Back in the Burbs

by Flynn, Avery

  If there are snakes slithering around in here, they can have me.

  I am too damn tired to fight.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I’m not sure how long I lay in the hot sun, waiting for the snakes to attack.

  Long enough for the foot-long grass to prick me through my clothes in every uncomfortable place imaginable.

  Long enough for sweat to drip from every pore in my body.

  More than long enough for me to wonder if I can hire a lawn service that takes sexual favors as payment. At this moment, I am happy to give as many blow jobs (condoms required) as necessary if it means I never have to do this again.

  I’ve just begun contemplating whether I have the strength of will to crawl to the door in the back of the house or if I’m just going to die right here—not going to lie, the fact that dying on my front lawn is probably against HOA regulations makes the second option oh so much more appealing. I’m about to decide if I’m going to expire while flipping off the neighborhood or not when something moves between the burning sun and me.

  “I’m impressed.” Nick’s warm, gravelly voice interrupts my final plan to stick it to the Huckleberry Hills HOA. “That had to take some effort.”

  I open one eye (because two seems like too much investment) and look up. “It did. A lot of effort. And now I’m going to die.”

  I close my eye again and would have totally tried for final death throes, but I’m afraid it will only make me sweat more.

  “You are the strangest woman I have ever met,” he says with a bemused laugh.

  “That’s not true.” This time I don’t even bother to open my eyes. “You knew Aunt Maggie, queen of the psychedelic vibrators.”

  “True. But she left them to you, so you’ve inherited the title.” He doesn’t sound the least bit upset about the fact that I’m a little odd, not the way Karl would have been. Back when we were first married, he always complained when I danced a little in line at the post office or sang my favorite song while shopping in the produce aisle or wore my favorite red shoes anywhere.

  At first, I stopped doing those things around him because I didn’t like making him feel uncomfortable. Eventually, I stopped doing them at all. It wasn’t a conscious decision to stop. I just got out of the habit of being happy.

  Now, I realize as Nick takes hold of my hands and pulls me into a sitting position, I’m beginning to remember what happy feels like—so much so that when he lets go of my hands, I let myself fall backward onto the grass again just to make him laugh.

  It works.

  At least until he crouches down beside me and strokes a wayward, sweat-soaked curl out of my face. As the pads of his fingers graze my skin, we both stop laughing.

  My eyes meet his warm brown ones, and suddenly I feel a little light-headed.

  Heatstroke must be setting in, so I sit up abruptly. This time when Nick grabs on to my hands and starts to pull me to my feet, I let him.

  “So what made you decide to go with SOS as your message?” he asks as we stand surveying my lawn and the three giant letters I mowed into it.

  “The universe wasn’t answering my texts, so I went for something a little more in its face.”

  He laughs again. “The universe really must not be paying attention, Mallory. Because everything about you is pretty much in your face.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m taking that as a compliment.” I grin up at him.

  “It was meant as one.”

  Before I can think of something to say to that, he moves back out over the grass to the mower. “Why don’t you go inside and take a shower to cool down?”

  “I think I’ll do that,” I say, grabbing on to the handle of the mower. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to park this around back for now. I’ll give it another go after dinner, when it doesn’t feel like Dante’s seventh circle of hell out here.”

  “There you go, exaggerating again.” He shakes his head. “It’s really more like the fourth or fifth circle.”

  “Says the man who hasn’t been trying to mow a jungle for the last hour and a half.” I roll my eyes and use all the strength I have left to push his behemoth of a lawn mower over to my side gate.

  “Can I help you with that?” he asks, walking behind me.

  “Nah.” I set my shoulders and do my best not to sound like I’m out of breath. It turns out it’s even harder to push the beast over grass when the motor is off and the self-propelling feature isn’t engaged. If someone tried to tell me that an hour ago, right before I gave up and mowed my first S, I wouldn’t have believed them. “I’ve got it.”

  He eyes me skeptically. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.” I pause to catch my breath but pretend it’s to flex my muscles. “Wonder Woman’s got nothing on me. I mean, except big boobs, long legs, and a really great ass.”

  I expect Nick to laugh along with me as we walk around to the side of the house, but he doesn’t. “You were more right the first time.”

  “What first time?”

  He lifts a brow. “When you said Wonder Woman had nothing on you.”

  And then he turns and walks back down the driveway toward his house, leaving me staring after him with my mouth wide open.

  Chapter Forty

  Eventually, I rally and manage to push the lawn mower through the gate. I leave it right there in front of it, though, unwilling to move it one inch farther than I have to. Besides, it isn’t like I’m not going to have to push it right back out in a few hours.

  I’m soaked in sweat by the time I make it into the house. My mother takes one look and her eyes go wide. I wait for the inevitable comments about how unfeminine I am or how no man wants a woman who can sweat like I’ve been wrestling with oiled pigs, but she doesn’t say anything.

  However, she does press her lips together really hard, like she’s having to fight to keep the words in. I almost want to hug her, sweat and all, for making the effort.

