The Lyons Next Door (A Lyons' Heart Book 1)

by Inda Herwood

  Beckham

  “You apologized?” Leigha asks me, sitting to my right in the theater room, You’ve Got Mail playing on the pull-down projector screen.

  “I already told you a hundred times that I did.” I shove a handful of popcorn in my mouth, watching Mom hug Theo to her like a living teddy bear when Tom Hanks reveals himself to be the dude on the computer that Meg Ryan has been talking to all along.

  “You were sincere? You didn’t tell her your parents made you, did you?” My cousin bypasses what I just said as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

  “Nope. I was sarcastic, rude, and I made it known that I only did it because I feared being disowned by my family if I didn’t.” I roll my eyes, whispering so Mom and Dad don’t hear, “Yes I was sincere, jeez. Call and ask her yourself if you want.”

  She slumps back in her leather recliner, crossing her arms. “I would if I had her number. But since she’s coming over here tomorrow, I’ll just ask her then.”

  “You can always use a phone book, you know,” Catcher says from her other side, arm half lost in a giant bag of Cheetos. When it finally reappears, his hand looks like it’s covered in orange felt. He licks it away like the animal that he is.

  “As if it’s the 1950s?” she asks, looking appalled he even suggested it.

  Ignoring them both, I throw another thing of popcorn at my mouth. At the same time, I silently wonder if Blaire discovered her present yet, and if she did, did she like it? I saw her staring at the book I had put back, her hand caressing the spine like it was priceless instead of the five dollars the tag said it was. When she wasn’t looking, I put it in my tote bag and paid for it while she was busy looking elsewhere. I hadn’t planned on buying it for her, but I thought it was a small thing to do since she was nice enough to forgive me. I’m sure she did it more for my brothers’ and cousin’s sake than mine, but still, I appreciated it.

  “I hope she didn’t get a cold from running through the rain to get away from you,” Leigha says a few minutes later, ‘awwing’ when Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan finally kiss.

  Just as she says this, I sneeze, making Catcher look over at me, eyes wide with fear and suspicion. Pointing an angry finger at me, he says, “No, the last thing I need is to get sick. Penelope is coming over on Sunday, and I don’t want to have to cancel. Here, use this.” He throws one of Leigha’s giant, mohair pillows at me.

  Catching it means dropping my popcorn. Which I do. Grumbling, I ask the idiot, “How is this supposed to protect you from my nonexistent germs?”

  “You hold it to your mouth when you sneeze, dingus.” He answers oh so helpfully.

  “Hey, that’s my pillow, and I certainly do not give you permission to germ it up,” Leigha complains, taking the thing out of my hands and clutching it to her chest protectively.

  “I’m not sick, and I don’t have germs,” I reiterate, shaking my head at the two of them. “What if I were Blaire and I came over sick, would you do this to me then?”

  “No, ’cause we like her,” Catcher says with a remorseless grin, to which Leigha nods her head in agreement.

  I pick up the last of the popcorn I dropped on my lap, making sure to lick a few kernels before I chuck them at their faces.

  Their echoing screams of horror puts a satisfying end to movie night.

  CHAPTER 9

  Blaire

  Knocking on the door this time around, I feel a whole different set of nerves from the last time. Back then, I was afraid I’d embarrass myself in front of whoever opened the door, who just so happened to be Beckham of all people. Now, I’m wondering how I bring up his kind gesture of goodwill if he happens to be the one to open it again. I want to thank him for the book, but I don’t know if –

  The door swings open, revealing Leigha on the other side, grinning ear to ear when she sees me. “Hey! You survived the rain I see.” She looks over my shoulder and beyond the porch to where the yard and driveway are getting thoroughly soaked. This time, I remembered to bring an umbrella with me.

  “Yeah, it’s really coming down,” I say, still clutching her belongings to my side. “But somehow, I managed to keep these dry for you.” Handing her the swimsuit and her beach towel, she smiles appreciatively at them.

