Back in the Burbs

by Flynn, Avery

  “Mallory? Holy s-h-i-t! Is it really you?”

  She looks vaguely familiar, and as I struggle to figure out how I know her, the toddler she’s holding reaches up and yanks on one of her huge hoop earrings. The woman responds with a sound that is half squawk and half yodel as she stops dead and tries to pry his hand off her earring.

  And just like that, I place her. Angela Mancini, cheer captain, senior class secretary, and the girl who could shred an air-guitar solo as if she had hopes of winning a college scholarship for it. She was always brash and loud but overall pretty sweet—which is why I step forward and ask, “Can I do something to help?”

  “It’s okay. I think I’ve got it,” she answers as she finally manages to pry her kid’s hand off the gold hoop before he rips it straight through her ear. “It’s my own fault. I know better than to wear earrings like this around Joey, but Manny gave them to me for my birthday yesterday, and I couldn’t resist.”

  It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Manuel Perez, her high school boyfriend and—I glance down at her ring finger and find a small but sparkly diamond ring and wedding band—apparently current husband.

  She gives me a dazzling smile with even more sparkle than her ring. “It’s been a long time, Mallory! How the h-e-l-l are you?”

  “Um, I’m good, thanks.” It’s a lie, but what else am I supposed to say to a relative stranger in the middle of the Stop & Shop? “How are you?”

  “Oh, you know. We moved to Sutton about five years ago.” She waves an airy hand. “Between Joey and the others, I can barely keep my head above water most days. But honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “The others?” I ask tentatively.

  “Joey has four brothers,” she tells me proudly. “Jimmy, Johnny, Jordy, and Jeremy. They’re a handful.”

  “I can only imagine.” I goggle at her. “You look—”

  “Exhausted?” she interrupts with a laugh.

  “I was thinking really good for having five boys under the age of…?”

  “Ten.” She waves a dismissive hand. “You have no idea.”

  “I really don’t.” Especially since Karl kept putting off my every attempt to have a family, always telling me to wait a little longer, that it wasn’t the right time, that the business needed all our attention.

  The women I knew in the city—wives of Karl’s business associates—told me not to worry, that all men feel like that until they establish themselves financially. But as I eye little Joey Perez gazing up at his mom with adoring eyes, it hits home that it was just one more lie I let myself believe to keep the peace. One more argument I lost without even putting up a fight. Doormat? Yeah, that was me.

  The thought makes my skin crawl. More, it makes me want to run and hide before Angela and the rest of the world realize just how weak I let myself become—so weak that buying a box of Froot Loops feels like a massive rebellion. Fuck me. Tears prick at my eyeballs, and I take a step back, put on my sunglasses, and start to make some excuse about having to go. But before I can come up with anything, Angela grins at me. “What are you doing in Sutton? Your parents still living in Brunswick?”

  “Oh, um, yeah, they’re still there, but, umm, actually, I’m living here now.” I stumble a little over the unfamiliar words. “My aunt died a few months ago, and I just found out she left me her house here.” I ignore the rest of the disaster that is my current life and say instead, “I’ve decided to live in it while I fix it up.”

  “Oh, that sounds fun! Like a mini vacation from your life.” She sighs as Joey starts to clap his hands against her cheeks in a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like Queen’s “We Will Rock You.” “I wouldn’t mind one of those every once in a while.”

  “Well, if I get the place into any kind of decent shape, maybe you can come over for coffee some time.”

  She laughs again, the rich, rollicking sound of a woman who is totally content with her life. “Make it a glass of wine and it’s a deal.” Her face turns serious. “Does the place need a lot of work?”

  A domestic horror film flashes in my mind’s eye. The wild jungle of a front and backyard. The front porch with a tree sculpture embedded in it. The cracked driveway that is threatening to become a mini Grand Canyon. The dying trees that only need one good thunderstorm to finish crashing through the rest of the house. All of it is against HOA regulations. Then, of course, there is the torch fire the inside needs. “Some, yeah.”

