The Dream Guy Next Door: A Guys Who Got Away Novel

by Lauren Blakely

  Her grin is magic, and she says, “To state the obvious, I like you so much too.”

  That’s what makes this tryst so wonderful and so dangerous. We are falling into something that can’t possibly last.

  23

  January

  I’m outside tending to the garden when Ethan and Liam return from school on their bikes. My heart thumps at the sight of them wheeling down the street. Liam’s eyes lock with mine from the bike. Ethan stops and says hi, then declares, “I have to go play baseball right now.”

  Liam shrugs. “It’s true. He does have to.”

  Ethan rolls to the driveway, and Liam calls out to him, “Why don’t you just go inside and clean up and set your backpack down?”

  “Then can we go to the park?” Ethan looks at me and asks, “Want to come with us, January?”

  I smile, glancing at Liam, who mouths, Only if you want to.

  “I’d love to.”

  Ethan runs inside as Liam asks, “What are you doing tonight? After you’ve played baseball?”

  “Do you want me to sneak up on the roof?”

  “Let’s get a blanket and lie there and stare at the stars.”

  “You have to stop saying these things.”

  “What? Thoroughly romantic things that make you fall for me?”

  My chest flips. Is it that obvious I’m falling for him? Am I trying to hide it? No, I’m not. “Yes, those things.”

  “Actually, why don’t we sit outside by the pool after he goes to bed?”

  “So we don’t roll off the roof while making out?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Beauty and brains. How can I resist the hot British vet next door?”

  “I don’t think you can,” he says, all deadpan and then some.

  After Wednesday and I join them for a casual baseball game, running the bases, striking out, hitting pop flies and the occasional dinger, we debate the greatest ballplayers of all time.

  I say Sandy Koufax.

  Ethan says Steve Trout.

  Wednesday says he’s wrong.

  We all laugh, and on the way home, we run into Ethan’s new friend Travis and his two dads. Ethan makes plans with Travis to play baseball that weekend, and I catch up with his parents, who run the local hardware shop.

  “We’ve got some new power tools you’ll like,” David says, his blue eyes glinting with delight.

  “Don’t you just know the way to a lady’s heart,” I say with a wink.

  David’s husband, Rob, wraps an arm around him. “Yes. Either power tools or a dress with pockets as my friend Jackson always says,” he says.

  I poke Liam. “Take notes. Dresses with pockets, and drills.”

  Liam taps his temple. “It’s all been filed away.”

  We say goodbye and continue on our way. The four of us—Liam, Wednesday, Ethan, and me—chat about dogs versus cats, pizza versus cake, and whether Wednesday could hack into the Dodgers roster and list Ethan as a pinch hitter one night.

  She says she could.

  Ethan doubts her.

  She gives him a noogie.

  He squirms away, cackling.

  Liam and I just smile and laugh, holding hands, and it feels a little bit like magic.

  When we reach our homes, we disperse, and after dinner with my daughter and time spent reviewing her English essay and finishing some invoicing, I say good night to her.

  She gets in bed with a book and a pointed stare. “I know what you’re doing.”

  I just shrug and say, “What?”

  “I know you’re going over there to see him. I know you’re doing that every night.”

  “Do you want me to deny it?”

  She laughs. “You couldn’t deny it if you tried. It’s so obvious from the googly-eyed way you do everything these days.”

  “Am I googly-eyed?”

  “You are so googly-eyed.”

  “Good night, Spawn.”

  As I leave her room, I send a note to Alva.

  * * *

  January: Am I googly-eyed?

  * * *

  Alva: Over the guy next door that you’re falling madly for?

  * * *

  January: Yes.

  * * *

  Alva: I’m cackling so hard right now I’m actually screaming.

  * * *

  January: Are you serious?

  * * *

  Alva: Can’t you hear me?

  * * *

  January: Am I that transparent?

  * * *

  Alva: I can read you. Also, stop analyzing everything. Go live your life. Go be googly-eyed for your neighbor. You deserve it.

  * * *

  I don’t know that anyone deserves anything, but I know this—I’m taking my happiness. As I leave my house, shutting the door behind me, I catch a glimpse of the sparrows on my arms.

  I have the strangest realization. Heading over to see Liam feels like freedom. It feels like me chasing my freedom. I don’t know what to make of that feeling. I simply know that it is.

  I join him in the backyard on the chaise lounge by the pool, snuggling next to him as he wraps an arm around me. We stare up at the September sky, and he points to the constellations. “This is the cheesy scene in a movie where I tell you that’s Cassiopeia, and then I say something like You’re prettier than Cassiopeia.”

  I swat at him. “One, you’re making fun of all romantic movies. Two, you’re making fun of me.”

  “Yes, I am doing all of that, and I am delighting in it.”

  “You’re evil.”

  He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “I am. Yet you’re still here. You like my evil side.”

  “How can you take a wildly romantic moment and turn it into a mockery?”