  “Thanks. I’m glad you’re not sick from your run through the rain yesterday.” She pauses in the door, looking at me closely. “Wait, you’re not, are you? Because if you are, I’m going to feel so bad –”

  “No, I’m fine, really.” But, “Why would you think I was sick?”

  She waves it away like it’s nothing, but that same, anxious look is still there. “Beckham came down with a cold this morning. He’s been in his room, listening to sad movie soundtracks while lying face down in his bed. You know how men are when they get sick. The world might as well fall apart for them.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s made his own quarantine. It’s better to just let him rest. Would you like to come in?” she asks, stepping out of the doorway for me.

  “Would I be interrupting anything?” I know they could be having a family reunion and she’d still ask me in, bless her.

  “Just a rousing game of Twister. We actually need a ref if you’re interested,” she says as I step inside, shutting the door and ending the sound of the rain behind me. “Our TV went out, and since none of us know how to fix it, we’ve resorted to old school entertainment.”

  “I haven’t played Twister since I was ten,” I tell her, following her path into the living room. There I spot Catcher with Theo, both standing in awkward positions on the plastic mat; the furniture pushed back to make room for them.

  Looking under his arm and through his legs, Catcher smiles when he sees me. “Look, Witchy Woman’s here, Theo.”

  Theo turns his head to look at me, offering a small wave that has him falling out of position, making his brother laugh.

  “You’ve gotta keep your eyes on the prize, bro,” he tells him smugly.

  Not too impressed with Catcher’s advice, Theo proceeds to push him over, making him fall to the floor as well. Leigha and I laugh as Catcher curses, trying to get himself back up.

  “That was cheating!” he says indignantly, giving his little brother the stink eye.

  “No, that was karma for being a prick. Now,” Leigha says, clapping her hands together, “Blaire is going to be our ref for the first round, and then I’ll take over. Sound good?”

  We all nod, and I take the spinning board from Leigha, sitting down on one of the couches while they retake their spots. Once everyone is ready, I spin the hand and call out, “Left hand green.”

  Everyone moves.

  “Right leg yellow.”

  On and on it goes until not a single one of them doesn’t look like a pretzel stretched too far. I laugh when I call, “Left leg red,” because it means Catcher is going to have to bend over backwards to make it happen. There’s no way he can keep the pose for long.

  As predicted, the move takes down a player. Theo ends up falling from the pressure, sighing in disappointment with the loss.

  “Here, why don’t you help me spin the board,” I tell him, patting the seat next to me for him to take. His frown flips upside down, and he bounds over to take the offered position. I hand him the board, and his little fingers spin the hand with gusto.

  “Right hand blue.” I call out for him.

  “Oh, you have got to be kidding,” Leigha groans, trying hard to inch her hand to the other side of the mat, Catcher doing the same, but with more of a grimace.

  “Hey, kids. What are you doing?” Mrs. Lyons walks into the kitchen, her hair slightly wet from the rain, her scarlet red suit looking stunning even though the shoulders are wet. Smiling, she greets me, placing her purse on the counter. “Oh, hi, Blaire. I didn’t even see you there.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Lyons,” I say, just as I feel a hand tug on my sleeve. Theo points to the board, showing me he already spun the wheel and is waiting for me to call it out
. “Whoops, okay. Uh, left leg yellow.”

  “Twister? Boy, you guys haven’t played that in ages,” Mrs. Lyons says, coming over to see where we’re at in the game. She starts to laugh when she sees just how twisted her son and niece have gotten.

  “I think I pulled something,” Catcher groans, his face turning red the longer he holds his pose.

  “Then tap out,” Leigha tells him, her back arched in a painful way.

  “Never!” he declares, sounding like a gladiator in one of those movies with Russel Crowe.

  “Oh no, is that a spider?” Mrs. Lyons says worriedly, looking over where Leigha is contorted.

  “Where?” Leigha asks, eyes searching frantically though they can’t look very far.

  “Right by your left hand.”

