I open the door to the garage and find it's even worse than the house. More stacks of newspapers, along with other random junk; old typewriters, some books, cardboard boxes holding God-knows-what. I spot a couple lawn mowers in the corner but they probably don't work.
The lawn's a disaster so that's my first priority. Even if I'm able to get one of those lawn mowers to work, I'm not sure if it'll be able to cut through the two-foot high weeds in the yard. If it can't, I'll have to go into town and buy a high-powered weed cutter.
The garage door creaks and the wood near the hinges threatens to split as I lift up the door. A dark gray field mouse scurries past my feet to the driveway. And then another sneaks out. The garage is probably full of them.
Standing there looking out at the sea of weeds, I'm tempted to just spray them all with chemicals and forget trying to grow grass. A manicured lawn isn't my priority right now, but dead weeds would look even worse than the live ones so I decide just to mow them down.
I go back in the garage and roll the two lawn mowers out to the driveway, then go around to the back of my truck and get my tools. I brought a container of gas, assuming I'd need it for the mower. After filling each one with gas I attempt to start them and as expected, they don't work.
An hour later, I've disassembled the newest of the two mowers, the parts lined up in front of the garage. There's some noise next door and I turn my head and see Callie leaving her house. She's changed into jeans and a brown t-shirt with some kind of white logo on it. I think it says 'Lou's' so it must be her work uniform. Her hair is in a ponytail which is pulled through the little opening in the back of her brown baseball cap, which matches her t-shirt.
She's a cute little thing. Petite, but shapely. Nice curves that fill out her jeans. She seems too cute to be such a hothead. When I saw her, I thought she'd be all quiet and sweet, wanting to welcome me to the neighborhood, but instead she exploded at me like a damn firecracker. That's what she reminded me of, a firecracker, with her verbal outbursts that seemed to come out of nowhere. Even after I convinced her I wasn't trying to kill her—which I thought was both concerning and hilarious—she still came at me like a charging bull. One moment she'd be fine and the next—BAM!—back to yelling at me. Weird. And yet it puts a grin on my face.
"Hey," I yell, dropping my wrench and walking over to her. "You want some help?"
She's standing in front of her garage, trying to lift up the door.
"No, thanks. I've got it." She's struggling to make it move even an inch off the ground. Her knee must still hurt because she's trying to open the door while balancing on her good leg.
I reach down and lift up the door. "You going to work?"
She turns to me, putting her hands on her hips. "Stop doing things for me."
"Why?" I smile at her.
She seems surprised by my question. "Because I can do things myself."
"Maybe before your knee was hurt, but now, you need some help."
"Actually, I don't." She glares at me.
I lock eyes with her. "I think you do."
"You're wrong."
"I'm never wrong," I say in a cocky tone. "Ask anyone."
"I don't need to, because I'm telling you right now that you're wrong. I don't need your help or anyone else's."
"Really?" I wait for her to admit she's wrong and when she doesn't, I say, "Okay." I reach up and lower the garage door back down. Then I walk back toward my house. "Have a good day."
She mumbles something and I hear the squeak of the garage door as she attempts to lift it. I get back to work on my lawn mower, sneaking glances at my neighbor as she curses to herself while yanking on the door, balancing on one leg.
"Hey!" I hear her yell.
"Yeah?" I keep my eyes on the lawn mower handle, tightening some bolts.
"Could you come over here a minute?" she yells.
"Why? What do you need?" I yell back, my eyes still on the lawn mower.
There's a pause, and then, "I need some..."
"Some what?" I almost laugh when I say it.
She's mumbling curse words again. There was a 'damn' and a 'shit' and I might've heard something about a lunatic.
"What was that?" I yell. "I didn't hear you."
"I need some help, okay?"
I finally look at her and see her standing as she was earlier, her hands on her hips. It's supposed to be an angry stance but given that she has all her weight on one leg and her other leg is bent slightly with just her toe touching the ground, she looks like she's posing for me.
My laughter can't be contained as I approach her.
"What's so funny?" she asks.
"The way you're standing." I motion to her. "You look like you're posing for something."
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "Would you just open the door for me, please?"
"I thought you didn't need help."
She narrows her eyes at me.
I give her a big wide grin. Then I open the garage door with one hand. "Was that it?"
"Yes," she mutters, as she glances to the side.
"Just call if you need me for anything else. I have many different skills." I said it flirtatiously just to see how she'd react. I'm not trying to go out with this girl, but I'm finding it fun to rile her up.
She's staring at me, like she's trying to figure out a clever comeback. When she can't come up with one, she limps into the garage to her car, a compact, navy-blue two-door that looks to be around ten years old.
I follow her and open her door. "You sure you should be driving?"
"Why wouldn't I drive?" she asks as she gets in the car.
"You can't even walk on your right leg so it doesn't seem like you should be using it to drive a car."
"It's my foot that's controlling the pedals, not my knee. And my foot is fine." She yanks the door closed, but her window is down so I set my hands there and lean down to her level.
"Isn't your leg going to hurt standing on it all day?"
She sighs, her hand on the ignition. "There's a stool in the kitchen that I can sit on while I work." She starts the car. "I really need to go."
