ThisTimeNextDoor

by Gretchen Galway

I’d hit it.

  She jerked her car door open and climbed inside, vaguely aware of the dampness on her palms. They stung where she’d fallen.

  Why hadn’t he told me? Couldn’t he have trusted me with that?

  She kicked off her shoes and dug around in her purse for a tissue to wipe off the blood on her hands and knees.

  It was always too good to be true.

  She drove home in a daze, barely seeing the road or feeling the cold on her bare arms. She’d worn a sweater to the party but it was thin, low-cut, frilly. Two days before Christmas, even in California, that wasn’t nearly enough. When she parked her car in the driveway of her house—Sylly’s house—her hands were numb, in part because she’d been too distracted to turn on the heat.

  The house was dark, not what she expected. The real estate agent had come by with the stager the day after Thanksgiving and strung up pale yellow Christmas lights all over the gate and front windows.

  As Rose got out of her car, not bothering to put on her shoes, she wiped a stray tear off her cheek and squinted through the darkness. The lights were gone. Not just turned off; gone.

  For a split second she wondered if, in her upset, she’d pulled into the wrong driveway. But it was a custom house. And the number was right. It was Sylly’s house.

  Then she noticed the keybox that used to hang from the front door was missing, and for the second time that night, she felt the blood drain out of her.

  Fumbling with the key, she unlocked the front door and went in, bracing herself for what she was afraid she’d find.

  There wasn’t anything to find.

  No hall table, no flowers, no decorative ceramic elephant. No furniture.

  The house was empty.

  Not even a note or phone message. She dropped her purse on the floor and flinched at the tinny echo it made in the bare, vaulted space.

  Merry Fucking Christmas.

  Sylly had sold the house and hadn’t bothered to tell her. She’d call him right now—to hell with her job, to hell with it—but he was at the party.

  The tropical plants in the windowed sunroom were gone, only dead leaves and potting soil remained on the shelves and tile.

  Dirt. They’d left the dirt.

  She went into the kitchen, the bedrooms, the living room, the bathrooms.

  The closet.

  She jerked open the door and stared at the bare shelves, bar, carpeting.

  They’d taken her suitcase.

  Her clothes.

  So enraged her jaw was starting to ache, Rose punched Sylly’s number into her phone.

  He didn’t answer right away, and when he did he had to yell. “Rose?” She could hear the hum of the party behind him.

  “You sold the house!”

  For a moment she only heard the sounds of the party. Laughter, screeching, pop music.

  “I’ll have to call you back.” He hung up on her.

  “Fuck!” She yelled at her phone, glared at it, set it down on the kitchen counter so she wouldn’t throw it out the window.

  She paced around the marble-topped kitchen island. Fine, he sold the house; it was for sale. But it was two days before Christmas and he hadn’t said a word when he must’ve known for days, at least. The stager knew, the stager’s semi and moving crew knew. One phone call, that’s all she would’ve needed.

  The bastards took her clothes.

  Her phone vibrated on the counter; she picked it up, breath tight.

  “Rose?” It was quiet. He must’ve left the party.

  “Yeah.”

  “You heard about the house?” Sylly asked.

  “Heard? They took my clothes!”

  “Who took what?”

  “I knew it wasn’t going to last forever, but you should’ve told me because I’ve got to find a new place to live and it’s the holidays and they took my clothes.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “All I have is the dress I wore to the party.” She had a doomed job and no clothes.

  “Hold on a minute, try to calm down. Something about your clothes?”

  A fresh realization hit her; her eyes popped open. “And my shoes, Sylly. You need to call somebody and find out—tonight—what they did with my shoes.” Her voice had dropped to a growl.

  “Call whose shoes?” Sylly asked. “Hold on. I can’t call anybody, I’m on the phone with you. Why is that? Shouldn’t you be here?”

  Frowning, she pulled the phone away from her ear, stared at it, put it back. “Are you drunk?”

  “Of course I’m not drunk. What kind of CEO would get drunk at the company Christmas party?”

  She gritted her teeth. He was wasted. “When do I have to move out, Sylly? Not that I have much to transport, since they took everything, but I’d like to know how long I have a roof over my head, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, this is awkward, isn’t it? I’m not really sure. I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “You’re not sure? But I don’t even have—”

  He hung up.

  She didn’t even have a toothbrush.

  Chapter 23

  THE DOORBELL RANG, SENDING WOLFGANG’S tune echoing throughout the empty house.

  Groaning, Rose rolled over in her sleeping bag, slapping the floor looking for her phone. Her new pillow had slipped away from her head; her neck was cramped.

  7:03 a.m., her phone said, December 24.

  Who the hell would come to the door so early on Christmas Eve?

  Her mind woke more fully. Maybe Sylly had found her things and sent the real estate people to return them. Thank God. She’d driven to Target the night before—with eight and a half million other people—and bought a few basics, but she wouldn’t survive happily without her own clothes.

  She crawled out of the sleeping bag onto her hands and knees, got to her feet wearing her Doorbuster flannel pajama set (“Perfect for Mom!”) and went to the door.