  He arches a brow. “One of my many talents?”

  “You have a lot of talents.”

  We let the teasing fade as we snuggle together. As he presses a kiss to my cheek, he whispers, “It is nice being romantic with you.”

  I move closer. “You’re prettier than Cassiopeia.”

  He laughs, and I do too, then we’re quiet.

  Wishes shift inside me, making room for new wants and desires. Still, I don’t know how to move past this huge roadblock.

  He wants a bigger family. I don’t.

  I don’t want to start over in the family-making department, but I don’t want to lose him either.

  Just focus on the here and now.

  “Tell me what you did today,” I say, trying to root myself to the moment.

  “I saved a dog’s life,” he says. He tells me about a dog who was hit by a car and brought in immediately, and how he devoted all his focus and energy to saving the poor pup and now the pooch is doing better.

  My heart, my God, it melts to pieces.

  “That’s amazing,” I choke out.

  “I’m glad I was there.”

  That’s all he says about it. I reach my hand up, stroking his hair. He closes his eyes and relaxes a little bit as I touch him.

  “Are you going to get a dog still?” I ask.

  With his eyes closed, he whispers, “Yes. Are you going to get a cat?”

  “I hope so,” I say. “Do you like Jason Segel movies?”

  He opens his eyes and laughs at me. “That’s a non sequitur. Jason Segel?”

  “I Love You, Man and Forgetting Sarah Marshall and The Muppets. I think he’s really funny.”

  His lips curl up in a grin. “Why are you asking me if I like Jason Segel movies?”

  “Because I do. I like him.”

  “And do you want me to have the same taste as you?”

  “I just want to know what your taste is.”

  He brings his face closer, brushes his lips across mine, and whispers, “I love Will Ferrell like crazy.”

  It sounds like he’s talking about Will Ferrell, but not about Will Ferrell at the exact same time. When we kiss, I’m positive neither one of us is thinking about Will Ferrell or Jason Segel at all.

  As
Liam’s hands skate up my body and mine slide under his shirt, I’m aware of a brand-new desperation at the thought of losing him.

  Because I might not be able to figure us out.

  But right now, I’m getting lost in pleasure, getting lost in sensation as he touches me, making me want him even more.

  I can tell where this night is going. To the bedroom. Before we venture there, I touch his face, stroke a thumb along his cheek, and meet his gaze. “What am I going to do about this?” I ask, feeling brave.

  Wildly, incredibly brave.

  “About what?”

  “About you,” I whisper.

  “What do you want to do about me?”

  “I don’t know what to do about the fact that I’m falling so hard for you, Liam.”

  He tries but fails to contain a grin. “What am I supposed to do about the fact that I’m falling for you?”

  We don’t have any good answers. So we answer it in a way that we’re both quite good at.

  “Let’s go inside,” I say.

  In his room, I take off my clothes. He climbs over me, grabs my wrists, pins them over my head, and sinks inside me.

  We’re quiet tonight. Thoroughly, completely quiet, saying nothing, only murmuring under our breaths.

  I’m quiet for one reason.

  I’m afraid that if I speak, I’ll tell him that I might, just might, be willing to change everything for him.

  24

  Liam

  My mother is tense and worried the whole time my father’s in the operating room. I take the day off for this latest surgery, distracting her by playing Words with Friends on our phones, and that settles her down until we get the good news that all is well.

  We take him home, and he rests most of the day.

  When he wakes up, he jokes and says, “I can see again. I can see again.”

  I don’t want to laugh, but I do anyway. It makes him happy, and we all know he can’t see that well, not like he used to. Still, the procedure should help lengthen the time until he loses his vision fully.

  After spending the afternoon with him at their house, I give him a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  I keep my word, stopping by after work with Ethan, who reads his grandfather some Percy Jackson, then he says he has to go play with Galinda and Elphaba.

  “Did you pick a cake for your birthday?” my dad calls out.

  “Yes! I want every flavor imaginable. Vanilla, chocolate, coconut, and caramel,” Ethan says.

  “That’s only four.”

  “I’ll take anything else you want to get too. I’m easy like that.” Then he races out to the backyard, flops down onto the grass, and lets the dogs lick his face.

  As I stare at my son from the kitchen window, a barrage of questions flies through my mind. I know he’s always loved dogs, baseball, and the water.

  I know he liked sweets when he was younger too.

  But what did his mom leave out on her list of instructions? What if something changed? Like I said to January, I’ll never know.

  I’ll never have the keys to the age-zero-to-seven years.

  As I watch him, though, I remember what January said the first night we slept together—write our own narrative.

  Make up a new story.

  Invent something fresh.

  I draw a deep breath, imagining the years I missed.

  And trying, trying so hard, to let them go.

  Later that night, after I’ve put Ethan to bed, Kerri rings. “So, how’s that money tree working out in your backyard?”

  “Oh, it’s fantastic. I just go out and shake it all the time.”

