by S. M. Soto
“Mom, I’m all for embracing one’s sexuality and whatnot, but I just don’t want to hear about it when it comes to you and Dad. Please.” A shiver travels through my body, and it’s not a pleasant one.
Mom sighs. I can practically see the displeasure written all over her soft, delicate features, even while on the phone. “We’ll be there. You sure you don’t need us to stay?”
I cringe just thinking about spending an entire night with my parents under the same roof. There’s a reason I packed my shit and fled the nest after high school. Listening to their sexual activities each night was beginning to push me toward the edge of insanity. I swear, they almost ruined sex for me altogether. “I’m positive.”
After hanging up with my mom, before she can ask if I’ve had time to masturbate lately,—she’s been on this masturbation kick and telling me I need to “learn my body and enjoy the fruits,” whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean—I slam the back door to the rental truck shut and turn the handle to engage the lock. Everything I was able to carry and lift on my own is packed in there like sardines. It was like playing a real-life game of Tetris. The bulkier items, I had to have my friends and my previous neighbor help me with. I double-check that it’s locked, before I round the side of the vehicle and climb into the driver’s side.
Destination? My first official home.
That I paid for.
On my own, without the help of my jackass ex-boyfriend.
Scratch that, my ex-fiancé.
You can say I’m excited but even that would most definitely be putting things mildly. I did this all on my own, and I couldn’t be any happier. I mean, I might have to penny pinch and live off ramen for a little while until I get settled at work, but this is where I was always meant to be.
Cranking the radio up, I belt out the song lyrics, feeling more carefree than I have in an awfully long time. My heart fills with a joyous pitter-patter, as I enter the small town of Campbell. It’s not one of those towns where everyone knows everyone, but it’s nothing like Long Beach. It’s a suburb of San Jose and a part of the Silicon Valley area—or at the very least, that’s how they choose to advertise it.
It’s gorgeous here. With great year-round weather and beautiful mountain views, I don’t feel like I’m missing out on much by being away from Long Beach. With cute shopping centers and a vibrant community, it’s the perfect place to call home. Gorgeous trees line the streets outside of the various shops and businesses. It all feels so homey and inviting. It reminds me of a town you’d see as the backdrop in a Hallmark movie.
I pass the Downtown District, smiling at the traffic and people as I go by. Yeah, I know, total weirdo, right? I think I’m the first person who has ever been excited to be stuck in traffic. I’m just ecstatic that I’m here. That I’ve made it this far. After my broken engagement to Reid, I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again. Because, for a long time, he was what I defined as my happiness, and without him, I felt like I was drowning. It took a whole month of crying in my old bedroom back at my parents’ house to hit my lowest low, and another month for me to get my life together. That third month? It was the tip of the iceberg for me. It was when I realized how shitty my relationship with Reid actually was. I needed the time away to see just how toxic and unhappy we were.
It’s my turn now. It’s my journey. And all that starts here.
I turn down Clearlake, toward the end of the quiet cul-de-sac where my new house is, sighing happily at the beautiful homes that roll past my windows. Campbell is a fairly residential suburb, and by the infinite stream of well-kept neighborhoods, it shows. This house, in particular, was a bit out of my price range, and I’ll have to put even more time and money in to fixing the house and making it presentable, but overall, I’m quite proud of my purchase. It’s in a great area, and anyone else would kill for a place like this, especially at the price point here in Campbell.
My smile brightens when I stop the rental truck in front of said house and throw it into park. It’s a one-story Craftsman-style bungalow that has the potential to be great. The home is a bit of a fixer upper, but it has a whole lot of character, it just needs a little TLC, that’s all.
My eyes trail up the inclined driveway, with my head tilted back the slightest bit to take it all in. The front of each of these houses in the cul-de-sac is designed with big windows to maximize the view outside and allow natural light to filter through. Even with a dilapidated shingle roof and a leaning, broken down fence, the home isn’t the worst I’d considered while searching.