  It was John, not Sylly, who huddled on her doorstep. A storm had come in late the night before and the rain was still pouring down.

  She crossed her arms over her braless chest, shivering, and stared in drowsy confusion.

  “Hi.” Not wearing a jacket, John huddled close to the house, inches from a curtain of water cascading off the roof. He looked as terrible as she felt—tired eyes, hair uncombed, dressed in only sweatpants and a T-shirt. “Sorry to bother you.”

  She glanced past him at the gate, realizing she’d forgotten to close it. She and John had barely spoken since their conversation in the driveway about Mark. When she’d realized the tension between her and John was adding to Blair’s stress, she began limiting her visits to the phone or away from the house. “Why are you here?”

  “It’s kind of raining out here, did you notice?”

  Pausing slightly, Rose stepped aside so he could come inside. And see the vast emptiness.

  “Where’s all the furniture?” he asked, frowning.

  “I’m going minimalist.”

  He gave her a look. She returned it.

  With a sigh, he wiped the water off his arms, strode into the house. “Nice place.”

  “Yeah, but it looks like I won’t be staying.”

  He was wandering from room to room, checking everything out. “You never do, do you?” he asked casually.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He turned, raised a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t come here to pick a fight. It’s about Blair.”

  She started. “What happened?”

  “Nothing like that.” He ran his hand over a built-in bookshelf, now empty, littered with dust. “No accident or anything. And she’s healthy. Physically, I mean.”

  Physically. “She seemed pretty happy the other day when we went out to the movies.”

  “She’s good at hiding things from you.” John walked away towards the kitchen. “How about coffee or something?”

  Embarrassed she didn’t have a single mug, let alone a coffeemaker—and annoyed that she cared what he thought—Rose called after him. “I
’m not the Starbucks drive-through. Just tell me what you came to say.”

  Slowly, he came back into the hall. “You never were a morning person.”

  “What do you think she’s hiding from me?”

  He strode out into the living room, eyebrow raised at the bare floors, finally sat at the wall with the western-facing windows at his back. “I’ll just sit here.” He stretched out his legs. “As her best friend, I thought you should know she’s going through a rough time.”

  Rose frowned. John was acting very strangely. “Yeah. She lost a baby.”

  He gave her a hard look. “I’m aware of that.”

  “She needs time to recover. I’m no expert, but I looked it up online, read about how hard it can be to move on, especially since she was already in the second trimester.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Isn’t losing a baby enough?”

  “She hasn’t gone back to work yet, even though the doctor said she could anytime.”

  “It was just a temp job. Is it you’re just tired of her living off of you? Because I can help out with money if that’s the problem.” Though she was homeless and in an untenable work situation, he didn’t need to know that.

  “I don’t want your money. Jesus, Rose.”

  “You just said you want her to go back to work.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “You think it’s better she’s playing games on her phone all day?”

  That got Rose’s attention. After a moment’s pause, she sat cross-legged on the floor across from him. “She’s hooked on those again?” Blair had nearly dropped out of school sophomore year because of her obsessive online gaming.

  “Oh, yeah. Every second of every day.”

  “Have you talked to her about it?”

  “Who am I to tell her she can’t play a few games if that’s what makes her feel better?”

  “That’s just it, isn’t it?” Rose asked. “Who are you?”

  He pushed to his feet, turned to the window. “I feel like I have to wait for her to figure that out.”

  “Maybe you do.” The last time they’d talked, he’d been furious at the suggestion he was going to leave. But if he came to her for help, he couldn’t get too upset if she shared her opinions.

  “Maybe you don’t know yourself what you want,” she said softly.

  “Could you please stop blaming me for this?”

  “I’m not—”

  “I’m here because I thought you should know she’s not doing too great. Forget about me for a minute.” He made a sour face. “Yeah, I know, it’s hard. But pretend. If I weren’t here and Blair was playing games all day, never taking a shower, not eating, letting her job fall by the wayside, what would you do?”

  “She’s not taking her morning shower?” That was a bad sign. Blair was usually obsessive about her personal hygiene.

  “She never takes off her pajamas.”

  Rose got to her feet. “She needs to go back to the doctor. Or see a therapist.”

  “Would you like to be the one to suggest that to her?”

  “John, this is what I mean about who you are to her. If you’re still—” She wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  “If we’re still getting married?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “Even though we don’t ‘have’ to?”

  She met his cold gaze, held it. “Yes.”

  “I’m not going to leave her now. I told you that.”

  For the first time, Rose wondered if Blair might want him to leave. Getting pregnant had confused things. Maybe now she was having second thoughts. “I’ll go see her right now. Is she up?”

  “I had something else in mind. That’s why I’m here so early.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But I don’t know if you’ll do it, given your history.”

  That again. He’d never believe she didn’t want him back, how completely she’d moved on. “What happened between us—”

  “Not you and me. You and him. Mark.”

  The air went out of her. “What?”

  “I know how you are with old boyfriends. Though I still have a hard time believing he came close to that.”

  “How does Mark have anything to do with helping Blair?”

