by S. M. Soto
Just like that.
My smile drops. My brows dip down even more.
Okay, I know I’m not imagining things now. My neighbor truly is a jerk.
A heaviness settles on my chest, and I shake my head, trying to let the sensation roll off me. I shouldn’t care or take his brush-off personally. Maybe he’s just a weirdo who likes his privacy? But a part of me, the bit that loves to please others and hates being disliked, that part of me won’t let it go.
I just don’t get it.
Ignoring the need to march next door and demand an answer for my neighbor’s brashness, I pop the trunk and start unloading my bags. I mainly bought some stuff for inside the house, but I also bought some yard and gardening tools at the hardware store. I figured I’d take advantage of the cool breeze and get to work on the backyard. I should probably start on the front first, but with the way the sun is beating down on the porch and scraggly lawn, I’ll take my chances in the back, where it’s shaded.
Dressed in my ratty Long Beach High tank top, a pair of capri yoga pants, and an old, abused Disneyland hat, I get to work in the back, pulling weeds. My next task will be getting the grass to grow back in the lawn because, right now, it mainly consists of dirt and weeds. It looks an awful lot like an abandoned field back here.
About halfway into clearing the back, I hear a scraping sound coming from the fence next door and the sound of something jingling together. Beads of sweat roll down my temples, and the sweat glides down my back uncomfortably. With furrowed brows, I turn toward the source. A white and black paw snakes out beneath the fence from next door. A smile crests on my face, as I drop the tools and pull the gardening gloves off. That grin suddenly drops when a growl sounds, and the dog next door, somehow, manages to push through a loose board in the fence—just another thing I have to fix—into my yard.
The husky’s eyes are what slam into me first. The dog’s almond-shaped eyes are so gray, they almost look white. His head has black and white markings. The black wraps around his eyes and ears, even trailing between his eyes, while the rest of his face is that snow white coloring. The markings between his eyes, along with their color, make him look astute and, dare I say, intimidating.
The husky prowls toward me, growling under his breath. I try to control my heart rate and take a slow step back. After dealing with so many animals and their different temperaments, I’m trained to handle these situations, but, for some reason, with each step away I take from the husky, I can’t seem to get my breathing in check. He’s so…intimidating. It’s almost like he’s scowling at me. The markings on his face make him look more severe than most of the other breeds I’ve seen.
Pushing upright, I stand to my full height, showing him who the alpha is. If I show my dominance, he’s less likely to pounce and attack me.
“All right, buddy,” I say, reaching my hand out slowly. His growl grows in volume. He obviously doesn’t like the change in positions. “We’re all friends here. Why don’t you go on back to your yard, and I’ll go back inside?” I take a tentative step closer, and he lurches forward, snarling at me.
I yank my hand back, my heart racing now. Perspiration beads on my brow, and I work to control my breathing. The dog bares his teeth, still growling at me, and we both freeze at the brusque whistle. At the same time, we both glance toward the fence at the sound of the deep voice.
“Max.”
My neighbor’s voice is rough, raspy, and filled with the command of an alpha—an alpha of a dog, of course, that’s what I meant.
Max dutifully follows his owner’s voice, popping through the loose board back into their yard, as if he didn’t just scare me shitless. A tremor rolls down my spine when my gaze clashes with the neighbor’s, and I let out an inaudible gasp. His face is a blank mask. He’s so cavalier, so cold, yet each time he regards me, I feel a stirring deep in my gut. A prickling sensation on my scalp and along my fingertips that I can’t quite place.
With the back of my hand, I wipe the sweat off my forehead and smile awkwardly in thanks. I take unsure steps toward the fence, treating my neighbor just like I did his dog. Like he’s a vicious animal going to attack, without a second’s warning.
“Thank you. I work with animals, so I usually don’t have a problem calming them down, but I guess—”
My neighbor turns on his heels and starts walking away, as I’m in the middle of speaking. He just turns his back on me, not even letting me finish. My mouth hangs open in shock, and I flinch when I hear his sliding glass door slam shut.