  Joey smacks his mother’s cheeks again as he chants, “Go, go, go!”

  “Just a second, baby,” she answers as she leans down and takes both of his hands in hers before dropping a kiss on each one. “Want a cookie?”

  “Coo-kie. Coo-kie!” Joey responds excitedly.

  Angela gives him another kiss—this time on his soft-looking brown curls—before she fumbles through the crossbody bag she has slung over her torso. She comes out with an animal cracker in one hand and a business card in the other.

  “Here,” she says, extending the card to me even as she gives Joey his cookie. “You should call Mikey. He’s Manny’s younger brother and he is h-o-t. He’s also one h-e-l-l of a contractor. Tell him Angie sent you, and he’ll give you a good deal.” She wiggles her brows. “And he’s totally single and available.”

  “Available…?” I break off as her meaning sinks in. “Oh, I don’t think… I mean… I don’t—”

  She laughs again. “I’m sorry. Did I overstep? Manny always tells me I’m doing that. Well, Mikey is attractive and really good with his hands, I’ve heard.” She winks at me. “You know, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  Considering I’m still dealing with the consequences of my last relationship, that would be a hard no. I’m most definitely not “into that sort of thing” or any other things that require me getting naked and vulnerable ever again.

  No thank you.

  “I should probably get going—” I say at the same time Joey finishes his animal cracker and starts screeching, “Go, go, go!” at the top of his lungs.

  “Yeah, me too.” Angie rolls her eyes. “But give Mikey a call. I swear he’s a great contractor.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pen, then scribbles a phone number across the back of the card. “And here’s my number. Call me once you get settled. We’ll do lunch or wine or something—without Joey, I promise.”

  Then, before I can think up a suitable response to her invitation, she gives a quick wave and disappears down the next aisle while Joey continues to scream, “Go, go, go!”

  It was the oddest—and sweetest—encounter I ever had in a grocery store, and I can’t help but grin as I shove Mikey’s card into the back pocket of my jeans. If I’m really lucky, maybe I’ve found a contractor—and a friend—in one quick trip to the Stop & Shop.

  My bodega in the village didn’t have that. Maybe big suburban grocery stores really do have everything after all. Or you know, at least really good deals on two-ply and garbage bags—both of which are necessities as I gird my loins for a trip back to Aunt Maggie’s in her giant deathtrap Caddy.

  I just pray my obnoxious neighbor will be nowhere in sight when I have to wrestle a metric ton of Hefty garbage bags into the house.

  I need another macchiato if there is even a possibility of seeing him again.

  Chapter Eight

  I call Mikey as soon as I get back behind Jimi’s steering wheel. It goes straight to voicemail, one of those joke ones where the person makes it seem like they’re answering. No matter what Angela said, I’m way too old to hit that—even at my current low point, I have more pride than that.

  Still, I leave a message. Not because I’m so anxious to see the h-o-t contractor Angela said was available but because I could use the good deal she mentioned. Bonus point, it’s one more thing I can cross off today’s to-do list.

  I put Jimi in reverse and slowly back out of the park
ing spot, then head to Aunt Maggie’s, still reveling in the joy of actually having accomplished something today.

  Normally, I’m not a big list person, but I have to admit that right now, there’s something really satisfying about crossing through number one—get trash bags. If I can also cross through number two, find a contractor, then the day will have a good shot at being a win, despite its inauspicious beginnings.

  I could really, really use a win right now.

  I decide to bite the bullet and scribble one more item on my to-do list: find a job. And immediately wish I hadn’t as panic squeezes my chest like a vise. I take a deep breath simply to prove to myself that I can and blow it out slowly—just like all those mindful apps tell you to. It doesn’t work. Big surprise. Great, now I have the tightness in my chest and feel like a loser—as if I need the help.

