Harlow turned to face him, her smile giving her away. Drew felt about ready to fall over as she approached him, exhaling a sigh as she rested her cheek against Drew’s shoulder again, her hand pressed to his chest. He was sure she could feel his heart thudding like a drum beneath her palm, sure that she understood why he was practically frozen where he stood, terrified to move or speak or breathe.
“I’m leaving Red,” she whispered, and for a second he wasn’t sure he had heard her right. “I’m tired of being unhappy. I deserve better.” She lifted her head to look at him, her expression a question mark. “Don’t you think?”
He couldn’t bring himself to answer, afraid that any words that escaped him just then would be wrong. A part of him wanted to tell her that she was crazy, that she and Red were perfect for each other—everyone had their problems, they just had to give it time, sort things out. Another part of him—the part he’d been trying to suppress—whispered for him to wrap his arms around her, to pull her close and press his mouth against her ear, assure her that yes, she deserved to be happy, that he was going to give her everything she wanted, everything she deserved.
“Well?” she asked, surprised by his silence. “You think it’s a stupid idea? I should just stay with him and hate myself?”
“No,” he croaked. “Just...”
“Just that he’s a man and you’re a man and you’re going to take his side?” Her hands slid down Drew’s chest, falling to her sides in defeat.
“I’m not,” Drew told her, feeling cornered. “It’s just that...it’s a big step, don’t you think?”
“So was getting married,” she muttered, turning away from him, retaking her spot at the sink.
He chewed his bottom lip, unsure of whether to follow or remain where he stood. Her sudden shift in mood was so disorienting, he considered bolting for the door, uncertain of whether to be excited or horrified, whether to feel dirty or captivated.
“Aren’t you scared to do that?” he finally asked, forcing the words from his throat. His own voice sounded foreign, far away. He stepped toward the counter, his fingers gripping its edge, steadying him against the vertigo that was setting in.
“Leave him?”
Drew nodded, but he didn’t look at her. Sick with nerves, he wondered whether this whole thing would result in him sprinting across the kitchen to the guest bathroom, his hands held firmly over his mouth.
“Why would I be scared?”
“Because you’ll be alone,” he said, forcing himself to glance her way. It was, after all, Andrew’s worst fear. He had spent what felt like a lifetime on his own.
Harlow blinked at the boy in her kitchen, her eyes going glassy with tears.
“I see,” she whispered, turning away. “I suppose I didn’t think of it that way,” she confessed. “I suppose I just assumed.”
He didn’t get it: Assumed what? That she wouldn’t be alone after she sent Red packing? That Drew would keep her company?
His heart sputtered to a stop when he realized what she meant. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, shaking his head faintly, his expression pleading for her to explain it to him—to assure him that he was coming to the right conclusion.
“Was it wrong to assume?” she asked.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered. Drew would have been over the moon to keep her company, to come over every afternoon, do odd jobs, eat pancakes, and wash dishes after dinner. But that wasn’t what the glimmer in her eye had been asking for. Had his own mother ever looked at him that way, he would have run out the front door screaming, unsure whether he’d ever come back.
But Harlow wasn’t his mother.
That simple fact repeated itself over and over inside his head: she wasn’t his mother, and this wasn’t wrong. He cared about her. Her marriage was falling apart. She wanted him to stay with her. They were both lonely, both looking for a reprieve from what their lives had become: Drew from the guilt of leaving his mom behind, Harlow from the perfection she had built up around her like a wall—perfection that she had openly admitted was a lie. Why was he fighting his undeniable attraction, trying to bury her appeal? She was gorgeous. Amazing. Caring. Everything he had always wanted. Everything he missed.
“I’m not crazy,” she said softly. “I know it would take time. I just thought...” Glancing over at him, she offered him an unsure smile. “Don’t we like each other?”