  “You know, everybody hates you.”

  I laugh as I sink down on the new couch, the one January assembled. I slide my hand along the cushions as I talk, thinking of her. “You hate me because I didn’t actually have to use a dating app?”

  “Yes. We hate you because of that.”

  “Who is we exactly?”

  “All women who don’t get to pluck men off trees in the yard. I speak for them.”

  “But you’re happily married,” I say, my brow knitting.

  “I still hate you for it. Now tell me all about her. I’m dying to know the details of the woman who’s captured your affections,” she says.

  I grin, all too eager to tell her. “She’s wonderful and fantastic. Smart and kind. Funny and sarcastic, and she has the hugest heart.”

  Kerri sighs happily. “Am I meeting her at Ethan’s party this weekend?”

  “I hope so. I’ll ask her to be there.”

  “Excellent. Dare I say it?”

  “Say what?”

  “She sounds like the one.”

  My heart pinches, a sharp pang winging through me. “She does sound like it, but I don’t think she wants that, Ker.”

  “She doesn’t want to walk down the aisle and pop out babies with you?” she asks, more serious now.

  “I don’t think she does.” I frown, wishing things were different.

  “Oh.” My sister is quiet for a long beat. “I mean, every woman should make her own choice, and good for her and all. But how is that going to gel with what you want?”

  Scrubbing a hand across my jaw, I shrug, my whole body weighing a thousand pounds. “Don’t know.”

  She allows a comforting silence to pass, then says, “I hope she changes her mind. For your sake.”

  I sigh, not sure what to say.

  “Or that you change yours.”

  But change it about what? That’s the thing—I don’t know. I came to California so certain about what I wanted, and now I feel lost, like I’m wandering through the woods without a map.

  Like I’m in IKEA without January.

  After we say goodbye, a text from Oliver flashes on my screen, asking if life in California is perfect.

  I write back, sort of lying, sort of telling the truth.

  * * *

  Liam: It’s fantastic.

  * * *

  He sees through me immediately.

  * * *

  Oliver: That means you’re getting your knob wet.

  * * *

  I have a laugh at his crude turn of phrase but expect nothing different from my cousin—in a good way.

  * * *

  Liam: Is that the only reason a man can be happy?

  * * *

  Oliver: No, but it certainly helps. So, is it the fox who assembled your furniture while you were at work?

  * * *

  Liam: Yes. I’ve been seeing her a lot.

  * * *

  Oliver: So, it looks like you found Ms. Right. Good on you.

  * * *

  But that’s not the case at all. My shoulders slump, impossibly heavy, heavier, even, than when I was speaking to Kerri. The truth seems even starker now as I share it with Oliver.

  * * *

  Liam: That’s the trouble. She’s not interested in that.

  * * *

  Oliver: Oh. Can’t you convince her? Have you lost your touch, coz? Are you no longer convincing?

  * * *

  But what do I really need to convince her of? To be serious? To be a partner? To want more, so much more?

  And if you can convince someone, is that person agreeing to have a family just for you? Is it fair to even ask that of someone?

  Why can’t it be easy, finding the right person at the right time?

  But it’s not, and asking for what you want is harder than fixing a dog’s leg.

  I wince as I imagine trying to say those awkward words to January. Want to be mine all the time, build a life together and maybe, just maybe, a family?

  Trying to string together the words to convey my desires ties me in knots.

  Knots I never quite expected.

  But . . . what are my desires?

  Are they still the same?

  Because as I lie here, staring at the ceiling, wondering about my future, the next few months, the next few years look muddled.

  For th
e first time in ages, I’m not even sure of what I want.

  And I don’t know how to turn the glass half full.

  All else aside, the first thing I need to convince January of is coming to Ethan’s birthday party. When I see her the next morning on the sidewalk, I ask, “Would you like to come to Ethan’s birthday party this weekend?”

  “I’d love to. And I was going to be seriously pissed if you didn’t invite me.”

  A grin takes over my whole face, and I feel certain of this much—of her, of how much I like spending time with her. “Oh, have you been tracking his birthday?”

  “He’s only told me twenty times that it’s this weekend. I’ve already bought him a gift.”

  “You know the way to his heart.”

  “Well, I am raising a child. They do like gifts.”

  “I like gifts,” I say, and I tug at the waistband of her shorts.

  She rolls her eyes. “You like the gift of getting in my pants.”

  “It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Can you blame me? It’s a wonderful present.”

  She runs her fingertip down my nose. “And so is being asked to your son’s party.”

  I’m aware of what I’m asking her. I’m asking her to meet my parents. And it feels terrifying.

  But also . . . not terrifying at all.

  Maybe when I’m there, surrounded by family, I’ll know exactly what I want.

  That Saturday, we head over to Lucky Falls in her pink truck. Of course, Wednesday was invited, but she had a pressing fifteen-year-old engagement to attend to—something about melting marshmallows with Audrey for their YouTube channel.