Now I’m really starting to get pissed off.
What the hell is his problem?
“Summer Feelings”—Lennon Stella ft. Charlie Puth
My first official day at Bennett Veterinary starts off a complete mess. I hit snooze one too many times on my alarm, and then, when it comes time to shower, the pipes decide to have a meltdown because the soft water I paid for is, in fact, not soft, and apparently, the temperature gauge is shit, too, because I feel like I am showering somewhere in the Arctic.
With my nipples as hard as rocks and goosebumps permanently etched on my skin, I don’t even bother with makeup. I quickly put my hair into a low bun, before tossing on my work scrubs and flying out the front door, sans breakfast. Of course, that isn’t even the worst of my morning. Want to know what tops it off? My dickhole neighbor exiting his house at the same time as me. And, like the idiot I am, I pause in my haste and wave at him again. I’m not even surprised when he looks right through me, hops on his bike, and revs it to life, peeling away.
Frustration simmering just below the surface has me grinding my teeth and curling my hands into fists. I give myself an inner pep talk, as I get into my car and take off, telling myself the next time I see my neighbor, I’m going to ignore him, just like he’s ignoring me.
That’ll show him.
Bennett Veterinary is a step up from the last place I was working at just outside of Long Beach. Though the facility is a bit smaller, overall, the place is a lot cleaner and organized. The staff is sweet. With a total of four vets, six vet techs, and two other assistants, I complete the clinic’s employees.
I spend most of the day touring the facility and learning how they handle in-care procedures for the animals. I am given a quick crash course on everything from sick and injured animal care to cleanup, and shown where the animal kennels and procedure rooms are. I meet three of the four vets. Dr. Bennett and his son own the clinic. Samuel Bennett is in his early seventies and will be retiring soon. With coffee-colored eyes and hair that’s as white as snow, Dr. Bennett is a sweet, delicate man I can’t help but adore during our first meeting. His son, Travis, will be taking over the clinic when he retires. Though Travis wasn’t able to make it in today to meet me, I figure I am in good hands here at the clinic. I think I spend most of my day smiling as we go through the procedures. That smile only grows when they finally allow me near the animals.
This has always been my favorite part about working with animals. Healing them. Without realizing it, they heal me, too. The ability to relieve the suffering of a living, breathing creature that has experienced traumatic injuries or chronic illness is nothing short of incredible. Caring for animals always seems to take my mind off whatever troubles I’ve been having beforehand. Because the way animals express their gratitude is far greater than the way humans do. It’s easily the most rewarding job I’ve ever had.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when I decided I wanted to care for animals. I wasn’t even animal obsessed when I was younger; there was just a part of me that wanted to heal anything or anyone. Sometimes, humans could be real assholes, so I decided healing animals was as good of a consolation prize as any.
After soothing a cat with worms and hooking up a dog to anesthesia, after he got stuck with pine needles, I realize it’s time to go. I clean up my station and move the animals from my care over to Lucy, one of the other assistants, before I leave. The entire ride home is a breath of fresh air. The best thing about working here? I
t has to be the drive.
Before, when I lived in Long Beach, I had to drive almost two hours each day to get to work, but here? It’s only a twenty-minute drive with traffic.
My cheerful mood dims when I pull into my driveway and notice the neighbor’s garage is open. The light is on inside, illuminating the space, giving me a clear view of the red and black muscle car inside. He left his bike sitting out in his driveway. The car he’s working on inside looks old, probably one of those Chevelles or Mustangs. I’m not a car person, so obviously, I can’t be too sure what it is.
Much like it was last time, the hood is popped, and my neighbor is ducked under, working on something beneath it. I don’t know what because I force myself to glance away.
