What If You & Me

by Roni Loren

  “I tried to only buy things the lady at the garden center said were hard to kill,” she added. “We’ll see. I once murdered a cactus, so I’m pretty dangerous.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh as he looked down at the tiny woman in her ass-kicking boots. The laugh felt rusty in his throat. “Yes, you look quite lethal.”

  She put her hands to her hips, playfully affronted. “Hey, I’m small but mighty, man. I’ve got some badass pepper spray, I’ll have you know.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “And write horror novels. I’m sure you murder fictional people regularly.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “What name do you write under?” He wasn’t sure what his mouth was doing. He was supposed to be saying he needed to get inside, shower, and get to an appointment. Not make small talk. Not ask her about her life.

  “A. L. Kohl,” she said. “The horror genre likes an androgynous name. Some men think ladies can’t write scary shit apparently.”

  He frowned. “That’s stupid. Women see more horror than anyone.”

  She tilted her head, blue eyes narrowing a bit like she couldn’t quite figure him out. “Yeah. We do. I guess you’ve seen a lot as a firefighter.”

  The words brought him back from the small-talk field trip he’d been on. “Yeah, about that. I think I gave you the wrong impression that night. I was a firefighter. I’m not active duty anymore.” He shifted onto his good leg, wishing he didn’t have to have this conversation. “For obvious reasons. I was only using it that night to get the door open as soon as possible.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Right.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I better go in and shower before I wilt your flowers over there with my after-run glow. Good luck with the project.”

  She glanced down his body as if just noticing he was damp with sweat. Her eyes flicked once more to his mechanical leg, but then she was focused back on his face. She squinted. “Do you want me to do yours, too?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Your garden.” She cocked her head toward his side of the duplex. “I have enough flowers to go around. I don’t mind spreading them out on both sides. You could avoid having to get down in the dirt.”

  She was trying to be kind. He had no doubt of that, but the offer hit him in a dark, knee-jerk place. “I’m capable of planting my own garden. I ran three miles this morning. I can plant a flower.”

  “I—” She pressed her lips together. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just… I’m out here already. I’m already filthy. I have what I need. It wouldn’t be that much more work, and then the house could look colorful on both sides.”

  He shook his head, taking a step back. “No, they’re your flowers. I don’t need any. The shrubs are fine.”

  The bright openness that had been on Andi’s face during their entire conversation shut down. A little frown line had appeared between her brows. “Okay. No problem.”

  He stared at her for a moment and took a breath, reeling himself in. “Sorry. Thanks for the offer. I…I don’t need flowers.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. “Got it.”

  He jutted a thumb toward the house. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Sure. See ya.”

  He turned his back to her and headed toward the house, hating that he had to take the few steps over the uneven ground that led to the porch slowly. Hating that his pretty neighbor already saw him as a guy who needed her pity. As charity, not a man.

  ***

  Andi watched as Hill made his way into the house, his prosthesis giving him an unusual but determined gait. She’d been shocked to see it when he’d gotten out of the car. She’d made sure not to stare, but then she’d stuck her proverbial foot in her mouth anyway. She’d offended him. Way to go, Ms. Helpful.

  And things had been going so well. They’d had actual conversation. He’d looked embarrassed about his lie. Normally, lying would be an instant you’re-dead-to-me offense, but the look of sadness that had crossed his face when he’d said he was a firefighter had hit her right in the gut. He hadn’t lied as a manipulation. He’d lied because he wished it were true. She’d wanted to ask more. She’d wanted to know his story. But they weren’t friends yet and that wasn’t her place.

  Now they may never be.

  She’d said the wrong thing. Now it would be weird between her and Hill unless she fixed it. She pulled off her gardening gloves and stared at his door as he shut it behind him, an idea coming to her.

  Hmm. Maybe.

  Chapter Four

  Hill put a pot of coffee on to brew and then went to the laundry room in search of a clean T-shirt. His body was sapped from his run, the strength workout he’d done when he’d gotten home, and the hot shower, which would normally help clear his mind, but he kept replaying the interaction with Andi. He’d handled it all wrong.

  Logically, he knew Andi had only been trying to be nice by offering to plant flowers for him, but the simple gesture had reminded him of what other people saw now when they looked at him—someone who needed help. Someone to feel sorry for. While he’d been tamping down attraction to his pretty neighbor, she’d been thinking of ways she could volunteer to his charitable cause. His stomach turned.

  You’re not the man you used to be.

  His ex’s barbed words were like aggravating song lyrics he couldn’t get out of his head, the chorus playing over and over.

  He rummaged through the dryer for a shirt, but before he could grab one, his doorbell rang. He frowned, knowing that this time of day usually meant someone selling something. A knock followed, the visitor impatient. He huffed out a breath, shut the dryer door, and stomped toward the front of the house, ready to tell whoever it was that the No Soliciting sign on the porch wasn’t a suggestion but a directive.

  However, when he opened the door, he found Andi standing there, no longer covered in dirt and now holding a platter of something. She had a smile pasted on her face, but her eyes went wide at the sight of him. Only then did he remember that he hadn’t pulled on a shirt yet.

