by Flynn, Avery
My mouth tastes like I spent the night licking rusty scissors and just about every single one of the splinters on the dare-not-walk-on-it front porch was jabbed into my eyes. The single unharmed brain cell in my head is flipping me off, and the bowling ball of bile in my stomach is daring me to sit up and see what happened.
I slam the heels of my hands over my eyes and whimper a little even as I burrow deeper under the covers. I knew I should have pinned a sheet over that window last night, but by the time I got back upstairs, I was too drunk and too tired to hunt down the pushpins I needed to do it.
And that’s why I’m paying the price this morning. Well, that and the pounding hangover that feels like someone is taking a claw hammer to my right eye.
Fun times.
I roll out of bed slowly—like dinosaur-stuck-in-tar-pits slowly—and send up a quick prayer of thanks to whoever is the patron saint of alcohol that my stomach clenches but doesn’t revolt. Then again, it isn’t like there’s anything in there, as the dinner sandwich I planned to eat is still in the fridge. Or at least, I think it is. Everything after helping my neighbor get off on my lawn is a little bit of a blur.
No! Wait!
I helped him get off my lawn, not get off on my lawn. There is a difference, even if my brain can barely differentiate between the two at the moment.
After stumbling to the bathroom, I make the awful mistake of looking straight into the mirror. Jay-sus. I definitely look as bad as I feel—maybe even worse, considering the never-runs mascara has sprinted away from my eyelids—so I force myself into the shower. I’m not up for the whole serum/moisturizer/eye-cream circus today, so once I’ve dried off, I do a quick teeth-brushing/topknot combo and grab the first clothes I see.
I’m soooooo tempted to go back to bed, but I have a to-do list that keeps growing exponentially, and I need to get on it. Besides, I’m not starting the second day of the rest of my life hiding under the covers, no matter how hungover I am.
Once I sidestep down the stairs and get to the kitchen, I take two Tylenol and brew the strongest pot of coffee I can stomach. Three cups of a-spoon-would-stand-straight-up-in-it and one bowl of Froot Loops later, and I’m ready to face the world.
And by world, I mean the rest of the kitchen cabinets as well as the bookshelves packed full of paperback romances, biographies of musicians, and at least one copy of every single Nora Roberts and JD Robb book ever published in any language in the family room.
I work through it methodically. One trash-bag pile for the garage sale I hope to have, though I’m sure the HOA will be all up in arms about that; one trash-bag pile for donation; and one trash-bag pile for the landfill.
I’m about halfway through my third box of trash bags—not to mention an entire cabinet devoted to takeout chopsticks, silverware, and condiments—when I decide that Mikey was right. I need a dumpster. There’s no way a simple trash collection can deal with all of this.
I leave everything where it is, pausing in my work just long enough to wash my hands and get a second pot of coffee brewing, and then I chase down his card in my purse. I make the call, expecting it to go straight to voicemail like it did yesterday, but instead Mikey picks up on the second ring.
“This is Mikey.” His voice is warm and deep.
“Hi! This is Mallory Martin Bach, soon to be just Martin again. You came by my aunt’s house yesterday and—”
“I know who you are, Mallory.” Now he just sounds amused. “How are you doing today?”
“I’m getting by.” Yeah, there is no way I’m telling him I got sloppy drunk after seeing his estimate. That is not the way to conduct a business meeting. “How are you?”
“Better now that you’ve called.”
I have no clue how to respond to that. Is he flirting with me? It sounded like he was flirting, but it’s been so long since anyone did that, I can’t be sure. I decide to take the safe route and assume that he wasn’t—besides, it isn’t like I want to flirt back.
“Well, don’t get too excited.” My cheeks explode with heat when he lets out a startled laugh. “I mean, about the bid.” Way to go, Mallory. You are sooooooo smooth. Like crunchy peanut butter mixed with driveway gravel. “It turns out the only thing I know for sure I can afford today is the dumpster. I definitely want the dumpster.”
“Things are that bad, huh?” He sounds significantly more sympathetic than a contractor should, and I’m not sure how I feel about that, to be honest. It’s hard enough dealing with the situation I’m in all by myself. The last thing I want or need is someone else to see how pathetic I am right now.
I can handle a lot of things—Karl being a total dick for one. Finding out that I failed my aunt for two. I can even handle the recriminations from my parents and their plots for me to reconcile with Karl. However, the one thing I can’t take right now is someone feeling sorry for me. Just the idea makes me feel a hundred times more pathetic than I already do.
“The quote is okay,” I say. “But I need to look at the bid against the most pressing HOA violations. There’s no point in doing anything if they levy fines or sue me, as then I won’t have enough money to finish the project.”
Judging by the tone of the HOA letters my aunt received—letters I spent the first half a pot of coffee this morning sorting through—they are serious as a heart attack that this will be their next step. Turns out the HOA has been on her butt for the last year, everything from length-of-grass violations to four separate notices about her periwinkle shutters. And they are done waiting for the repairs.
Not for the first time, I wonder why she decided to leave this house to me. She might not have known before she died that I wouldn’t be able to afford it, but surely she had to have known that I would get stuck with all the HOA violations and all the mess.