I’m sure I’ll be getting an earful from my parents when they actually see it with their own eyes, instead of just in pictures. That’ll definitely give my dad something else to psychoanalyze.
Is this a cry for help, Olivia?
A quick scan around the neighborhood widens my smile. Everything is the same as it was in the photographs. I was half-expecting to get here and be completely bamboozled and catfished by a crappy property. As the realtor stated, most of the families and people living down this street have either been here for five years or longer or have moved in not too long ago. I make a mental note to introduce myself to the families in the houses next door to mine. On the right, the house is a mirror of mine, only that one is well put together: the lawn freshly mowed and no car in the driveway. When I glance to the left, I see a Prius and a Hummer parked in the drive, which prompts me to frown.
A gas saver and a gas-guzzler? I’m sure an interesting individual lives there. This house is a Colonial Revival-style home that towers over mine, and I wince just thinking about the mortgage on a place like that here.
When I’ve had enough staring, I get to work, unloading all the lighter boxes from the truck, and it takes me the rest of the evening, much longer than I anticipated. The house is in dire need of cleaning, but I’m not too worried about it. My mom promised she’d help me tomorrow when they got in.
My little brother has a game about an hour away from here this weekend, so my parents figured they’d drive my car down for me from Long Beach and help me with the move. Two birds, one stone.
To get a jump-start, I work on sponge cleaning the walls in the master bedroom and then work my way through the rest of the house, scrubbing every surface. I rub my palm along the plain eggshell walls, already plotting color schemes and where frames and knickknacks will go. A smile tugs at the corners of my lips, as I envision what the final product will look like.
It’s going to be perfect.
It’s going to be mine.
When I’m finished cleaning about halfway through the house, I glance up, brushing the hair out of my face, managing to smear the sweat across my forehead in the process. It’s well into the night now. I hadn’t even realized when the sun went down. With no blinds covering my bedroom window, I have a full view of my neighbor’s house. There’s little space between the houses. Whoever built them obviously didn’t think either of us deserved much room. Our houses must mirror each other because everything aligns, including our master bedroom windows. There is literally no privacy with the way these identical houses have been built. A light from somewhere inside the home next door flicks on, indicating that the family is probably home by now. Another light shines from the pane next to the bedroom window, and when I shift toward my bathroom, flipping on that light, I realize I’m right. These homes really are mirrors of each other.
After taking a beat to catch my breath, I get back to work, only I find myself glancing over my shoulder at the house next door a few times throughout the rest of the night.
My parents show up bright and early the next morning to help. With more cleaning supplies than one would use to sterilize a hospital, my mom is ready to roll with a cupholder filled with Starbucks drinks and a bag of takeout breakfast burritos.
For hours, we work, tirelessly, scrubbing the walls, floors, and the windows. My dad and my younger brother, Brandon, manage to bring the heavy furniture from the rental into the house. Everyone is patient, while we move the furniture around, until
I find the perfect place for it. It takes about three tries each. We move the L-shaped couch from one corner to the next and do the same with the coffee table, the dinner table, and the bookshelf. The master bedroom is a whole other story.
The fact that no one has wrung my neck yet is a miracle.
“The floorboards are lifting,” my dad grumbles in dismay, toeing said boards. If he had the time, I’m sure he’d redo them all for me, here and now. That is my father; he’s a jack-of-all-trades. The tips of his brown hair hang over his forehead, lightly shielding his eyes. It’s the same color as my hair. A deep brown with hints of honey.
Grinning, I lift a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I know. I have some wood flooring in mind that I’d like to try out. Well, after I paint.”
Both of my parents raise their brows in surprise. “You’re going to paint and do the floors?”