“Ignore him. He’s an asshole who isn’t worth your time,” I chant to myself, as I grab my house keys and lift my purse from the passenger seat. It’s a wonder I can keep my gaze straight ahead the entire time I walk from the car to the house. When I’m inside, the door safely locked, I rest my back against the wood and blow out a sigh. The only bad thing about the move? So far, it’s my neighbor.
Figuring it’s safe to do so now, I sneak a glance over at his house, but I can’t see inside his garage from here, which is probably a good thing. The last thing I need is another reason to keep making myself look stupid in front of my neighbor.
The next few days at work are a breeze. Each day, I find myself coming home with a wide grin on my face. I’ve even made friends with the other assistants who work at the clinic. What’s even better is I’ve finally found my routine of ignoring my neighbor. I hardly ever see him now, but I do hear his dog, Max, barking up a storm every now and then. The animal lover in me wants to go next door and get playful with him, but I stop short, remembering what a dickhead his owner is and just how cold the animal was toward me that first time.
That’ll need to be rectified.
I get back to the task at hand, taping the plastic over the floors. I honestly don’t understand why I even bother. The floors are about as ugly as they’re going to get, but in all the videos on painting I’ve watched on YouTube, I figure it’s best to follow a professional’s instructions. I may not be Chip or Joanna Gaines, but I sure as hell plan on painting and decorating my house to at least a fraction of their standards.
Yesterday, after work, I stopped at the hardware store and picked up some primer for the walls. I’m still volleying between colors, but I figure getting the ball rolling by throwing on the primer is as good of a start as any.
See? That’ll show my parents. Only a true professional would know about primer.
With all my supplies laid out, my back door and windows open, and the music blasting, I get to work. I have my furniture in the living room all bunched together in the center to avoid any paint mishaps. I dip the paint roller into the tray and roll it, allowing the paint to soak into the fiber. My hips sway to the beat of Bell Biv Devoe’s “Poison.” I belt out the lyrics, rolling the white primer over the hideous eggshell. With each dip and swipe, more of the wall gets covered, and I can’t contain my grin.
A new slate.
One that’s mine and mine alone.
Before I realize it, two walls in the living room have been primed, and I’m on to the third. “Saturday Love” by Cherrelle blasts over the Bluetooth speakers, and I bob my head.
Singing along to the lyrics, I’m so lost in the task and the upbeat song that I don’t hear the banging on the screen door for a good few minutes. Nor do I hear the sharp bark or the deep baritone of a male’s voice.
I whirl around, completely startled. In the process, paint splatters against my coffee table, and I hiss.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
The banging on the front screen door starts up again. With a growl, I drop the handle, letting the roller drop into the paint. I wipe my paint-smothered hands on my shorts and tank top. I don’t know where all the paint came from. I could’ve sworn I was doing a superb job, but as I glance down at the droplets of paint covering the floor and my shoes, I realize it’s a lot harder than I originally thought.
My heart lurches when I close the distance from the living room to the screen door. Something stirs in my stomach, the effects of the sensation travel through my veins, and I refuse to acknowledge what it is, as I open the screen door, coming face-to-face with my neighbor. His face is pulled taut with frustration. His eyes are narrowed, practically incinerating me with the glare he’s shooting my way. His plump lips are pressed in a grim line. He has a small amount of stubble dusted along his sharp jawline. His black T-shirt hugs his muscles to perfection, and even though I can feel his anger, I find myself struggling not to gape at how handsome he is.
When I finally meet his gaze, I’m startled by the intensity reflected back at me. I thought his eyes were a stark, deep blue, but I was wrong. Today, his eyes, though still blue, have taken on a lighter gray hue. Those pewter eyes glare into me, drilling holes into my skull, and I swallow thickly, forcing an awkward smile.
“Sorry, can I help you?”
He chuckles darkly, without humor, resting one large hand along the doorframe, and shakes his head. “Yeah, you can, by turning down the fucking music. I can’t even hear myself think.”