  Mindfulness is well and good for most things, but I’m pretty sure expecting it to take care of a cheating ex, a broken-down house, a nearly empty bank account, and a lack of job prospects is asking a little much of anything but a fairy godmother. I mean, I’m all for mind over matter, but sometimes the cold hard truth is the cold hard truth. And right now, there isn’t enough positive thinking or relaxation techniques in the universe to take away my cold hard truth.

  Especially since my mindfulness app is charging me a monthly fee.

  And now there’s one more thing to add to my to-do list—cancel my mindfulness app. And while I’m logged into my autopay subscriptions, I might as well say goodbye to ad-free Hulu.

  I take a big sip of my second venti caramel macchiato of the day—I prefer to drink my anxiety, thank you very much—and white knuckle the steering wheel for the traffic-filled drive home.

  It isn’t that I’m not used to traffic—Manhattan has a lot of it, obviously—but it’s been a long time since I had to drive myself in it. There really is something to be said for public transportation.

  By the time I get home, my nerves are frazzled—thanks only to the traffic and definitely not the fact that enough caffeine is jangling around in my system to light up Times Square.

  After a prolonged fight with Aunt Maggie’s extremely finicky garage opener—moving it waaaaaaay up the list of things to get fixed in this place—I pop the trunk and start carrying groceries into the house. I’m on my third trip of just trash bags alone when a red pickup truck pulls into the driveway.

  Yeah, someone has the wrong house—the kind of someone who climbs out of his truck with big dick energy and the sexy swagger to back it up. Curly dark hair frames high cheekbones and twinkling brown eyes. Broad shoulders, beefy arms, and very, very large work boots complete the picture. And it’s a great picture. If only he weren’t also about seven or eight years younger than me.

  “Can I help you?” I ask when that long-legged gait finally brings him to a stop right next to me.

  “I’m Miguel,” he says with a slow grin that might have curled my toes if such a thing were even possible anymore.

  When I continue to stare at him blankly, he raises a brow. “Miguel Perez, Manny’s brother? Angela—”

  “Oh!” I exclaim as it hits me—good Lord, I’m extra slow today, even for me. “You’re Mikey!”

  He grins. “Yeah, everyone calls me that.” Then he holds out a hand for me to shake. “Nice to meet you, Mallory.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.” I shake his hand and reach for another few bags of groceries. “Talk about fast service, considering I only called you about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Yeah, but Angie texted me as soon as she ran into you in the grocery store and told me to expect your call. And when I got your voicemail, I realized your house was just around the corner from where I’m working now, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to drop by and get a look at what you’re dealing with.”

  He takes a couple of steps back and looks the house up and down like a rubbernecker eyeballing a traffic accident before letting out a long, low whistle. “Looks like the answer is a lot.”

  My stomach drops another three stories down closer to the earth’s core, even though I already know the place is a mess. “That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”

  “I know.” He gives me a sympathetic look as he grabs the last few sacks of groceries and follows me into the house. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “The garage door opener,” I answer. “Something is really wrong with it, and I would love to have it replaced. I know, it doesn’t seem like a big thing, but I figured it was low-hanging fruit, and I really need a win here. Other than that…” I trail off as I sweep my hands outward, encompassing, well, everything in sight. “Have at it. Though I do have one request.”

  “And that is?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and I watch as he swipes open some kind of construction app.

  “Can you work up two separate bids? One for outside and one for inside? I’ve got to get the outside up to HOA standards and, depending on how much that costs, that may be all I can afford to do right now.”

  “Gotcha.” He gives me a grin that shows off his dazzling white teeth to his advantage. I smile back, even as I wonder vaguely how many women have fallen for that aw-shucks smile before.

  Probably a lot, though it does nothing for me except make me wonder who his dentist is. I’m almost due for my next cleaning.

  Miguel—excuse me, Mikey—starts making the rounds outside while I put my groceries away. Then, when he still hasn’t come in, I eat a whole snack pack of Oreos (for medicinal purposes and science and because I just wanted to and Karl can’t say shit about it) out of the Calories canister. They are a little stale, but those who are stress-eating out of fear of their construction bill can’t be choosy.