Brandon peals over with laughter from his position on the couch, his shoes resting on my coffee table, infuriating me to no end. My little brother is a senior in high school back in Long Beach. He’s a football star and completely annoying. My parents baby him far too much. Since he’s the youngest and the only one still at home, they wait on the little shit hand and foot. I shoot him a glare, snapping my fingers and narrowing my eyes on his shoes and his sweaty ass that’s perched on my couch.
“Feet off,” I scold, then turn back toward my parents, my brows taking a nosedive. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s a fixer-upper. My first official house—I want to make it mine.”
“Baby girl, you don’t even know how to change a tire.”
Brandon cackles some more at my expense, and I shoot him another scowl over my shoulder.
My nose crinkles. “What does that have to do with anything? That’s what insurance is for and all that other stuff.” I wave my hand dismissively in the air.
They raise their brows, waiting for me to see their point, and I do. I mean, I totally get it. My parents did everything for me during high school and in college, then when I met my ex, I didn’t have to worry about doing any of that stuff because he took care of it for me. When I had a flat tire, he called and handled it for me. If my car needed an oil change, he made the appointments and kept track of all that for me.
I guess now that he’s not around, I’ll have to learn to take care of all that myself, something I should’ve learned to do ages ago, but honestly, I’ve always had a man in my life who could help me. First my dad, then my ex. I never had a time when I had to depend on myself and trust myself enough to get something done.
I blow out a sigh. “This is the first time every decision will be mine. I want to make memories in this house, and I want to start by doing all these DIY projects.”
My mom forces a smile, truly unconvinced, and Dad just rolls his eyes, mumbling some psychology mumbo-jumbo under his breath. He goes back to his task of carrying in the dining table chairs, something Brandon should be helping with.
“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something useful?” I raise a brow at my brother. With an annoyingly slow pace, he pushes up from the couch and walks down the hall toward the master bedroom.
“Sure do. Think I’ll start with dropping a deuce in your bathroom.”
My face contorts with abhorrence. “Fucking disgusting.”
Focusing back on my task of stacking boxes, I feel my mother’s gaze on me, watching me closely. Much too closely.
“So,” Mom starts, fiddling with the torn edge of the kitchen supplies box on the counter. “You’re taking care of yourself, right?”
I pause halfway down from picking a box up. She’s still fiddling with that damn edge , avoiding my gaze. Likely because she knows what my reaction will be.
“Of course I am.” I damn near scoff.
“We’re just making sure. We know how forgetful you are, and without Reid around to remind you—”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t need Reid’s help with anything, Mom. I’m perfectly capable of handling things on my own.”
We have a stare off that lasts a few solid beats, before she nods and pats the frumpy box, deciding to leave the subject alone, for now. My mother has always been a beautiful woman, but you know the phrase, “aging like fine wine”? That’s Lisa Hales in a nutshell. With bright hazel eyes, high cheekbones and a slender nose, my mother could’ve been a model if she hadn’t gone the sex therapist route. For the most part, people say my mother and I look alike, but I don’t see it. Where my hair is brown, hers is a beautiful honey blonde. Where her hazel eyes are bright and inviting, mine are flat and boring.
Speaking of those eyes, they trail up and down my body, and she pauses on my breasts.
“Did you take my advice? Remember, nipple stimulation is very important for your body and posture during sex and masturbation, Sweetheart.”
“Argh! Mom!” I groan. Spinning on my heels, I hurry out the open front door. Anything to avoid her “sex talk.” The woman seriously knows no bounds.
I walk back out toward the rental, shaking my head the entire way. I pass my dad, and I’m guessing, by my flustered expression, that he knows exactly what happened back in there because he laughs at me. I pause, at the mouth of the truck, when I hear the sound of thunder. At least I think it is, until the roaring grows so loud, it’s deafening. I shield my eyes from the sun with my hand and glance down the street at where the sound is coming from, only to realize there’s something coming.
Or someone, I should say.
My eyes widen when I realize what I’m looking at.
