Next-Door Nemesis(11)
“So . . .” Nate says once Angela is out of earshot. “You’re a gardener now?”
“Small talk? Really?” I’m so not in the mood for this. He can fool everyone else, but he won’t fool me. Not again. “What do you want, Nate?”
He drags a hand through his thick black hair and groans. The low, deep rumble sends vibrations running through the ground and the worn-out rubber on my feet. I’m ashamed to admit that I feel it between my thighs.
“Listen, Collins. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. That’s fine,” he starts, and I have no idea where he’s going with this. “But I respect your parents and if you’re going to be my neighbor, the least we could do is figure out how to be civil toward one another. At least enough that we’re not spraying each other with water.”
God.
Even when he’s trying to make a truce, he’s still an arrogant, insufferable asshole.
“First of all, you know I didn’t spray you on purpose. Please stop trying to twist this into something that didn’t happen.” I stop and draw in a long inhale through my nose when I feel my pulse beginning to race. “Second, I have no problem being civil. Not sure you noticed, but I was minding my own business. You’re the one that chose to come over here and bother me, not the other way around.”
“I see civility is off the table,” he mumbles beneath his breath, which only further pisses me off. “So you planted this tree? What kind is it?”
I feel a little whiplash at the rapid change in topic, but I answer in hopes that it will send him on his way faster.
“I did.” I omit that I’m only doing this because my mom has banned my dad from all garden work for a week. It’s none of his business and it will only prolong this conversation. “It’s a white oak. I never got to garden in LA, so I’m going all out while I’m home.”
“That makes sense. Starving artists don’t typically have the space or funds to do stuff like this, huh?”
“Yup.” I know he’s trying to get a rise out of me. This is how Nate operates. I might’ve played into his games at the coffee shop, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction today. “I totally starved myself through Hollywood events and pitching my shows to execs. I should’ve joined the HOA like you.”
“That’s a nice way of saying you’ve been failing for ten years. Opportunity after opportunity, and yet—” He gestures to the space around us. “Here you are. Back at Mommy and Daddy’s house.”
It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to react to hearing my negative self-talk coming out of someone else’s mouth, but I manage.
Barely.
“And to think, my fallback plan is your first choice.” I hit him where I know it hurts. Once upon a time we were best friends; it’s how we’re able to take each other down with such brutal accuracy. “It’s easy to seem like a success when you aim low. Am I right?”
“Screw you, Collins.” The mask he wears for everyone else slips and the real Nate reveals himself. “You were right to leave. Now, get over whatever hissy fit you’re throwing so you can hurry up and abandon the only people that care about you. Again.”
He turns to leave, not wanting to give me the chance to have the last word. But as he marches away, my blood feels like lava sifting through my veins. The heat and pressure swelling inside me make it impossible to contain my temper any longer.
“Hey, Nate.” I reach down for the hose I’d forgotten about as he takes his time to turn and face me. “Just so we’re clear, this time? It’s on purpose.”
I push the lever all the way up, aiming the nozzle and hitting my target dead-on. Nate barely flinches as the cold water rains down on him.
I don’t know how long we stand there, both glaring and silently shouting everything we could never say out loud before he finally turns to leave.
“You’re going to regret that, Collins Carter!” he shouts over his shoulder, not looking back once.
Instead of the fear I’m sure he was intending, petty giddiness makes my skin tingle with anticipation of battles to be fought.
“Bring it on, Nathanial Adams!”
He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to bring him to his fucking knees.
Chapter 5
While Mom’s potato salad isn’t famous, her gatherings are. Nobody strives to be the perfect hostess more than Kimberly Carter.
She woke me up at six o’clock this morning to prepare the backyard. Not only did I have to mow the lawn—something I will gladly never do again—but she pulled out the ladder so I could string lights and lanterns from the trees. The folding tables stacked in the basement are scattered about the space, covered in fabric tablecloths because she would never use tacky plastic (her words, not mine) even though this is a literal barbecue and they’ll probably be ruined by the end of the night.
What started out as a small gathering with some of her church friends and my dad’s golfing buddies has morphed into a completely different beast. My mom told me to invite Ashleigh and Grant, whom she then directed to invite their neighbors, and so on and so on. Steaks from Meijer turned out to be steaks, chicken, hot dogs, and burgers and five pitchers of sangria. Neighbors I remember from before I moved to LA mingle with neighbors I’ve never seen before. There’s constant motion at the gate entrance as people come and go, each person bringing a new casserole dish with them.