A tremor skated down his limbs. He was suddenly back in the halls of Creekside High, trying to be casual next to Emily’s locker while his stomach clenched and his head swam with anxiety. Staring at Harlow, he wondered how old he had to be to have a heart attack. If he denied her, she’d reject him forever. It would be all over. But if he accepted...
He felt his knees go weak.
“Andy?” She blinked, her eyes shimmering with saline, her hair shining like gold in the morning sun.
“Yes,” he whispered, his confession inaudible beneath the whoosh of his pulse.
“And you like my pancakes?”
“I do,” he said, those very pancakes rolling around inside his stomach, threatening to reappear. His grip on the counter tightened while Harlow’s smile widened.
“I like your dancing,” she told him, breaching the distance between them, the sweet vanilla scent of her perfume elevating his nausea to a new, blinding height. “And how thoughtful you are—how you worry about your mom, how you worry about me.” She pressed her hand to his cheek. “You do worry about me, don’t you?”
“I do?” he asked, his head swimming.
“You do,” she confirmed, exhaling a laugh and wrapping her arms around him. But her expression went somber a second later.
“And if there are things about me that you don’t like?” she asked, somehow turning this whole thing into Andrew’s idea instead of her own.
“Secrets?” he asked, unable to focus.
“Everyone has them.” Her tone was bashful—a schoolgirl thinking about the dirty things she wanted to do with her favorite heartthrob. She walked her fingers up his chest, hooking them onto the collar of his T-shirt.
What seemed like an oncoming confession was cut short by the slam of a door. Drew had been deafened by the pounding of his own pulse. He hadn’t noticed the oncoming rumble of an engine, hadn’t sensed the impending doom of being caught red-handed.
Red stood in the kitchen not more than a few yards away, his eyes fixed on his wife and the boy in her arms.
Drew’s heart leapt into his throat for a second time, scrambling to leave his body forever. He reflexively retreated from Harlow’s embrace, taking a step backward as though doing so would somehow make the situation less horrifying than it was. Harlow blinked a few times, gave Red a look, and turned away from him completely.
Red’s attention was steadfast on Andrew’s panic.
“Scared?” he asked.
Petrified was more accurate, which was why Drew failed to respond.
“Good,” Red muttered. “Because you’re fired. Now get the hell out of my house, and don’t you dare come back.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Long after the sun had set that evening, angry storm clouds crawled across the sky. Mickey parked his TransAm a block down Magnolia and killed the headlights. If he came any closer, there was a chance Harlow would recognize the rumble of his engine. Mick knew that his disappearance had forfeited his employment—but, more important, had forfeited the pact that kept him safe. The past few days had given him the opportunity to call the cops and give them an anonymous tip, but he hadn’t. He should have made his move, but there he was, staring down a sleepy street, wondering what damage Harlow had done since he’d left. He assumed that Drew was still alive, but nothing was for sure.
Chewing on the pad of his thumb, he considered what he had to do: sneak along the street, hope he didn’t wake the ceaselessly barking neighborhood dog, and creep inside the house. Mickey would tell him everything, help him pack his things and leave. But the more he thought about it, the
more he didn’t like the idea. If Drew was anything like the other boys, Harlow had already won him over. On top of the fact that Mickey had gone AWOL without a word, Drew had no reason to believe him; if he had been in Andrew’s shoes, he would tell himself to go straight to hell. But there was one thing Mickey could do—something that made him shudder at the thought.
Creeping out of the car as quietly as he could, he cursed himself for being so habitually indifferent. If he had only asked for Andrew’s cell phone number, he wouldn’t be forced to pull this Mission Impossible move.
With the key to the house in hand, he inched along the sidewalk, his heart thudding with each step. He rushed across the lawn, pressed himself into the shadows next to the front door. His eyes were fixed on the Ward house; he waited for a light to come on, for the jig to be up. When nothing happened, he shoved the key in the lock and silently pushed the door open, sneaking into his own home.
The house was pitch black—darker than he remembered it ever being before—and the empty living room confirmed that Drew was asleep in his room. The wind pushed against the outer walls, making them snap and creak against the strain.