The chromed-out motorcycle that looks like it belongs on an episode of Sons of Anarchy pulls into the driveway of the quiet, well-put-together house next door. The one with no cars and the nice lawn. I narrow my gaze, eyeing the person on the bike, as they pull up the drive. A white T-shirt, red and blue flannel wrapped around the waist, and ripped jeans are all I can see on the outside, and my feet, with a mind of their own, start taking slow, unsure steps toward the house next door. I swear I see the bike rider twist their head toward me just a bit, but it’s hard to tell with that helmet on. The visor is blacked out, so I can’t make out anything, not even the person’s eyes.
Before I can figure out who’s under there or get any closer, the garage opens. The bike quickly revs in, and the door shuts, all within a few seconds.
Still with a frown pasted on my face, I glance around at all the houses in the cul-de-sac. Someone who owns a motorcycle was not what I was expecting when I moved in here. Not at all.
This should be interesting. Right?
“Gives You Hell”—The All-American Rejects
My first official day in the neighborhood, without my family, is spent baking. Much to my chagrin, my family stayed and helped me get settled here for a few days, before they had to head back home. Brandon had football practice, and apparently, his coach is a fat dick. My dad called him a chode, something the incomparable Dr. Ethan Hales doesn’t do often.
Of course, before they left, my parents had to know I was okay and made me promise to take care of myself. They obviously couldn’t tell me that, in their own words, because they discerned it’d somehow lead to the next world war. Oh, no. They used my brother for their dirty work instead. It was one thing for them to ask and question me about my health, but to sic my brother on me? That was a new low.
The first night sleeping alone in my new house felt…surreal. It was the first time I was truly on my own. I wasn’t sharing my space with roommates, or a boyfriend, or even a fiancé; I was officially on my own. It was the highest I’d felt in a long time. But with all highs came the lows, and the low in this case was my fear. Though small, my fear was still there, itching to be heard. I feared my ex’s words—I feared all his doubts were warranted.
Maybe I couldn’t do this.
Maybe I really wouldn’t be anything without him.
All that fear did was make me want to prove him wrong. Once I worked through the doubts, I embraced my new chapter with open arms and not one ounce
of trepidation.
If I was truly going to prove everyone wrong, I needed to have faith in myself first.
When I roll out of bed the next morning, a fresh wave of excitement slams into me. I’m feeling refreshed and determined to enjoy the rest of my weekend, before I start my new job Monday. Back in Long Beach, I was a veterinary assistant for three years. It wasn’t easy to find an open position here in Campbell, so quickly, but I managed. Of about twenty clinics to choose from, I had my heart set on only a few, and I was fortunate enough that one of those clinics took a chance on me as a new hire.
My plan for today is to knock off as much as I can on my to-do list for the house. Even with all my furniture and most of my boxes unpacked, the house still looks barren and unorganized. I figure I’ll find some throw pillows and other odds and ends, before looking into paint colors and other necessities.
Last night, I saw a quick and easy recipe on Pinterest and decided I’d try it out after I went grocery shopping. I thought it would be an admirable introduction to the neighbors. I made two batches of chocolate Bundt cakes. One for the neighbor on the left, and the other for the neighbor on my right. I set the delicious smelling desserts on my good china that I had to dig through my boxes to find and wrap each with foil.
I decide to start with the house to the right of mine. Personally, I like to call them the contradictors. I still can’t, for the life of me, understand why they’d have a Hummer and a Prius. It certainly defeats the whole purpose, doesn’t it?
Despite that, Mona, the owner of said Prius, turns out to be a really sweet woman. She’s a mother of four, and I learn her husband owns the Hummer that isn’t in the driveway this morning. We chat for a while, and I can’t contain my burst of pride when she fawns over the cake I made.
From her house, I make the trek back to my place and grab the other cake from the counter, before I head to the neighbor’s house on the opposite side. Once again, there are no cars outside, but as I noticed yesterday, motorcycle guy keeps his vehicles in the garage.