The ire in his gaze and the way he regards me with such disgust make me want to curl in on myself and hide. Everything about him is intimidating. His height, his build, just how handsome he is. It’s typical really. A good-looking man with a shit attitude. What else is new?
Instead of curling in on myself like I want to, I square my shoulders, not letting him see how much he gets to me. How much his constant blatant rudeness bothers me.
“I’ll turn it down, but for future reference, maybe people won’t think you’re such a dickhead, if you ask nicely.”
The corners of his mouth tip into a cold smile. “Listen, I couldn’t really give a shit what you think about me.”
My mouth drops open in shock. Without sparing me another glance, he fixes his gaze on the mess of paint behind me in the living room and shakes his head again, before he turns, heading back toward his house. The entire way, I watch him, the muscles in his back flexing and straining against the fabric of his shirt. His hands are curled into fists the entire way. I flinch at the finality of his door slamming shut behind him.
“What a prick,” I whisper to myself. And, of course, just like the pleasing neighbor I am, I lower the volume of my music to a reasonable level and get back to painting.
Hours later, I take a step back, surveying the entirety of the living room, and I grin. The white primer covers the eggshell beautifully. Now, all I need to do is pick a color to go over this, once it’s dry, but obviously, that’s a decision for another day.
After I get everything cleaned up, washing and storing the paint supplies in the closet for later use, I make myself something to eat. I settle on the Adirondack chair in the backyard on the newly cleaned porch and watch the sunset. It’s beautiful, the way the orange and purple blend harmoniously.
I used to spend a lot of time outdoors back in the place I shared with Reid. At first, we’d share our dinners out on the deck together, doing exactly this, watching the sunset. I don’t exactly know when it happened, but at some point, we stopped doing those things together. We stopped enjoying each other’s presence. After a while, I got used to sitting out there alone with my dinner, wrapped in silence.
The only difference now? I don’t feel as lonely as I did then. It got to the point where I hated the dynamic of our relationship. The fighting. The avoidance. I think those silent, lonely dinners taught me how to be on my own. How to enjoy my own company. It’s exactly why I can sit here now, with a smile on my face, enjoying such a simple day and a simple meal.
This is the life I’ve always wanted. An independent one.
Nothing and no one can change that.
I tense on the chair when I hear the telltale sound of nails scraping against the wood, and when I glance toward my neighbor’s fence, I’m not
even surprised when Max slips in through the loose board. I’m on immediate alert, especially since our last encounter didn’t go over so well, and he acted like I was a piece of raw meat he wanted to attack.
Max prowls across the lawn, his wolf instincts on high alert. As he gets closer, I start to hear the deep rumble of his growl. Slowly, I push up from the chair, and unlike last time, I drop to my knees and cautiously put my hand out between us for him to sniff. Either that or maul. It could honestly go either way, knowing how aggressive his owner is.
“Not this time, buddy,” I mumble to myself.
Max closes the distance between us, and a smile crests on my face, when I feel his wet nose poke at my hand.
“That’s it, sweet boy. There you go. I knew deep down you were a teddy bear, Maxie.”
He seems to enjoy the soft lilt I use in my animal talking voice, because he rubs his whole head against my hand, trying to get me to pet him. To which, I oblige, of course. He’s just too handsome not to. I scratch behind his ears and pet his coat. My brows jump into my hairline at how well-groomed he is. I guess I didn’t expect the asshole to be a decent owner, but I can tell by the lack of shedding, the shine of his coat, and how wet Max’s nose is that my neighbor is, in fact, a good owner.
“Too bad I planned on taking you away from your jerk daddy.”
A deep throat clears, jerking my attention away from Max and toward the source. “I’d like to see you try.”
The asshole in question is leaning against the fence, his forearms propped against the weathered wood, his gaze fixed on me petting his dog. A flush rises to my cheeks, burning the tips of my ears. I’m glad my hair is down to block the evidence of my reaction toward him.
