my foot to accentuate the question. I didn’t dare do something so immature outwardly—he’d never let me live it down.

  "Hmm, you're smaller than I remembered."

  I windmilled my arms to fling his hands off me. Of course I was smaller than he remembered. I'd started running in college and finally leaned up. It meant I had to run regularly to maintain it, unfortunately.

  "Are you going to comment on my weight now?"

  "Yeah. You're too thin." He shrugged and turned around and walked out the front door. I hurried after him.

  "I am not too thin! And I hope you remember that when you leave!"

  Instead of climbing into his driver's seat to leave, he grabbed a box out of the back of his Jeep and carried it inside the house. I trailed behind him again, attempting to latch onto his elbow. If he wouldn't listen to my words, I'd have to use physical force. I didn't grow up in a trailer park for nothing.

  I missed his elbow, but I got a hold of his soft T-shirt as he walked into the kitchen. "Turn around and take that back out there. I'm not allowing you to stay!"

  Nate put the box on the counter. He set four coffee mugs in the cupboard as I made ineffectual tugs on his shirt.

  "I swear, Nate, I will drag you out of here if I have to," I ground out.

  I spotted the dimple on the side of his cheek as he grinned.

  That was it. This was no longer about keeping my world safe; it was about not letting Nate win.

  "Here, let's hang this one up next." He pulled another frame out of the first box. It was a picture of Nola, Nate, and me when we were in high schoo
l. I still had my baby cheeks, and Nate had both Nola and me in a headlock while we laughed hysterically. To say it was an unflattering picture would have been an understatement.

  "No!" I gasped.

  His second dimple appeared as his grin widened. He marched into the living room with determination. "Yes."

  I followed him and wrapped both my hands around his arm before he could reach the hammer.

  My hands couldn't even meet around his bicep. When had string-bean Nate thickened up like this? It wasn't right! I used to boss him around. I used to physically shove him out of Nola's room when he kept sneaking in to play pranks on us on sleepover nights.

  Right now, I felt like I was wrapping my hands around a tree trunk.

  For all my pushing and pulling, I only moved him a couple inches to the left.

  "Oh, you're so right," he said. "It would look much better over there. That way, it will be the centerpiece of the living room."

  I abandoned my pulling method and attempted pushing. It brought him closer to the wall.

  He pulled another nail from his pocket while I did my best to pry the hammer out of his hand.

  "You know, Riley, you're so helpful. I think you're exactly right. I should hang it a little higher." With that, he lifted the hammer with the arm I was wrapped around and hammered the nail into the wall.

  Realizing that all of my weight wasn’t enough to stop him, I let go of his arm. I would have to change my tactic. Maybe his balance wasn't as good as it used to be.

  Nate bent down to lay the hammer on the ground. I slammed against his side, wrapping my arms around his waist as I shoved him toward the front door. I moved him a foot before he regained his footing. If someone were to walk by, they would assume I was hugging a long-lost friend, not trying to throw him from the single-wide.

  He stood up and looked at me. "It's like having a puppy around here, begging for attention."

  He patted the top of my head as I tried to shove him while simultaneously reaching for the doorknob. "I told you I'd make you leave."

  I leaned against him, planting my hands on his abs. I couldn't tell if he was flexing, because I was so busy straining myself, but I did take a moment to appreciate his stomach muscles. The ridges were there, even through the T-shirt material.

  I feathered my fingers lightly against him, appreciating the muscles for a moment.

  He flinched and took a step back.

  And then I remembered exactly how I'd kicked him out of Nola's room all those years earlier.

  Nate's eyes widened as I lunged for him again.

  "You're making me have to fight dirty!" I told him.

  I tickled him mercilessly as I backed him toward the door. His shouts of laughter echoed throughout the empty single-wide. I got the door open and backed him onto the small porch before he caught both my wrists and tugged me forward. I shrieked as I went tumbling toward the steps.

  This was how I would go—killed on a pair of steps.

  I never made it. Nate wrapped an arm around my waist from behind then lifted me up against his hip—sleeping-bag style. He spun around and carried me down the steps. It left me facing his single-wide as he carried me across the street toward my trailer.

  Elise and Sam stood on their covered porch, watching with interest as Nate carried me across the street.

  "I'm going to kill you for this," I gritted out.

  Nate chuckled as he lifted me higher against his side.

  "Riley!" someone called. It was Tony. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, Tony, I'm all right," I replied with a heavy sigh. I kicked my feet, trying to break free of Nate's hold. We were definitely not on an even playing field anymore. He was much stronger now.

  He set me down next to my trailer steps, but he planted a hand on the base of my neck as he opened the door. He guided me up the steps and inside. He pushed me down to sit on the futon.

  "You seem a little grumpy today. Why don't you just rest for a while and then you can come over and play later?" He patted the top of my head then bent down to pick up my legs and swing them around to lay me on the couch.

  Seething, I imagined all the ways I'd like to cause him bodily harm. Unsurprisingly, it helped calm me down.

  "Nate, you don't belong in a trailer park. You're not one of us."