Tiptoeing through the house, Mickey held his breath. Every step was painfully slow. Halfway down the hall, his key ring jingled in his hand. He winced at the noise as he searched for the one that would unlock door number three, the mysterious door to that steel-walled room.
His plan was to leave it open for Drew to discover on his own. Mickey couldn’t prove that Harlow was a murderer without a body, but the room would be enough to make Andrew run.
Leaning forward in a crouch, he brought himself to eye level with the doorknob, straining to see the lock in the dark. Just as he slid the key into the knob, a sickening realization settled over him: Andrew would find the dissecting room, but he’d just pin Mickey as the psycho. Hell, Drew might turn tail and run to Harlow for help. Crouched in the dark, Mick began to reconsider his plan when he felt a breath against his neck.
“I knew you’d be back,” Harlow whispered against the shell of his ear.
Before Mickey could respond, something bit into the side of his throat.
And then he was gone.
There was no doubt in Drew’s mind that he was out of a job, and of all the reasons to get canned, being caught with the boss’s wife had never crossed his mind. His stomach was still twisted with anxiety; he was sure that Red would come banging on his door any second, determined to settle the score. But Red never showed up, and Andrew was thankful for that, because he needed to get the hell out of the house. He needed to clear his mind. He was still seriously weirded out by what had happened the day before; it had come out of nowhere and had left him feeling sick for the rest of the afternoon. But the longer he had to digest it, the less appalling the idea felt. Part of him was sure that after a few days, Harlow would realize just how crazy an idea it was for her and Drew to get together. She’d dismiss it, and they’d go back to the way things were.
But another part of him—the lonely, lovesick part—hoped that Harlow wouldn’t come to that conclusion. She was the perfect woman. The only things that stood between them were Red and their age. It seemed that Red was stepping out of the picture voluntarily; and age, as they said, was but a number.
Tracking down the hall, Andrew paused beside Mickey’s bedroom door. He thought he had heard Mick coming home the night before, but the emptiness of his roommate’s bedroom proved that it had all been in Drew’s head—probably nothing but the wind.
And that wind was getting worse. It whipped at his hair when he stepped out of the house. He turned to lock the door behind him—stopped short when he saw a notice taped to the door. The words “fumigation” and “pest control” stood out in bold letters. He plucked the paper from the door, the sheet trying to tear itself out of his hands as the wind howled behind him. It was dated three days earlier, but there was no way it had been taped to the door for that long. Drew had been in and out of the house almost constantly. No, this notice had arrived overnight, and it was telling Drew that he needed to vacate the premises by that morning.
He shook his head at the paper, looking for a number to call. There wasn’t one, and it wouldn’t have mattered if there had been. The wind snatched the sheet from his grasp and sent it whipping down the street.
He looked up, a dark sky hanging ominously overhead, but the growl wasn’t thunder; it was an engine. He paused along the cracked walkway, holding his breath. Maybe Mick had returned. Maybe he had left early to pick up breakfast for them both—a meal to reconcile over while he explained his disappearance and the fact that they had to rent a motel room for a night or two.
But it wasn’t Mickey.
A black van roared around the corner, veering so sharply toward the curb Drew was convinced the driver was aiming to hit him. The thing was a beast—one of those old-fashioned vans that looked like an oversize ice cream truck, nothing but sharp and awkward angles, no windows, ready to kidnap the neighborhood kids. It pulled up behind Drew’s pickup, nearly ramming its flat front end into the back of the Chevy as the tires squealed to a halt. The weight of the van shifted to the front tires as its driver slammed on the brakes, then shifted backward with a violent shudder.
Drew stood dumbfounded as he watched a bearded guy slam the van into park. The logo on the side of the vehicle caught his attention: a giant red roach lay on its back, its legs pointed skyward above the name—Big Chief Pest Control.