I step back and exit the garage, waiting in the driveway as she pulls out. "I'll get the door," I say, when I see her face fall, realizing she has to get out and close it.
"Thank you," she says, sounding grateful that she didn't have to ask this time.
"No problem." I wave her on. "Have a good day at work. See you tonight."
I'm not sure if she heard me tell her I'd see her tonight, but from the questioning look on her face, I'm guessing she did. But she kept backing out and now she's headed down the road.
I smile. She's a definite firecracker. Sparking when you least expect it. And I'm never sure if it's going to be a small spark or a big one. I wonder why she gets so angry. It's not really anger, at least not the type I'm used to. Marissa used to get angry a lot toward the end of our relationship, which I thought was just caused by the stress of planning a wedding. But now I think it was really her way of trying to get me to break up with her so she wouldn't have to do it herself.
Marissa's anger was laced with resentment, jealousy, and even a little hate, but I didn't realize that until after we'd broken up. That's when I started to see things clearly and understood why Marissa and I would never work. She resented me for always being honest with her, because although she said she liked my honesty when we met, it turns out she prefers to be told lies that will make her feel better about herself. She was jealous of my job, because it took me away from her. She expected all my time to be spent with her, but running a business isn't a nine-to-five job and when I explained that to her, she wouldn't accept it. And the hate she expressed? I don't know where that came from. I was always good to her. Always treated her well. Loved her. But it wasn't enough.
Callie's anger is less like anger and more like annoyance. Or frustration. And maybe some sadness. I can't figure her out. She's kind of odd, not in a bad way, but in a way that
makes me want to know more about her. So far, I find her to be a walking contradiction. She seems closed off, but at the same time seems desperate to connect to someone. She keeps saying she doesn't need help, but there's this look in her eyes that says that she does. Like she wants to ask for help, but can't. And then there's that anger. She was trying to direct it at me, but it seemed more like it was directed at herself.
As I'm reaching up to close her garage, I notice some boxes stacked up in the corner. They're labeled with a black marker. I walk over and see a box labeled 'miscellaneous donations' and one below it that reads 'dad's old junk' written in kid handwriting with a smiley face next to it. Callie's parents must've been cleaning out their house. I need to do the same, although I doubt there's much of Gramp's stuff that's worth donating. I'll probably just rent a dumpster and toss everything.
I glance behind the boxes and see a tiny red tricycle. I used to have one just like it, except this one has race car stickers all over it. Callie must have a little brother, or maybe he's not so little anymore if they've hidden his tricycle behind a pile of boxes.
As I leave the garage, I wonder why Callie didn't tell me much about her family. She didn't even mention having a brother. And when I asked where her parents are, she never answered my question.
It's just another odd thing about this girl.
Chapter Three
Callie
When I get to work, I spot Lou out front pouring coffee. He's usually back in his office this time of the morning because ten to eleven is always our slow time, but today the place is busier than normal. The summer vacationers must be arriving early this year. Usually they don't show up until June.
I wash my hands and tie on my apron and get to work, making the desserts. That's my job. Making desserts for the lunch crowd and whoever wants to come in and buy desserts to go. Lou makes all the breakfast pastries. He gets here at three every morning to get started. We open at six, and Deloris, an older woman who lives on the other side of town, waits tables out front.
"Did you see the list?" Lou asks as he walks in the kitchen. He's a roly-poly man with short legs, but he moves lightning fast, back and forth through the kitchen with such speed that sometimes I don't even notice him go by. Before I worked here, I used to come in to buy pastries and didn't think he was very friendly. But I've since discovered he's just a little rough around the edges. Once you get to know him, you find out he's actually a big softie. But very few people get to know him. He keeps his private life private, much like me. That's probably why we get along so well.
"I didn't see it yet," I say, "but I assume it's the same as always?"
"No. I'm mixing up the menu for summer." He picks up a sheet of paper from the counter and brings it over to me. "We're adding lemon meringue and raspberry to the list of pies and I'm trying a cranberry oatmeal cookie. For some reason, people want dried cranberries in everything. I added it to the chicken salad yesterday and we sold out by noon." He shakes his head. "I don't get it. Anyway, get to work." He shoves the to-do list at me. I take it but notice him staring at me.
"What?" I ask. "Was there something else?"
"There's something different about you today." He points his chubby finger at me. "You got a boyfriend?"
I laugh. "A boyfriend? I don't even date, so how could I have a boyfriend?"
He squints his eyes, his chubby fingers now rubbing his chin. "There's something going on with you. Something's different."
"Oh, yeah, actually there is. I hurt my knee earlier so I'm going to have to sit down for most of my shift. But I can work sitting down."
"What happened to your knee?" he asks, concern on his face. That's his soft side coming out. He worries about me. My health. My safety. He thinks it's his job to look out for me since I don't have any family left. It's sweet of him to be that way, but I don't need anyone looking out for me. I get along fine on my own.
"I tripped on the sidewalk in front of my house," I tell him.
"I told you to get that fixed," he scolds. Lou never had kids but sometimes he goes into Dad mode, lecturing me on things he thinks I need to do, like fix the sidewalk.