  “I, uh…” she said, her gaze sliding downward to the spot where a burn scar from the accident slashed across the side of his abdomen. He wanted to cover the scar tissue with his hands. “If this is a bad time…”

  “Hey. Sorry. I was getting out of the shower. Give me a sec.” He jerked a thumb toward the back of the house. “I’ll grab a shirt.”

  Her gaze jumped back to his and she nodded. “Yeah, no problem.”

  He turned and took a few steps toward the laundry room, but when he glanced back, he saw that Andi was still standing on the porch like some reluctant Girl Scout. He waved her in. “You can come in. I’ll be right out.”

  A quick flash of something went over her expression. Fear? Wariness? Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

  “I don’t want to interrupt whatever you were doing,” she said quickly.

  “You’re fine. Just give me a sec.”

  She glanced around and then nodded, taking a step inside but still looking unsure. “Okay.”

  He left her there and hustled to the laundry room. Once he’d pulled on a shirt, he took a breath, trying to shake off his foul mood, and headed back to the living room. He needed to undo how rude he’d been to Andi.

  Andi had perched on the edge of a chair in his living room, her eyes on the cookbooks he’d left strewn over the couch. She’d left his front door ajar. Clearly, she wasn’t planning on staying very long.

  He ran a hand through his still-damp hair. She was probably here to tell him he’d acted like a jackass. She wouldn’t be wrong. He cleared his throat, bringing her attention upward and over to him. She gave him a tight smile and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” He walked over and grabbed the books he had spread out on the couch and stacked them onto the coffee table. “Sorry. I wasn�
��t expecting company.”

  “That’s how my desk looks when I’m writing,” she said, peeking toward the stack. “You like to cook?”

  He rubbed his palms on his jeans, the back of his neck heating. His therapist had suggested Hill get back to cooking, even though he wouldn’t be doing it for a firehouse anymore, but all he’d managed lately was flipping through cookbooks and then ordering takeout. Why bother cooking anything elaborate if he had no one to cook for anymore? “It’s something I mess around with. I was the designated chef for my crew at the firehouse.”

  “That’s cool. I have zero ability in the kitchen if it doesn’t come in a box or can. I once went to a cooking-and-cocktails class with some friends for a girls’ night out. I set a kitchen towel on fire before we even got started, and I think the grilled fish I attempted is still stuck to that pan to this day. I tried to convince the teacher that catfish jerky would be the next big thing.”

  Hill smiled. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

  “Oh, it was bad. I had to pay an extra fee for damages and then didn’t have anything to eat.” She smirked. “I was really good at the cocktails though—drinking them, at least.”

  He huffed a quiet laugh.

  “Sorry. I’m rambling. I have a tendency to do that. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.” She offered the covered platter she’d been holding in her lap. “Now you’re going to be scared after that story, but I wanted to bring you these. They’re brownies.”

  His brows lifted, and he reached out to take the dish from her, the scent of chocolate wafting his way and the dish warming his hands. “You baked brownies?”

  She shrugged. “They’re from a quick boxed mix that I can’t mess up, so don’t worry. No fish-jerky mishaps.”

  “I’ve never met a brownie I didn’t like,” he said, “but you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I kind of did.” She dipped her head, her bangs falling into her eyes before she looked up again. “I said the wrong thing. We’re going to be neighbors, and I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” A look of horror flashed across her face. “I mean—”

  He didn’t get why her expression had turned to one of horror, and then it registered. She’d said wrong foot to a guy with a prosthesis. He stared at her for a second and then a snort-laugh escaped him. “Did you really just say that?”

  She put a hand over her eyes and groaned. “Oh my God, I’m the worst. I feel like every time I talk to you, I do or say the wrong thing. I almost maced you the first night. Then I insult you this morning. Now this.”

  He smiled, endeared by her obvious embarrassment. “You didn’t almost mace me. You never would’ve gotten that canister lifted before I had your arm pinned behind your back.”

  Her head snapped up, her eyes wide, and she glanced toward the open door.

  The spark of fear on her face caught him off guard, and he automatically set the brownies aside and lifted his palms. “Whoa, I didn’t mean I would do that. I’m only saying, I used to teach self-defense at the community center, and my training would’ve kicked in if you’d aimed a weapon at me.”

  “Right.” She nodded, her hands clasped in her lap. “Sorry. You know I write horror. My mind goes to dark places first. It’s a career hazard.”

  He frowned. “No, I get it. That’s smart. It never hurts to be aware.”

  She scoffed. “I don’t know if that’s entirely true. Anything done to the extreme, even being aware, can backfire.”

  Something in the way she said it made him want to ask more questions. There was a story there, and part of him wanted to prod, but he also sensed she’d shut down if he did. Like she said, he was still a stranger. “And you didn’t need to bring me brownies. I’m the one who should be bringing you a peace offering. I’m sorry I snapped at you. You were trying to be nice. I was an asshole. So I definitely don’t deserve baked goods.”

  “I shouldn’t have assumed you couldn’t do your own gardening,” she said, her blue eyes meeting his. “I don’t like when people assume things about me.”