  He still hasn’t come in by the time I swallow the last Oreo, already giving a lusty look at the last two packs in the canister. They really are the food of the gods, and two more packs wouldn’t kill anybody. But considering how my day is going, I’m guessing I’ll need them later, so I grab the box of trash bags instead. While Mikey comes in and starts assessing the interior, I spend the rest of what feels like an eternity cleaning out the kitchen cabinets, most of which are filled with knickknacks that belong anywhere but in the silverware drawer or mug cabinet.

  I’m just about to start on the very scary cabinet under the sink when Mikey finally walks back into the kitchen.

  “So, what’s the damage?” I ask, trying to be flippant and fun instead of the worried and slightly nauseous I really am.

  Then I get a look at his face.

  Thank you, baby Jesus, for giving me the strength to hold out on the rest of the Oreos until now. I’m gonna need them.

  Mikey looks a lot grimmer than he was an hour ago, and a bowling ball settles in my stomach even before he answers.

  “Do you want the bad news or the worse news?”

  Chapter Nine

  “Neither.” I lean back against my aunt’s black galaxy granite countertop and let out a go-ahead-and-break-my-heart sigh.

  “Yeah.” He grimaces—no doubt as a show of support before bringing down the hammer. “That’s what I figured.”

  Silence stretches between us as I wait for him to break the bad news, and he waits for…I don’t know…his own reality show on HGTV where he’s the anti–Property Brothers, giving only awful prognostications of construction hell? I shake my head and blurt, “Give me the worse news first.”

  I figure that way, the bad news won’t seem so bad—or at least, that’s what I’m hoping, praying, willing to sacrifice a baker’s dozen virgins under a full moon to make come true.

  He shoves his fingers through his hair and contemplates the weird stain on the granite. “Inside or outside?”

  Just shank me in the eye already.

  “You mean there’s worse news in both areas?” Tears of frustration start gathering like vultures over roadkill, but I blink them all back with steely det
ermination. I won’t cry. I will not do it.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot on old houses like this.” He gives me a hangdog look that comes off as totally sincere, which somehow makes it worse. Then he rips off the Band-Aid and starts reading the list of disasters he wrote down on his phone. “The supports on the front porch are almost completely destroyed by the massive tree currently squatting there. Tree roots are what’s cracking the walkway up to the porch, so I won’t be able to lay new cement until the dead tree still standing is taken care of. On the plus side, once you do that, we can also fix that nasty driveway crack before it gets any worse.”

  I already feel my bank account gasping for air, and it isn’t the only one.

  “Is that it?” I ask when I can finally force words out of my too-tight throat.

  He gives me a pitying look. “The garage door is warped, which is why you found it tricky to open with the remote. You might be tempted to get away with just keeping it closed, but I’m betting the HOA is going to ding you on it if they haven’t already. So that really does need to be replaced sooner rather than later. On the plus side, fixing the door should take care of your problems with the opener, so we won’t have to replace that.”

  Little victories. “How much is a garage door?”

  “To match the ones in this neighborhood?” He winces. “About twenty-two hundred dollars.”

  What in the hell is it made of? Gold?

  “What if I don’t care about matching them?” Or can’t afford to?

  “Gotta match them. H—”

  “OA regulations.” I barely resist the urge to bang my head against the granite—at this point that might be just plain old mercy. Truthfully, though, the only thing stopping me isn’t manners—it’s fear of a concussion. I sure as hell can’t afford these repairs and an emergency room bill right now. “Yeah, I get it.”

  “The fence in the backyard needs to be replaced, and I have no idea what kind of magic is keeping that chicken coop out back standing, but that’ll have to be demolished, in keeping with the HOA regs. You also need to rebuild the flower boxes out front—it should only be six or seven hundred dollars to do all of them, though. And a lot less if you do them yourself.”