Back in the Burbs

by Flynn, Avery

  I laugh, because it’s hard not to. He’s goofy, sure, but also super charming in that funny-friend-of-your-brother’s way. In other words, not my kind of charming. At least until the exorcism is complete.

  “I have nothing against mint chocolate chip, I swear,” I say with a flirty little flip of my hair. “We’re in the clear.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he says, and the look in his eyes becomes more intense than flirtatious.

  It makes my heart catch in my throat—though not in any of the good ways you’d expect. More in a nervous, I’m-not-sure-I-want-to-do-this way. Or more, in a very-nervous, I’m-pretty-sure-I-don’t-want-to-do-this way.

  “You know I’m not divorced yet, right?” The words come out of their own volition, but when Mikey sits back, the intensity fading from his eyes, I can’t say that I’m sorry.

  “I figured,” he says after several long, quiet seconds. “But divorces take time, and he’s obviously not in the picture anymore.”

  “He’s not.” I exhale a deep breath. “But it’s been a pretty brutal divorce—don’t worry; I’m not going to bore you with any of the gory details—but I just felt like I should warn you.”

  He tilts his head like a sweet, adorable Lab puppy. “Warn me that you’re not divorced yet?”

  “Warn you that I’m not looking for anything yet—or more likely, ever. I’m pretty sure that part of me died somewhere between filing for divorce and negotiating for who gets to keep what.” Or in my case, who gets to keep everything and who gets to keep nothing.

  Not that I’m going to let that stand anymore—I am hiring a divorce attorney even if I need to sell all my plasma, and most of my blood, to do it. God knows, with the rates divorce attorneys charge per hour, one meeting would cost me nearly every drop of red blood cells I have.

  “Yeah, well, you have to start somewhere, right?” This time, he is a lot less subtle when he reaches out and takes my hand in his, turning it palm-up so he can run a finger over the inside of my wrist.

  I shudder involuntarily, and he winks at me. “See, that part of you is definitely not dead.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t a good shudder or that I reacted that way because it’s the same spot Karl used to touch me to signal he was horny. Some things dates don’t need to know, especially not earnest dates who are doing their best to be nice.

  So instead, I just shrug and murmur, “Maybe not.”

  The waitress comes to take our order before he can say any more. I order a milkshake and a cheeseburger. Mikey one-ups me by getting an order of fries to go with his burger and shake.

  After the waitress leaves, he leans back on his side of the booth and teases, “You know, you’re not the only one who had a history before we met.”

  “Oh yeah?” I lean forward, propping my forearms on the table. “Do tell.”

  “I’ve actually taken two women here for a first date. The first was Mary Katherine. She was my seventh-grade crush, and I was completely gaga over her curly blond hair and bright green eyes.”

  “I bet. Mary Katherine sounds like a looker.”

  “Oh, she was,” he says, voice rich with amusement. “Absolutely.”

  “So how’d it go?”

  He shakes his head, a mock frown on his face. “The first time, I crashed and burned. She broke my thirteen-year-old heart into a million pieces.”

  “That sucks,” I say, trying not to giggle. “And the second time?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” He gives me a cocky grin. “But it’s looking good so far.”

  And that’s it. I crack up. I just absolutely, positively crack up. Because— “Did you just Top Gun me?”

  His grin grows wider, and the gleam in his eyes gets a little bit more wicked. “Maybe I did. Did it work?”

  “I don’t know.” I sit back as the waitress delivers our food. “But so far, it’s not looking terrible.”

  “I’ll take that,” he says, dipping one of his fries in ketchup.

  I pick up my burger and dig in. Mikey is way too nice of a guy for his own good. Which is probably why I say yes to a second date—dinner this time—when he drives me back to my house and insists on walking me to my garage door.

  This is the right move. I don’t want to like assholes anymore. Been there, done that, and do not want the T-shirt or anything else, for that matter. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that not-an-asshole Mikey is hot and built and younger than me.

  Even if he does make me crack up all over again when he climbs back in his truck after dropping me off, then starts singing “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feelin’” to me through his open window—except he changes the words so that it’s more like, “You’ve Found that Lovin’ Feelin’.”

  A couple of guys walking their dogs nearby join in—just like in Top Gun—and I am blushing and grinning like my teenage self by the time I finally walk inside.

  My vaginal exorcism is off to an amazing start.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Am I still grinning a few hours later as the sun starts to set? I am, and I kinda like it, even if my cheeks are gonna be sore tomorrow.

  No doubt my back is going to be aching, too, I figure, as I grab another one of the copious trash bags I have to haul to the curb, since tomorrow is trash day. While there is a part of me that’s tempted to wait for the dumpster, I can still hear Nick’s voice telling me it might be a whole month before I get approval. I am not okay with leaving them around the house or backyard until then—not when I still have so many more rooms and closets and trunks and boxes to clean out.

  Fuck my life.

  Sometime around trip twelve or thirteen—when I’m hot, sweaty, and red-faced—Nick pulls into his driveway again, except this time he actually parks in the garage. Home for the night, apparently, with a life about as exciting as mine.