  Instead, I start shedding clothes as soon as I get upstairs, leaving a trail of stinky, soaking-wet garments from the door of my bedroom all the way to the shower. The fact that I’m going to have to pick them up in a little while doesn’t excite me—the only thing worse than sweaty clothes are cold sweaty clothes—but I seriously can’t stand having them on my body for one more second.

  I get right into the glass cubicle and turn the water on full blast, only yelping a little when the cold spray hits me. Then I just stand there until my body temperature settles back into some kind of normal range.

  Eventually I’m revived enough to actually clean myself—shampoo, conditioner, body scrub—but it takes a while. I haven’t felt this hot since I caught the flu about seven years ago and ran a temperature close to 105.

  Normally, I’m not a water waster—I try to keep my showers in the seven-minute range because water is a precious commodity—but today, I blow that all to hell. I stay under the spray long after my hands turn pruny and every goose bump on my body becomes activated. Then—and only then—do I turn the shower off with a sigh of regret and finally step out.

  I know I’m just going to have to get hot, sweaty, and nasty again later, but I decide to hell with it and take my time doing the whole girlie routine. I start by slathering my entire body with my favorite Jo Malone lotion, which I promised myself I’d only use on special occasions, since I definitely can’t afford to buy more. It’s a nice follow-up to the full-body sugar scrub I did in the shower. Then I do my whole skin-care routine—something I’ve been pretty lax with since I moved into the house—and I don’t even skimp on the products. Some days, a girl deserves to treat herself.

  After a blowout that leaves my hair in shining waves—again, something I haven’t bothered with in quite a while—I slip into my most upscale pair of yoga pants (which isn’t saying a lot, but still) and my most flattering rose tank top. A slick of lip gloss across my lips and a
touch of mascara on my lashes, and I figure my mom won’t have much to complain about over lunch, even if she wants to.

  Satisfied and feeling pretty damn good, I head downstairs. My stomach is growling like an enraged bear.

  I’m barely halfway down the stairs when I hear Mom and Sarah chattering amid the clanging of pots and pans. Even more surprising is the fact that Nick’s deep voice sounds like it’s coming from right in the middle of the action—which, it turns out, it is.

  The three of them are in the lemon-yellow kitchen like they all belong there together. Sarah and my mom are setting the table, and Nick is sautéing chicken in a pan.

  “I thought you were going home,” I say. He was walking to his house when I went inside.

  Nick doesn’t bother glancing up from the frying pan. “I did go home. And now I’m here. Some people can do more than take a shower in an hour and a half.”

  “Yeah, well…” I walk farther into the kitchen, getting the glasses out of the cabinet while I scramble for a witty comeback. “Sometimes efficiency is highly overrated.”

  Oh, girl, that’s what you’re going with?

  Ignoring my snarky inner voice, I make eye contact with the back of Nick’s head, expecting him to argue with me. Everything about him screams that he’s the most efficient person on the planet, after all. But instead of coming back at me with facts and figures, he looks up with an amused grin that kind of freezes when our eyes connect.

  And suddenly, that weird breathless feeling is back. It’s the one that makes me feel like all the baggage from my broken marriage is sitting squarely on the middle of my chest.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask when he continues to stare at me without saying anything.

  “Nothing. You just—” He breaks off and blows out a long breath. “You look nice.”

  “Yeah, well, when you last saw me, I was at risk for drowning in my own sweat. Anything is an improvement over that.”

  “Nothing wrong with working up a little sweat,” he says, turning his attention back to the chicken.

  There’s something in his tone that has my heart beating too fast, even as Sarah lets out a little snort.

  My mother is surprisingly quiet.

  I’m in the middle of trying to think of another comeback—I’m fast like that—when my phone dings. I glance down at the text from Mikey, asking if I want to meet for a drink around two.

  It’s pretty much the last thing I want to do—I’m tired and grumpy and it’s way too hot outside right now—but I make the mistake of mentioning the invitation to my supporting cast.

  “You should go,” my mom says. “He sounds like a nice guy.”

  “He’s a very nice guy.” I sit down in the empty chair next to her. “I’m just not sure I want to go anywhere right now.”

  “You should totally go,” Sarah chimes in. “You look super hot and besides, what else do you have to do?”

  What do I have to do? The only things that come to mind are drudgery, followed by hard labor, followed by chores. “Clean out another room so that maybe, maybe I can get my ass off that miserably uncomfortable couch. Plus, I still have the lawn to finish.”

  “The lawn?” Sarah looks confused. “But—”

  Nick places the four perfect portions of chicken on a platter in the middle of the table and sits down across from me. “You should go.”

  It’s pretty much the last thing I expect him to say. On the plus side, it makes the breathless feeling go away really fast.

  I’m trying to process the why of that when I happen to glance out the window with a view of the front yard. Then I’m breathless for real, because all the air in my lungs whooshes out in one big angry breath. My entire front lawn has been mowed.

  “What did you do?” I demand.

  “What do you mean?”

  He tries to look innocent, but I’ve gotten to know him well enough now to see a hint of something lurking behind his eyes. The big jerk. We had a deal. Just because I’m broke doesn’t mean I need his pity.