"Yeah, I will." I slide the stool over to the counter. "I just haven't gotten around to it."
"And look what happened? You busted up your knee."
"That wasn't why I fell. I fell because this guy's truck backfired and it startled me. I thought..." I laugh because now it's funny. "I thought he shot at me."
"What guy?"
"Some guy who's fixing up Old Man Freeson's house."
"You can't fix that thing. That house needs to be torn down."
"I told him that, but he's convinced he can save it."
"He could make a lot of money if he sold it. Freeson's house sits on a half acre."
"He's selling it when he's done fixing it up." I slide the flour container over and dust my work surface. I always roll out the cookies first. Lou makes the dough and chills it so it's ready when I get here. He also makes the dough for the pie crusts because he doesn't trust anyone else to do it.
"Whoever buys it will just tear it down and build something new," he says.
"I know, but whatever. I can't tell him what to do." I found that out this morning. Nash is someone who takes charge and does what he wants. I tell him not to do something, he does it anyway. It's annoying.
My stupid knee is throbbing but I need the rest of my supplies so I get up and limp to the drawer that has the ice cream scoops I use for the dough. I only need one but I always get two. Even numbers make me feel more at ease. Odd numbers make me nervous.
As I'm going to get the cookie sheets, Lou stops me. "Let me get the rest. You're too slow." He acts annoyed, which is what he does when he's trying to hide his concern for me. He either acts angry or annoyed. I learned this after months of working with him.
I also learned it's easier to go along with him rather than fight with him, so I go back to my stool and sit down while he gathers my supplies.
"I'm sure my knee will be better by tomorrow," I say.
"You need to fix that walkway. No more waiting." He shakes his finger at me, then goes to get the pie fillings.
While he moves about the kitchen, I arrange my workstation. Pie pans on the left, lined up in sets of four. Sheet pans on the right, also in stacks in four, and two ice cream scoops aligned next to them.
He hands me a bowl of cookie dough. "That's enough to get you started. When they're done, I'll have Peggy put them out front for you."
Peggy is the waitress who works at lunch. She's in her thirties, married with two kids.
"Can you get me another bowl?" I ask.
He sighs and gets a concerned look on his face. I've seen it before. Many times. And yet he never says anything.
His eyes move over my workstation, his expression growing even more grim, and I'm suddenly afraid this is the day he's going to confront me. "Callie, you need to—"
"I'll just get it myself," I say harshly, hoping he gets the message. He needs to stay out of this. This is my issue to deal with and I'm not ready to. Besides, I don't know how to fix it, so I couldn't deal with it even if I wanted to.
My knee aches as I hurry to the drawer to get another bowl, then hobble back to my stool. "Don't you have something to do?" I ask, not looking at him as I divide the dough into the second bowl.
I can't work with a single bowl. It's an odd number and odd numbers are bad. One car. Colliding with one van. Killing three people. One person left behind. I hate odd numbers. Odd numbers are bad.
Everything has to be even. And my workstation has to be set up exactly this way. If it's not, I panic. I crave order. Order makes sense. Chaos doesn't. And I need things to make sense. Because losing my family? Being left here all alone? It doesn't make sense.
Lou is still watching me. I can feel it, but I won't look up. Instead, I set my bowls where they belong and begin scooping cookie dough.
One, two, three, four...I continue counting in my head until I've finished t
he first row.
"Callie, stop." He holds my wrist before I begin the next row.
"What?" I narrow my eyes at him. If he confronts me about this, I swear I'll blow up at him. I like Lou and I appreciate what he's done for me but I'm not his responsibility and he needs to stay out of this.
"What do you think about you and me having dinner tonight?"
I fake a smile. "Sorry, but you're a little old for me. I usually date guys in their twenties."
"Callie, I'm serious. Let's have dinner tonight. Anywhere you want to go. It's on me."
He's tried this before and I've always turned him down. Except for last Thanksgiving and Christmas. Lou's wife died ten years ago so he always spends the holidays alone, but last year, he invited me to eat with him here at the coffee shop. I didn't want to go because it was the first holiday season without my family and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry. But I felt really bad for Lou, being all alone, so I agreed to it. It was still hard, being with Lou instead of my family, but at least he understood what I was going through. His wife died in a car accident so that's something we share. Sudden, unexpected loss that rips your heart out and leaves you feeling like you're no longer whole. It's why we understand each other and why he hasn't confronted me about my obsessive behaviors. But I'm worried that's about to change.
"I can't go out," I tell him. "I need to rest my knee."
"What about tomorrow?"
I pull my wrist from his grasp. "I'm busy then, too."
"Callie," he says in a stern tone. "You can't spend all your time in that house."
"I don't. I go to work. I go to the grocery store. I go—" I stop because those are the only places I go.
"How about if I come over and cook you something?"
"No," I say forcefully. I don't want him coming to the house. If he did, he'd probably commit me to a mental ward. I told him I got rid of almost all their stuff and packed up the rest. If he found out I lied, he'd freak out. He'd say it's not healthy. He understands I need time to grieve, but leaving all their stuff exactly where they left it isn't right. I know this, and yet I still can't make myself pack up their things.
Next to Me Page 3