I’m beginning to think I might not have been her favorite person after all, no matter what she used to say.
“I understand,” Mikey says. “But I’ve got an idea.”
“What’s that?” I ask warily. The last time a man told me he had an idea, it ended with a wedding ring on my finger and years of my soul and self-esteem being crushed.
“How about I take you to lunch tomorrow? We can talk about the bid, maybe see what absolutely has to be done immediately. We can figure out what we can start with, besides the dumpster, I mean, and a budget you can live with. And of course, talk about a possible insurance claim.”
“That’s a really nice offer.” Not a lie. “But the truth is, I shouldn’t waste your time. This is my problem, and I think I can sort through it all with the detailed bid you gave me.”
“Let me worry about my time,” he says with such confidence, I just want to close my eyes and believe. “I know you’re in a pinch, and I’d love to do what I can to help you out.”
Pull it back, Mallory! Do not fall for the I’ll-take-care-of-you bullshit.
“Why would you want to do that?”
Maybe it’s because up until now I spent most of my time around Karl and the people from his law firm, but my experience has been that people don’t go out of their way to help you unless there’s something in it for them.
He chuckles. “Because I like you, Mallory. So what do you say, tomorrow at Wilma’s Diner? It’s on Bay Drive. I can send you a link—”
“I know where it is,” I say.
An awkward silence ensues as I wait for him to say something else and apparently he waits for me to do the same thing. I don’t know what to say, though—this is new territory for me. Someone doing something nice just because? Trust issues? Me? Only a smidgen the size of the Grand Canyon.
Eventually, Mikey must get tired of waiting on me to speak, because he clears his throat. “So tomorrow at noon? Is it a date? Tell you what, I can even pick you up.”
“Sure,” I say, crossing my fingers in hopes that this isn’t a bad decision. “I’ll see you then.”
“Great! And don’t sweat the bid today. I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out. We can tackle things in small chunks. I promise.”
I’m not nearly as certain as he is—especially since I now need to scrape together enough money to hire a cutthroat divorce attorney to go after Karl. I don’t say that, though, not when Mikey is so obviously going out of his way to be nice.
“Thanks so much for all your help with this. I appreciate it.”
We say our goodbyes, and just as I’m getting ready to hang up, Mikey adds, “I’m really looking forward to lunch tomorrow.”
“Me too,” I answer absently, my mind already moving on to the next task on my to-do list—which is to find a place to store all the bags in the trash-it pile until the dumpster comes through.
It isn’t until after I’ve already hung up that Mikey’s words hit me in between musings about whether the garage or the back porch would be better to store all the going-to-the-dump bags I’m creating.
But then realization smacks me like a two-by-four, or a wine bottle still half full of merlot, right between the eyes.
Tomorrow at noon? Is it a date?
Because I like you, Mallory.
I’m really looking forward to lunch tomorrow.
Holy shit.
Did I just agree to go on a date with my contractor?
Chapter Thirteen
I didn’t, right?
I mean, yeah, he was flirting a little, but he’s obviously younger than I am. And obviously hotter than I am. Plus, he knows that I’m broke and living in a junk pile. What exactly screams sexy about that?
I just stand in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by trash bags, with my mouth hanging open and my brain spinning out into pure what-the-fuck panic mode.
How? How did this even happen? One second I was thinking about trash—definitely not a sexy subject—and the next I became a cougar.
I suck in a breath.
I don’t even have anything to wear on a date—and if I did, I don’t actually want to go on a date. I definitely don’t want to go on a date with a younger, gorgeous, smooth-talking contractor who looks like he could strip my panties off as easily as he could strip a piece of wood. Maybe even more easily…
And that’s when I realize I need to hand in my ovaries if that whole thought is a negative.
I pour myself a glass of orange juice and contemplate my dead-as-a-doornail libido. Why am I really upset about an innocent lunch date? If Mikey did suggest stripping my panties off, I should climb him like a tree, right? I sigh. I’m not the least bit interested.
There’s no denying he is h-o-t as hell. And he seems actually nice, too. Is that it? Did Karl break me from finding nice guys attractive?
I dredge up a mental image of my asshole neighbor from last night, my hands brushing against his hard stomach as I unbuckled his belt, and I get a little dizzy.
I sink down into a kitchen chair and plonk my head on the breakfast table. Fuck. I’m attracted to assholes.
In addition to all my new baggage—which is enough for a year-long cruise around the world all by itself—only dickheads do it for me now. Of all the things my failed marriage has left me with, this is by far the cruelest.
And just like that, I sit up and square my shoulders. My ovaries just need an exorcism, that’s all.
I’m going to go on a lunch date with a sexy young contractor. Let him pull out my chair. Make me laugh. Offer me compliments. And if eventually he wants to show me his hammer—I’m going to say yes, please. Pound it harder.
I’m going to do absolutely anything it takes to make Satan get behind me and fucking stay there, because no way am I ever going to end up married to a selfish prick again. I’m going to reclaim my vagina for the side of good, not evil.