  “His mother issued an invitation to Lake Tahoe for Christmas. They’ve got a big cabin up there, not far from my mom’s place, though she’ll be in LA this year with my aunt, celebrating their new sisterly devotion to one another after years of hating each other’s guts.” He ran his finger along the windowsill. “I thought we’d join my mom at my aunt’s, but given how Blair’s feeling, I didn’t think that would be such a great idea.”

  Rose fought down the toxic jealousy that struck her at the thought of Mark’s family reaching out to Blair. “Trixie invited you guys to join them for Christmas?”

  “Not me.” He laughed humorously. “Though the crazy hippie had to include me when we reminded her I exist.”

  So, Mark’s mom was still trying to set him up with Blair. Rose studied her recent manicure so John couldn’t see the pain in her eyes.

  Trixie was a nice woman, sweet, nurturing. Rose wouldn’t be insulted she’d never turned her matchmaking eyes in her direction; if Mark had given any clue, she would have.

  “You should go,” Rose said finally. “She needs to get out of the house, be with people on Christmas. It sounds beautiful up there.”

  “She won’t go. Not for herself.” He crossed his arms over his chest, raised an eyebrow. “But she will for you.”

  Her throat constricted. “I’m not invited.”

  “It’s a casual thing, Trixie said. ‘The more the merrier.’”

  “But why—why would Blair go if I go?”

  “She’s worried about you being alone. And she wants to get you back together with Mark. She has this wild idea you two are meant for each other.”

  Turning, she closed her eyes. A cabin in the mountains, Christmas, family, him. “I can’t.”

  She heard him exhale. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said.

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know a little bit.”

  “Look around, John. I’ve suddenly lost the roof over my head. Again. And I just found out my job isn’t as great as I thought it was.” She tightened the drawstring of her red pajama pants. “I’ve got a lot to take care of.”

  “Sure. Because Christmas is such a great time to find a house and a job.” He strode toward the door. “It’s got nothing to do with you being a commitment-phobe.”

  “You don’t know—”

  He held up his hands, waved away her words. “Had that third date, no reason to have a fourth. I get it.”

  “You got that from Blair. I’ve gone on lots of fourth dates. With you, for instance.”

  He turned, held up his fingers. “We had exactly three dates. I counted them. We spent a few weekends in bed, but if you count the times we actually went out together, it comes up to three. I went back and checked my calendar.” He grinned, eyes narrowed. “Blair’s right. You act all tough on the outside, but inside you’re just as soft as the rest of us, terrified of getting hurt.”

  “We had three dates because you never wanted to be seen with me and then slept with my best friend,” she spat out.

  “I seduced your best friend because I knew you were about to dump me.” He shrugged. “And I liked her more.”

  Rose ground her molars together, desperately fighting the urge to deck him.

  But she couldn’t abandon Blair—to her depression, to the company of this selfish, arrogant toad.

  “I would be happy to join the Johnsons for Christmas if I thought it would help Blair,” she said through her teeth.

  “You sure you can handle the ghosts of boyfriends past?”

  “I have no problem seeing Mark or even you, no matter how many or how few dates I had the misfortune of experiencing.”

  John smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.” He pulled out his phone, touched the screen. “I’ll te
ll Trixie to expect us around six.”

  * * *

  A few minutes after John drove away, just as Rose was cursing at herself for forgetting to buy shampoo the night before, the doorbell rang again.

  Now what did he want? She threw down the bag from the store and marched to the door, thinking she should just go to their house to shower. If the three of them were going to spend the next few days together in some mountain cabin anyway, there was no point avoiding them now. She rubbed her scalp, dreaming of her favorite salon back in New York. She hadn’t even looked for a place to get her hair done here in California yet.

  Should she bother?

  She stopped with her hand on the black wrought-iron door handle, surprised by how vivid the image was of her hopping in her Toyota and flooring it eastward for two thousand miles.

  She could live in her old bedroom rent-free, go back to school. Then she’d be prepared to rejoin the workforce with the ammunition to deal with pricks like Dennis and Rob. Sure, living at home meant she’d have to deal with Slug, but he was no worse than the guys she fought off in public. Well, maybe a little worse, since her mother seemed to love him.

  And would put up with unbelievable amounts of crap from him because she was afraid of being alone.

  She exhaled, opened her eyes.

  No. I won’t go home. I won’t run away again, even if I have to start over.

  She pulled open the door.

  Earlier that morning, she’d expected Sylly but got John. Now it was the reverse.

  Her red stilettos dangled from his extended fingers.

  “You got my stuff!” She surged forward and gave Sylly a hug, not caring he’d caused her all kinds of trouble. She saw her suitcases, boxes, and kitchen gear stacked up next to him on the steps.

  He patted her shoulder. “You won’t be so happy when you find out the truck won’t be back with all the furniture until next week.”

  She stepped back, reclaimed the shoes, air-kissed them. “The furniture’s coming back? You don’t have to do that. I just needed my stuff. And a heads-up,” she said. “You said you’d give me at least a month’s warning.” Her suitcase was heavy, which made her happy, imagining all her precious sweaters and scarves and underwear and bras—oh, thank God she wouldn’t have to wear that scratchy, ill-fitting torture device she got last night—