  He sighed and glanced out the front window toward the yard. “Honestly, your assumption wasn’t far off. It would be a pain in the ass to get on the ground and garden, but I’m not looking for help.”

  She rolled her lips together and nodded. “Got it.”

  “I’m not giving the brownies back, though.” He put his hand on the platter. “They’re mine now, and you can’t have them.”

  She laughed, and the sound ran straight down his spine, warming his bones. “No worries. I made some for myself, too.” She glanced at his cookbooks again. “So, if you aren’t with the fire department anymore, do you do a different job now?”

  The question instantly splashed cold water on his mood. The thought of telling this sexy, vibrant woman that he was retired and on a disability pension and couldn’t seem to get himself to do anything useful made his stomach turn. He’d grown up with a dad who’d sat at home, zoned out on pills or booze, who claimed a shoulder injury prevented him from working even though it hadn’t prevented him from taking swings at his mom on a regular basis.

  Hill knew his own injury had been very real, and the disability pension necessary, but at thirty-one, he hadn’t planned on that being the end of his working life. He couldn’t be a firefighter, but he was capable of other things—theoretically. But he’d made no headway on making something new happen. The fact that he was still without a job or a purpose two years in because of this fucking depression was his worst nightmare coming home to roost. He missed the pride of being able to tell someone he was a firefighter. He missed feeling like he was doing some good in the world. He missed cooking for his crew and feeling useful. But in this moment, what he missed most was the way women used to look at him like he was a possibility.

  He shifted on the couch. “I own a couple of properties that I rent out, so I spend some time taking care of that.” Part truth. He did own a few properties with his aunt and uncle, the people who’d raised him, but they had a management company handle the logistics. So it was income but not an actual job. “And a friend of mine thought I should try to write a cookbook, but I think knowing how to cook and writing about cooking are two different skill sets. So I’m kind of in the exploratory career phase again.”

  Andi nodded, a pensive look on her face. “That sounds both exciting and terrifying.”

  He scoffed. “Exciting?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe that’s not the right word, but figuring out what you want to do when you grow up is kind of two-sided, right? Terrifying because—holy crap, grown-up life choices. But on the other hand, you get to choose again, like a redo. Poof, new path.” She moved her hands like she was casting a spell. “I work at this coworking space a few blocks from here—WorkAround—and it’s full of people figuring out what they want to do with their lives on their own terms. Lots of them have tried a number of jobs or businesses and haven’t quite landed on the One yet, but that’s okay. Maybe there isn’t a One. Maybe there’s a Two or a Three. Or maybe we’re meant to do a series of things in life.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I think so. I mean, I love being a writer and I love podcasting right now, but who’s to say that in ten years I’ll still love it? Maybe I’ll want to do something completely different then.” She sniffed. “My parents think the whole concept is complete bullshit—very millennial/Gen Z of me, you know? Why can’t I go and get a nine-to-five and a steady paycheck? And I get where they’re coming from, but they don’t see what I see at WorkAround. You can feel the energy of the place when you walk around. It’s like we’re all running our little life experiments. How cool is that?”

  She was rambling again, but he found himself leaning in. “You do sound exceptionally millennial.”

  She grinned, looking not at all offended. “At the risk of sounding like an old hippie, life’s too short, man.”
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br />   “It definitely is.” A shudder went through him at that. He was exceptionally aware of how quickly life could be snuffed out. When that roof beam had come down on him in a fiery blaze, he’d thought his ticket had been pulled. He probably should be all Let’s take life by the horns now that he had gotten a second chance, but he couldn’t access that kind of enthusiasm. His enthusiasm well was bone dry. He wished he could just plug into Andi and channel one percent of that kind of energy for himself.

  “Well,” she said, breaking him from his train of thought, “if you ever want to get some inspiration, I can give you a tour of WorkAround and introduce you to some people. Sometimes it helps hearing what other people are doing to spark some ideas in your own brain. I got the podcasting idea that way. And it’s not that far from here. Plus, they have a chef vlogger there. He may be able to brainstorm with you about the cookbook thing. There’s also a kitchen on-site that people rent out to do food photography or cooking videos or to host cooking classes. You might find that interesting.”

  The invitation caught him off guard. “Wow, that sounds like an alien planet compared to the firehouse.”

  She laughed. “It can be sometimes. There’s definitely a variety of characters there. But seriously, I could show you around.”

  He didn’t know what the point would be. He’d never been the entrepreneurial type. After what he’d been through with his dad, he’d never considered anything but the most stable of careers. “Thanks. Maybe one day.”

  She glanced at the clock on his side table, and he followed her gaze. Damn. He needed to be heading out for his lunch with Ramsey, but talking to Andi was like getting a taste of a drug. How long had it been since he’d had a conversation with someone who wasn’t focused on his injury or mental state? Who wasn’t calling or stopping by to check on how he was doing?

  “It’s getting late,” she said, slapping her knees and standing up. “I better get going. I know you probably have things to do, and my book isn’t going to write itself. It’s lazy that way.”