I toast the air with my orange juice and giggle. Watch Mikey just want to discuss my home improvements of the nonsexual kind…
Well, either way, that’s tomorrow, and today I need to get busy reclaiming the kitchen for eating.
Three hours later, I finally finish the drawers—who knew a person could hang on to that many takeout menus and bottle caps?—and decide to stop to get something to eat. It’s only eleven or so, but between the hangover and the panic attack, food has been the last thing on my mind this morning.
I toss together a cheese-and-fruit plate—being single means I can eat whatever I want for lunch, and I’m coming to realize the freedom is a glorious thing—when my phone rings. My stomach goes south. The only people who call me these days are my parents, Karl, and Mikey. Right now, I’m not sure who I want to talk to less.
But when I reach over and snag my phone off the counter, it flashes Angela’s name. I texted her yesterday to thank her for recommending Mikey to me, but I didn’t expect to hear back from her—especially since my business isn’t turning out to be nearly as impressive as I was sure she had hoped for her brother-in-law.
Still, maybe Mikey had an epiphany and tagged her to cancel our lunch date, which might be why I sound a little too hyper when I answer the phone. “Hi!”
Angela gives a startled little laugh. “Hi, Mallory. How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks. How are you?” I definitely want to sound upbeat if she’s calling to break my date with Mikey. The last thing I want is for her to feel sorry for me and decide to force him to go anyway.
“I’m good! I’m calling because tonight is the night my bestie is having a Stella and Dot party, and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me?”
Stella & Dot? Am I supposed to know what that means? “Stella and Dot?” I repeat.
“Oh, do they not have S and D in the city?” Angela sounds surprised. “Now you have to come! They make the most gorgeous jewelry.”
That’s when it hits me. It’s a Tupperware party except shiny and pretty. In the city, I went to gallery shows, the Met, jogs in Central Park. Now I’m invited to a home jewelry party. Is there anything more suburban than that?
Is there anything snobbier than you right now?
Fuck.
Inner me is right. It’s hard to knock off some of the Manhattan snottiness, but I of all people know what it’s like to have people judge me and find me lacking. That’s it. I might be back in the burbs, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to act like some kind of city-dwelling snob who never crosses the GW Bridge going west unless forced.
“That would be a totally new experience for me,” I say.
“Exactly. A fun one but not as much as dating a hammer-hauling h-u-n-k,” she says with a loud laugh. “Just say yes, you’ll come to look at jewelry, eat apps, and drink some wine.”
Okay, the idea of more wine makes me gag a little, but I say yes anyway and hang up the phone in a kind of daze. I started the conversation with Angela convinced she was going to deliver the news that Mikey wanted to break his date with me. Instead, she doubled down, and now I have a friend date with her tonight and a real date with him tomorrow. I have no idea how I feel about this beyond slightly queasy.
It’s been years since I’ve had any real female friendships. Not because I didn’t want them—in fact, I thought I had them—but when the divorce happened, I realized quickly that my friends were all part of couples who were our friends. And when push came to shove, business won out and every single one of them chose Karl.
Ten years of friendship, in some cases, gone in a blink. Is it any surprise that I figure jumping back into that boat again will end up with me chin-deep in water and treading until my legs give out?
Except Angela isn’t Karl’s friend. She has no ulterior motive.
I know it’s true. Angela is just a really nice girl I used to know who turned into a really nice woman—one who showed up exactly when I could use her most.
Maybe tonight is exactly what I need—sans the push to buy sparkly things, but whatever. Surely I can find a p
air of twenty-dollar earrings at this party that won’t totally blow my budget.
Besides, it’s a small price to pay for the chance to make a friend. Not to mention I could use the time to subtly try to figure out if I should wear my granny panties or not on my date with Mikey tomorrow.
Chapter Fourteen
A horn honks outside my house at exactly six forty-five—apparently Angela believes in Goldfish crackers always in her purse, laughing loud and proud, and arriving right on the dot for friend dates. I, on the other hand, have been running fifteen minutes late ever since I finally looked up from sorting through piles of my aunt’s old photographs and had an oh-shit moment.
Honestly, though, the mad dash to get the cobwebs out of my hair and slap on my face was worth it to get a look at those photos. My favorite is one of Aunt Maggie walking across a tightrope at a traveling circus. It isn’t a high-wire or anything—just a tightrope the circus put up between two poles, about two feet off the ground, so that audience members could try their hand at doing what the acrobats did, at the bargain-basement price of one dollar per try, if the sign in the picture is to be believed.
My aunt was probably in her late twenties—if her seventies hair and psychedelic bell-bottoms are any indication—and she was about halfway across the tightrope and obviously wobbling. But she had her head tossed back and was laughing at the same time, her eyes and smile so bright that I couldn’t help grinning myself despite the years and distance between me and when the photo was taken.
Looking at that photo was like getting a peek at pure, undistilled happiness—and it rubbed off on me. At least until I realize that what I really want is to be my aunt—sans the hoarding. I want to live my life for me, not for Karl. Not for my parents. And not for some damn HOA who hates periwinkle shutters. They make me happy every time I see them—even if they do hang a bit cockeyed.