  “You. Mowed. My. Lawn.”

  “Oh, that.” He serves Mom a piece of chicken, then passes the tray to Sarah. “I thought it would free up the rest of the day for you—”

  “So I can go on a date with Mikey?” Acid that has the distinct hint of hurt burns the back of my tongue.

  “That wasn’t my first choice, no.” He shrugs. “But, like I said, you should go if you want to.”

  Oh wow. Isn’t that just fucking big of him to allow me to live my life. “Thanks for the permission.”

  He sighs. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I don’t actually care what you meant.” Heat stirred up by frustration and annoyance and bruised feelings makes my whole body tingly in a very bad way. “We had a deal. I give you a dollar and mow the lawn, and your firm will represent me in my divorce.”

  He shrugs again. “Yeah, well, I decided to renegotiate after you almost gave yourself a heart attack today.”

  “That was not your decision to make,” I snap. Doesn’t he get that I don’t want anyone taking care of me anymore? Men. I swear.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were emotionally invested in the lawn.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I was only trying to help.”

  “Oh, no.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You don’t get to do that.”

  He looks mystified while Mom and Sarah are both watching the happenings as if it is the best reality show ever.

  “Do what?” he asks.

  I’m not buying it. I’ve had men do this shit to me over and over in my life—the whole time acting as if I’m the one with the problem or that my concerns or feelings aren’t valid. Karl was an expert, and now that I think about it, so is my dad.

  “You did what you thought was best for me,” I say, forcing myself to keep my voice steady even as my knee is jiggling under the table to let out some of the angry adrenaline rush. “But you never even bothered to ask if I agreed. You did what you wanted to do and didn’t care at all if I wanted help.”

  “Are you kidding me?” He looks incredulously from Mom to Sarah as if they’ll back him up against the overreaching, hysterical, probably PMSing woman.

  They’re now looking at every single spot in the kitchen except the two of us, and I can’t blame them. Part of me feels guilty for putting them in the middle of this, but I’m not backing down.

  “No, I’m not,” I say. “I didn’t ask for your help—”

  “You literally mowed SOS into your lawn.” Nick leans forward on the table, his entire body strung tight. “It’s the universal call for help. Pilots flying into Newark from all over the world probably think you’re asking for help, so how the hell was I supposed to know you weren’t?”

  “Because,” I say, my temper on the precipice of going Mount Vesuvius. “If I wanted help, I’d ask for it.”

  My phone buzzes again with another text from Mikey. I don’t think about it. I don’t even read his new text; I just started thumb-typing that I’d love to go out and get a drink. Right. Now.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Maybe I should have thought it was strange when Mikey suggested we meet somewhere instead of picking me up, like he did for our other two dates. But truth be told, I’m just excited to have my own transportation—that way I can leave after one drink without feeling bad.

  But the minute I see him sitting at a barstool nervously thumbing through his phone, I know there’s going to be trouble. I mean, he didn’t even bother to get a table. No man does that if he’s hoping to have an intimate, private date with a woman.

  Sure enough, his smile when he spots me is a little dimmer than usual. He does get up, though, and even drops a kiss on my cheek before pulling away and waiting for me to sit.

  “How are you?” he asks as we both get settled.

  “A little frazzled, actually.” I give h
im a wary smile. “But nothing a cold drink won’t cure.”

  “Right?” He laughs somewhat awkwardly even as he flags down the bartender. “What are you drinking?”

  After last night, the last thing I want to do is pump more alcohol into my system. In fact, I’m good with not drinking again for a long while.

  “Can I have a club soda with lime?”

  The bartender nods and makes it up right on the spot.

  Mikey raises a brow when I take my first sip, but I just roll my eyes.

  “Yesterday I had enough alcohol to last me a year,” I say without breathing a word about drinking games and Banana Bombers.

  “Oh.” He looks concerned. “Are you drinking because of the divorce? Because that’s understandable, but still something to worry about if—”

  “What? No!” I start laughing. “I was drinking because my mother and my long-lost—and by long-lost, I mean secret—half sister have both moved in with me since the weekend started. And since my mom didn’t know about my sister until Saturday—which is why she left my dad to come live with me—it’s been exciting. That’s why we got drunk yesterday.” I pause for breath and take in his shell-shocked expression. “And I realize, saying it out loud makes it sound just as bad as it is.” I take a long sip of my club soda and wish that I’d gone for a wine spritzer instead. “Maybe even worse.”

  “Not bad,” he says, taking a big pull from his beer. “Just a lot.”

  I nod, the writing on the wall becoming a little clearer with every second that passes.

  “That’s actually why I wanted to meet today.” He rubs away a nonexistent stain on the bar, looking at it instead of me. “You know, Mallory, I think you’re a really great girl. I just—”

  “It’s okay, Mikey.” I smile at him. “I get it.”

  “I don’t think you do.” He gives me his full attention, and he looks more serious than he has since he first gave me the never-ending renovation list. “Just let me finish, okay?”