  I head up the driveway at as fast of a clip as my exhausted body can manage—no one needs to see me like this, least of all one of the most attractive (even if he is one of the grumpiest) men I’ve ever met. I know appearances aren’t everything, but right now I look like I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. Very wet, and not in a good way.

  “Mallory!”

  I freeze right there on the biggest crack in the driveway as Nick yells my name a second time. Then reality hits that he wants to talk to me—looking like this—and I take off up the driveway at twice the speed. Almost to the door, almost to the door, almost—

  “Mallory! I know you hear me!” Nick’s voice rings with exasperation at the same time as his hand brushes my elbow. “What’s going on?”

  A zing works its way up my arm from where he touched me. “Oh, Nick!” I press a hand to my heart and lie my ass off. “You scared me! I didn’t know you were there.”

  Also, how in the fuck did he move so fast? Is his mom a vampire?

  The look he gives me says bullshit, and I brace myself for him to call me out on my lie. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he takes a step back, and I realize two things. One, he looks really, really good in his black pinstripe suit—like, supermodel good. He must have changed into a different hot-guy suit after I saw him this afternoon. And for the first time in a very long time, I’m tempted to reach up and brush an errant lock of hair off a man’s forehead.

  I resist, partly because I don’t want to explain to Nick why I’m petting back his hair and partly because there is no way I am going to let myself touch him in any manner. Not Nick, with his growly ways, surly attitude, and ass that defies description but makes me weak in the damn knees.

  The second thing I realize, once I shake off whatever bizarre attack of formerly suppressed hormones almost crippled me just then, is that he’s carrying a folder with my name on it.

  “What’s that?” I jerk my chin toward the folder with the same wariness I reserve for snakes and ex-husbands, which are basically the same thing.
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  “It’s just a folder with the forms you need to fill out for the dumpster.” He shrugs off my concern as if it doesn’t matter, as if something with my name on it isn’t my business. “Why?”

  I shrink a little bit inside myself. “No reason, I just—”

  Damn, why is it so easy to fall into old habits?

  “Just what?” he asks when I don’t finish my sentence.

  “I don’t have the best luck with folders.” To put it very mildly. “Especially not when they’re handed to me by a good-looking man in a suit.”

  That was pretty much how Karl had told me every ounce of bad news in our marriage.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For a second, Nick looks flummoxed. But then his face and his rigid posture relax, and he grins—really grins—for the first time since I met him. And holy cow, it is blinding in the best, most amazing way.

  “So you think I’m good-looking?” he asks, and I roll my eyes. Hard. Why do gorgeous people always act surprised when someone notices their stellar gene pool?

  “How’d you get the forms so fast? Were they already in the HOA Binder from Hell?” I groan. Leave it to me to ask for something that is right in front of my face.

  “No, they weren’t, but—” A sheepish look steals onto his face as he continues. “I’m on the board.”

  I’m not even remotely surprised. It definitely is one of those only-assholes-need-apply boards.

  Not that I care. I’m just a homeowner who suddenly has the brilliant idea to bribe the HOA-whisperer-slash-board-member standing in front of me with a couple of glasses of one of Aunt Maggie’s fancy French wines. It’s shady as hell, sure, but it doesn’t mean anything else. It isn’t like I’m hitting on him, for God’s sake. I’m just loosening him up a little and greasing the wheels to get my dumpster request approved so I can avoid any more citations.

  My invitation has nothing to do with his knee-weakening smile and suddenly warm brown eyes and everything to do with avoiding more fees I can’t afford.

  Or at least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

  “I’m opening a bottle of wine.” I start back to the house. “You coming?” I toss over my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” he says with what sounds suspiciously like a deep, sexy chuckle. “I’m coming.”

  “So what has you all dressed up today?” I ask as he walks with me through the garage and into my kitchen. “I like your tie, by the way.”

  He glances down at his abstract, color-blocked tie in all different shades of blue and green like he’s never seen it before. “Thanks. And I was in court.”

  “In court?” Earth’s core? Meet my stomach. Stomach? Welcome to your new home. “You’re an attorney?”

  It comes out sounding like an accusation, but I can’t help it. After being married to Karl for ten years, it feels like it should be an accusation. More, it feels like the mother of all red flags against Nick.

  “I am,” he answers warily. “A tax attorney, which means I spend most of my days in meetings and conference calls instead of actually in court, but today was one of the rare days. Why? Do you have something against my profession, too?”

  “No, it’s just—” I break off, because what am I going to say? My ex is an attorney, and he soured me on lawyers for good? I mean, I’d sound absurd, especially since this guy isn’t exactly sending out the I-think-you’re-sexy-too vibes. “Never mind.” I tell myself I’m overreacting and force a smile I’m far from feeling. “What kind of wine do you like? White or red?”

  Mercifully, he drops it. “Whatever you’ve got going.”

  I gesture for him to sit down at my aunt’s surprisingly elegant patio table outside the sliding glass doors. “The house is still a disaster, so I thought we could sit out there, if you don’t mind? It’s a nice evening.”

  “Outside is great,” he says, almost sounding like he means it.