The bearded driver ambled out of the van and stepped onto the sidewalk with a clipboard in hand. He adjusted his trucker cap, that same dead roach emblazoned across the front, and eyed Andrew for a second before approaching.
“You live here?” he asked, motioning to the house with a nod of his head.
“I do,” Andrew replied, a frown creeping across his face. This couldn’t possibly be happening. Not right now. Not after what had happened yesterday.
The driver scribbled something down on the paper fastened to the clipboard.
“This here fumigation is gonna take at least a couple a’ days to clear out. Got an emergency call from the owner. I sent one of my guys to post a notice on your door.”
“Yeah, this morning. I didn’t see it until just now,” Drew protested, hoping that this little detail would convince the guy to come back later—at least in a few hours, if not in a few days.
“Sorry, bud.” He tapped his clipboard with his pen. “An emergency is an emergency. The owner should have let you know.”
Drew couldn’t help but to stare at the man in front of him. Mick had taken off without so much as a word as to where he was going or when he’d be back, and now this? “What a dick,” he muttered under his breath.
The guy let his clipboard fall to his side with a disgruntled look. “You need to clear out, bub. Grab your stuff and go.”
Drew frowned. He supposed he could stay with his mom, but even after their great phone conversation, the idea didn’t sit well. Defiance would have kept him from going back before they had talked; now, it was more an issue of pride than anything else. She saw him as an independent young man for the first time in his life. He was scared to ruin that, scared that going back, even for a night or two, would have her reconsidering her words. But what other choice did he have?
With the exterminator showing no sign of compassion, Andrew did an about-face and marched back inside. This was fantastic. No job, now no place to stay. He grabbed his duffel bag and whipped it onto his mattress, started to pile a few days’ worth of clothes inside. What the hell was he supposed to do now?
Dragging his feet across the lawn, he heard his name called before he could toss his bag into the bed of his Chevy. Harlow stood out on the porch, her arms folded across her chest, a kitchen apron cinched around her waist. She didn’t look pleased.
Drew met her at the edge of Mickey’s lawn, the picket fence separating them.
“What on earth is that?” she asked in a hushed whisper, motioning to the van.
Andrew peer
ed at the van as though acknowledging its existence for the first time. It was real, and it wasn’t going anywhere. The bearded driver seemed dead set on dousing the place with poison.
“Exterminator,” Drew answered, his duffel bag feeling way too light for his liking. Standing at Harlow’s fence, he realized that he didn’t even have enough money for a roadside motel. He was scary short on cash, and the Wards hadn’t paid him yet. Toeing the perimeter of Mick’s dead grass, he figured now was as good a time as any to hold out his hand and ask to be compensated.
“Well, who called him?” she asked. “I thought that Mickey boy stormed off.”
Drew opened his mouth to speak, but something hitched in his brain and his throat went dry. He hadn’t told her Mickey had taken off, and even if he had, he certainly hadn’t mentioned that he hadn’t come back.
Then again, the TransAm wasn’t parked in the driveway.
Drew sighed, shoving his fingers through his hair. He didn’t know what to say.
“Well, this is ridiculous,” Harlow said with a huff. “I’m going to go talk to that man.” She motioned to the bearded driver with a small dish towel in her hand, like a Southern belle waving a handkerchief at a caller.
“It’s fine. I’ll just grab a room somewhere.”
Just as Andrew was about to bring up the subject of money, Red filled the front doorway. Drew tensed immediately. Harlow noticed.
“Is he standing there?” she asked quietly. “He is, isn’t he?”
Drew didn’t reply, but she read his expression.
“I want you to stay with me,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Stay with me,” she repeated. “You can’t leave me here with him.”
Andrew blinked, shooting a look toward Red before taking a side step, repositioning himself so Harlow was directly between them.
“Are you kidding?” he asked her. “He’ll kill me.”
“He’ll do no such thing,” Harlow assured him. “He wants a divorce. We’re over.”
“Harlow...”
She gave him a desperate look.
The Neighbors Page 16