  He straightened and slowly perused the trailer I'd carefully decorated. It could easily be featured in a magazine. It had been featured on many blogs. It was also the prime piece featured on my Instagram besides me.

  "I think with a little time and tender loving care, my charming single-wide could be as homey as this."

  "No, it won't." My inner twelve-year-old refused to be silent. She was a pesky little brat. "Don't you have a job?"

  He tugged on his earlobe as he slowly turned back to look at me. "It's like you said. I have money and could live anywhere." He threw his arms out to the side. "I choose here. Well, not here, here. But that nice little home across the street."

  "Nate, you don't know what you are getting into," I told him seriously.

  He grinned, his dimples popping in on his cheeks. "I know, isn't it great?”

  Chapter Four

  Nate

  Turned out, mobile homes were like living in a tent. There was absolutely no cushion between you and your lawn-mowing neighbors who decided they needed to work on their lawn mowers in the middle of the night.

  Then, there was the guy whose motorcycle kept backfiring as he drove down the street. No, there was nothing between me and the loud noises of the trailer park. But because I didn’t want to give Riley the satisfaction of having told me so, I quickly shaved, dressed, and crossed the street first thing in the morning.

  The vintage trailer Riley was living in was picturesque. There was a wicker couch along with old lawn chairs that looked like they had been redone. There was an outdoor rug and a large umbrella. Several potted plants sat around the area.

  There wasn’t a yard, merely a gravel patch, but somehow, it still felt inviting. I glanced around the neighborhood. Most of the trailers didn’t have a yard. A few of the houses had tall fences that could have potentially hidden a yard, but it still made me wonder why there had been so much lawn mowing last night.

  Since I didn’t get to sleep last night, I decided I would wake Riley up this morning. The Riley I knew loved to sleep in. It was her kryptonite. She was atomic before nine in the morning. High school had nearly killed her. The time I woke her up at four in the morning to take her fishing with me, I was convinced she would kill me on the spot.

  It seemed like a fitting justice, after the way she acted yesterday, that I would wake her up at seven.

  Payback was rich.

  I knocked on the door.

  A neighboring single-wide shook when someone slammed the door. The man stomped down his steps, yelling at the top of his lungs to his wife, who was presumably inside. She screeched something unintelligible back to him. The man glanced at me, but seeing me didn’t stop him from continuing their fight.

  I knocked on Riley’s door again. These people were crazy. The only reason I would ever live in a trailer park would be for Riley. She wasn’t wrong when she told me, the day before, that I didn’t belong. I didn’t belong.

  But the first day, when she told me, “I don’t want you in my life,” I’d seen the tears in her eyes. It made me realize how much she needed someone. Yesterday, when I saw that old spark of temper appear when she tried to make me leave, I knew I couldn’t leave her. That she even bothered to give me the time of day showed that she cared.

  I loved that she thought she could muscle me out of the house, that she thought she could move me if I didn’t feel like moving. I’d seen her size me up as though she were a three-hundred-pound body builder. She was still as scrappy as ever.

  Crazy girl.

  “Come in!” a voice called in response to my knock.

  Maybe she’d finally come to her senses and decided to not fight me on living here.

  I highly doubted
it, though. Knowing Riley as well as I did, I had been shocked to wake up and discover that my single-wide was still in the park. I would have expected Riley to back up a truck and hook up to the hitch before hauling the thing away.

  Of course, her telling me to come in could be a trap... I grinned as I opened the door slowly.

  My eyes blinked as I tried to adjust to the inside lighting.

  I laughed at the sight in front of me. It was a trick of Riley’s.

  It had to be.

  There was another young woman sitting there. She looked to be around college age—that would make sense if she was a friend of Riley’s.

  “Hey there, I was looking for Riley.”

  The girl nodded. “She’s out for a run right now, but she’ll be back later.”

  “Okay.” I turned to go, not wanting to interrupt a stranger’s morning.

  “Are you here to ask her out?”

  I glanced down at my watch. It was seven o’clock in the morning. Of course I wasn’t there to ask her out. I spun around and stepped through the door to stand on the threshold. “Do people ask her out all the time?”

  The girl shrugged and rolled her eyes, making her look younger than I’d originally thought. “You’ve seen Riley. I bet you could answer that yourself.”

  I nodded slowly. Riley was beautiful.

  “If you’re waiting for Riley, you might as well make yourself some coffee.”

  I nodded slowly, not sure what to say, then turned around to find the coffee pot. At least that hadn’t changed since I had known Riley. There was still warm coffee ready.

  “Are you her roommate?” I asked as I poured myself some coffee into a mug I’d pulled from the hook on the wall. It seemed a little odd that the girl hadn’t asked who I was—or why I’d barged into their trailer. Who knew, maybe this was typical trailer park behavior. I was probably fitting in already. Riley was worried about nothing.

  “I’m Wren,” the girl said as she walked past me and set her bowl in the sink. She was tall—as tall as Nola. But standing closer, her youth was obvious. “I’m Riley’s sister.”