  “Hell no!” she screeches before toppling like a house of cards, taking Catcher down with her. They both fall to the floor in a heap of groans and limbs.

  “Crap, did I fall on it? Is it on my back?” Leigha starts to manically swipe at her shoulders and back, looking for a black mark to suggest she crushed the thing to death.

  “There was never any spider. I just wanted to see you face-plant,” Mrs. Lyons giggles, not bothered by the glares being thrown at her.

  Theo and I laugh as well, especially when Catcher says, “I’m supposed to be your favorite, and this is how you treat me?”

  “Who ever said you were my favorite?” she asks, brow furrowed though her lips have a humorous edge to them.

  “I demand a rematch,” Leigha complains, holding her hands on her sweatpants-clad hips, breathing hard from exertion and fury.

  “No, I think it’s Blaire’s turn to play. I’ll be the ref this time. Theo, want to continue being the wheel spinner?”

  He nods, and I stand up to join the others. We each take a corner, readying ourselves. Catcher gives me a dangerous grin, asking me, “You ready for this, Cromwell?”

  I ring out my hands, cracking my neck from side to side. “I think the real question is, are you?”

  “I knew I liked you,” he says, stepping into stance across from me.

  “Can we stop the flirting and get on with this?” Leigha asks, rolling her eyes at him.

  “Feeling competitive, Cousin?” Catcher raises an eyebrow at her.

  She doesn’t hesitate or look the least bit calm when she says, “Always.”

  He smiles like the answer pleases him. “Then I think we should make things more interesting. How about a bet?”

  She squints her eyes at him. “What are we talking?”

  He shrugs, then says, “If I win, I want your crotch rocket for a week.”

  “What?” She stands up straight, looking at him like he’s lost all his marbles and then some. “You know that bike is my baby, Catcher.”

  Not understanding what’s going on, I look at Mrs. Lyons. “What are they talking about?”

  She laughs to herself, explaining, “He wants her motorcycle.”

  Wait. “The one that’s sitting out in the driveway?” That’s hers? Leigha – high heel wearing, hair never out of place, girly girl – Lyons, drives a motorcycle?

  Her aunt nods.

  Huh.

  “Exactly,” Catcher says in response to her indignation. “High stakes are what makes these things fun. Now, name your price.”

  “Fine,” she says, crossing her arms while she thinks about it. Thirty seconds go by, and then, “Alright, I’ve got it.” Smiling evilly, she says, drawing out the words, “I want your bedroom.”

  He backs up a step, eyes wide. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I want your bedroom. It’s way bigger than mine and it has a better view.”

  “That’s a lot more permanent of a request than my wanting your bike for seven days,” he points out, looking angry at the suggestion.

  “Hey, you wanted to raise the stakes, so I did. Take it or leave it,” she says, and we all wait in anticipation of his answer.

  Looking again at both Theo and Mrs. Lyons sitting on the couch with neutral expressions, I ask, “Do they do this often?”

  “It’s a near daily occurrence,” Mrs. Lyons answers with a smirk. “You’ll get used to it eventually. The key is to never let them involve you in it.”

  No worries there. I feel like I’d end up losing a lot more than a motorcycle or a room if I tried to bargain like they do.

  “How long do you think they’ll be?” I ask her, watching the two continue to wager their bets. I kind of have to go to the bathroom, and if this is going to be a while…

  “A while,” she informs me with a sigh.

  “Do you mind if I use your bathroom then?”

  “Of course not. The one downstairs is being renovated right now, so you’ll have to use the one on the second floor. It’s the third door on the right.”

  “Okay, great, thanks.” I leave the room and head up the same set of stairs I had the day Leigha insisted they teach me how to swim. Only this time, I’m allowed to peek behind doors.

  I quickly find the one Mrs. Lyons told me about, surprised at how easy it was in such a large house. I saw myself roaming the halls for a half hour before I came across anything familiar. Once I’m done with my business, I start to head back down the hall, walking past a door with a slight nick in the wood near the handle. I remember it somehow…

  Wait.