  “Awesome. I’ll get the wine and meet you there.” I pause. “Thanks, by the way. I appreciated the help earlier.”

  He nods, pulls open the sliding glass door, and steps outside. I flip on the patio light—it’s nearly dusk, and I don’t know how long the forms in that folder, and the wine drinking, will take. Then I rush to my room, splash water on my heated face, and wash off the remnants of my melting makeup in about one minute flat.

  I don’t bother changing, as the tank top and shorts I’m already wearing are light and cool, if not fancy; then I race back down to the kitchen. Once there, I put together a very quick cheese-and-fruit plate and grab a bottle of Argentinian Malbec from the stash I found in the hall closet. I pause just long enough to rinse two glasses from the still-inundated-with-clutter bar area, then swoop back outside in less than six minutes flat.

  Now that should be an Olympic sport.

  “Want to do the honors?” I extend the bottle opener to him.

  “Of course.” He stands up to take it, then reaches for the cheese tray. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

  I throw him a sassy grin in an effort to disguise the discomfort I still feel over his chosen profession. “Sure I did. How else can I bribe you into accepting my dumpster request?”

  “You don’t have to bribe me,” he says, all stiff and uptight again. “You just have to fill out the paperwork correctly—” His gaze lands on my face, and he breaks off mid-word. “You were joking.”

  “Only a little bit.” I hand him the bottle of wine before setting the two glasses on the table between us and taking the seat opposite him.

  He glances down at the label and smiles. “This was one of Maggie’s favorites.”

  “We discovered it together in a little restaurant in the Village, but how did you know that?”

  He gives an uncomfortable shrug. “She must have mentioned it sometime.”

  “And you remembered? From a passing conversation?” I narrow my gaze and look at him a little closer. “I don’t think so.”

  Nick studies me for a few seconds, like he’s trying to figure out what he wants to say. Just like an attorney, a little voice in the back of my head warns.

  Or a guy who knows he said too much.

  Neither is a particularly comforting thought, and I’m getting more and more upset, even though a part of me knows it’s ridiculous. Who cares how he knows about Aunt Maggie’s wine tastes? It isn’t like it matters.

  But it does matter. It matters to me that he can’t answer a simple question. If that’s the case, then I don’t want him here drinking my wine, eating my cheese, or helping me with my goddamn dumpster request.

  Something of what I’m feeling must be showing on my face, because Nick runs a resigned hand through his perfectly coiffed hair before he admits, “Maggie and I were friends.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I don’t know why, but that was the last thing I expected him to say. Maybe it’s because Karl would have never gone out of his way to befriend an eccentric old lady. Hell, Karl would have never befriended an eccentric old lady even if she was in his way.

  “We’d have dinner together once or twice a week.”

  For a second, his words make so little sense that I’m convinced he’s speaking a foreign language. When they finally do sink in, I’m stunned.

  “Wait a minute. You had dinner here twice a week?”

  I think about the barely contained mess of the first floor versus the ruthless organization of his place and can’t help but wonder how that could even be possible.

  “Mostly we ate at my place,” he says with a sad smile. “But Maggie always brought the wine and the dessert. Her brownies were the best.”

  “They were the best.” The salted-caramel drizzle she always put on them was amazing. “And so was her lemon cake.”

  “God, yes.” He lets out a lusty sigh that makes me shift in my seat. “I used to eat her lemon cake for breakfast for the next two or three days a
fter she would make it. For lunch, too, sometimes.”

  Something about that admission makes him…more human. He seems to do everything exactly the right way according to the powers that be, but the fact that he ate cake for breakfast and lunch…I don’t know. I guess it makes him feel more real in all the best ways.

  I move over to the chair next to him and pour some of the now-open bottle of wine into both our glasses.

  “You ever going to tell me why you were such a dick when we first met?” I ask. I really want to know, as I realize my first impression of him was very far from the person I’m getting to know.

  He holds my gaze. “Why didn’t you ever visit her, Mallory? You see now she had mental-health concerns. No one ever visited.”

  I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. Boy, he doesn’t mess around, does he? I know I should be upset at the accusation, but honestly, I love the directness. I wonder, if Karl had been this direct, if I’d have risen to the challenge instead of constantly trying to anticipate how he was feeling, what he needed.

  So I answer with equal directness. “Because I’m a terrible niece.”

  There. It can’t be said more clearly. And oddly enough, I feel better admitting I let her down. My shame is in the open now, for all to see, and unlike my impending divorce with secrets tucked everywhere, it is liberating. I made a mistake, and I will regret it for the rest of my life—if not for the fact that I know Aunt Maggie would roll over in her grave if I don’t forgive myself and move on.

  But he deserves to hear the full truth first.

  “She always insisted on meeting me in New York, said it was an adventure for her, and I thought nothing of it. And when I was younger, she said she loved leaving her house to come to ours.” I shrug. “You’re right, though; I should have visited her anyway. I should have known something was up. Suspected something.” I wipe at my eyes. “She was my favorite person in the whole world, and I was too consumed with my own shit to see she was suffering. So yeah. I’m a terrible niece.”