  This is Beckham’s door.

  I feel myself walk towards it before I can stop myself, coming to a halt when my hand lifts to knock on it. But that’s when I remember Leigha said he was sick. I really want to thank him for the gift, but perhaps annoying him with my presence when he doesn’t feel well will put us back to square one.

  I debate the pros and cons for an embarrassing amount of time, finally letting my hand connect with the wooden surface. I want to check and make sure he’s alright. And if that means him throwing me out in the end, then so be it. At least I tried.

  I knock three times, but lightly so as not to startle him in case he’s sleeping.

  “Leigha, I told you. I’m not taking any of that herbal crap of yours,” his sleepy voice says from the other side of the door, a cough coming soon after it.

  “Actually, it’s Blaire,” I say, wincing as I do. Even though we called a truce, I still fear that he’ll have the same response to me as before, olive branch book or not. Habits die hard.

  A long pause, and then he says, “I’m sick, don’t come in here.”

  “Do you think I’ll get sick too and that’s why you don’t want me in there, or is it because you just don’t want me to bother you?” I ask, my ear pressed to the door for his response.

  “The first one, I think. I don’t know. My brain isn’t exactly working at full capacity right now.”

  “I’m coming in either way,” I say, giving him a fair warning before I open the door, peeking my head inside. I see him laying on his bed, head buried in his pillows, the curtains closed. He has soft music playing in the background, and when I pick up a few notes, I smile to myself.

  “You have the movie score to Harry Potter?” I ask, trying to keep in a laugh. What a random choice of music.

  “I tell you I’m sick, and you come in anyway. You have terrible survival skills,” he tells me, turning his head away from his pillows to look at me. I’m too busy checking out his room to notice his sarcasm.

  He possibly has the greatest room I’ve ever seen. Not only does he have countless records hanging on his walls, but he also has shelves and shelves of them, piled high to the ceiling like catacombs. But what I’m most shocked to see is that he has an equal number of shelves that line the walls on the opposite side of the room, housing his insane book collection. It spans all the way around his bed, half the room made into a reading corner with a comfy black chair and a nightstand with a small lamp on it. The hardwood floor didn’t escape the random piles of records or book stacks that didn’t fit on the shelves, looking like tiny mountain ranges around the room. With the low light and the enchanting music in the
background, I label it all a beautiful, chaotic, and creative mess. I love it.

  “You just wanted a better look at my cave. That’s why you really came in here, isn’t it?”

  I shrug, walking over to his desk chair and taking a seat. “It’s an added bonus. This is really cool,” I say, waving to his room.

  “My family tells me it looks like something from Hoarders,” he says, eyes closed, his hair doing a good job of hiding most of his face from me. I really want to push it away and reclaim the view.

  “At least you hoard nice stuff. When you start to collect empty toilet paper rolls that have no purpose, then you have a problem.”

  He cracks a smile, only for it to be destroyed by a cough. I frown, handing him the tissue box that’s sitting on the desk next to me. “Here you go.”

  He takes a tissue from me and clutches it to his chest like a football. “Thanks. But seriously, you shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Don’t worry, I almost never get sick. I have a great immune system,” I tell him, ignoring his eye roll. I’m sure he took that to mean I was bragging, but I really wasn’t. “And besides, how else was I going to thank you for my present?”

  His lips smile, eyes closed again. “You could have written me a note.”

  “We’re not doing that anymore.”

  He pouts, looking like a girl trying to do duck lips for Instagram. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to destroy half a notebook any time you want to talk,” I explain, trying not to laugh when he attempts to roll on to his back but fails, flopping into his former position like a beached whale instead.

  “Then we can text. You do text, right?”

  The suggestion comes out of left field for me. I never would have expected he’d actually choose to talk to me one day. But perhaps this is the fever talking. His pale skin and slightly sweaty face are proof that it’s only growing worse. Maybe he should take some of that medicine Leigha wanted him to.