Next-Door Nemesis(22)
Because this time, the winner takes all.
Or at least the HOA.
Chapter 9
Part of me expected a parking lot showdown with Nate after I announced my candidacy for HOA president. I was a little disappointed after I left from filling out the paperwork and was only met with a jubilant Ashleigh. Sparring with Nate was ninety-nine percent of the reason I signed up. If he was going to retreat peacefully into the night, what even was the point of all this?
My closed laptop mocked me from my desk as I tossed and turned all night long. The reality of what I just volunteered myself for came crashing down on me before I could reach my REM cycle. As if I don’t have a thousand more pressing issues to tackle, now I get to add learning neighborhood bylaws to my plate.
“Collins!” My dad shouts from somewhere in the house. “The plants aren’t going to water themselves!”
I roll over and grab my phone. Seven o’clock in the morning.
Retirement is ruining my father.
“Coming!” I yell back even though I want to snuggle deeper into the duvet they bought me for college.
I open my morning text message from my mom to see what Bible verse she sent me today. Philippians.
Classic.
Pulling on my favorite sweatshirt, I opt to go braless again before slipping into my most worn-in leggings, where the thread is just hanging on at the seams, before heading downstairs.
When I enter the kitchen, I’m met with the familiar sight of Anderson and Kimberly sitting at the kitchen table, one hand on their coffee cups, the other entangled with each other. Gross.
“Good morning, parentals,” I greet them both, trying to ignore the growing void of loneliness threatening to swallow me whole. Who cares if my future only includes my mom’s wall art, cats, and monthly HOA meetings? Not me.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” my mom says. “There’s coffee on the counter if you want any. I bought that creamer you like; it’s on the second shelf in the fridge.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Getting my favorite creamer from the store is a small gesture, but unbidden tears spring to my eyes. “That was really thoughtful.”
When I dated Peter, I was so distracted by his gorgeous eyes and thick head of hair, I didn’t even notice that he never did small things like this. I was always going out of my way to let him know I cared, but instead of expecting the same treatment, I accepted crumbs.
Less than crumbs, actually.
Peter gave me nothing for years. He used me and abused the trust I had in him. And worse? I allowed it, not even thinking to demand better until he turned my world upside down.
My parents may wake me up at seven and force me to watch Survivor with them every week, but it’s nice to be reminded what it feels like to be loved and appreciated.
“Oh please, it’s just creamer.” She waves me off, not even a tiny bit aware of how moved I am. “Though, I did have to have quite the conversation with the woman at checkout. She was asking if I was lactose intolerant. She couldn’t understand why I was getting almond milk creamer instead of the real stuff.”
I pour more than I should into the medium-roast coffee my mom brewed this morning. “Gotta love the Midwest’s commitment to the dairy industry.”
’Murica.
“So . . .” My dad levels me with the same look he used when he found out Ruby and I put instant mashed potatoes on Reggie Braftly’s lawn in sixth grade. “What’s this I hear about you running for HOA president, and why is Jack telling me instead of my own daughter?”
“You were in bed when I got home last night and I just woke up.” I knew this wouldn’t stay a secret, but I’m still surprised by the speed at which gossip travels in this neighborhood. “I didn’t think news would get around before sunrise.”
“Does this mean you’re planning on staying longer?” my mom asks.
This was one of about a million things I wasn’t thinking about when I opened my big mouth last night. I’ve been trying to plot my escape from the Reserve at Hell’s Creek since I moved back, and with one careless moment, I tethered myself to this place for even longer.
“I guess so.” I take a deep gulp of my coffee and avoid my dad’s disapproving glare.
It’s not me staying longer that he’s objecting to. He loves having me here, that much I know. It’s just that I’m an avoider. I always have been. And even though the logic has proven faulty time and time again, I probably always will be. My dad knows—maybe even more than me—that this new HOA scheme is an attempt to distract myself from the upcoming pilot season where I should be rejoicing in the script that I worked my ass off on getting recognized.
“Mm-hmm.” The deep tenor that resonates in his throat says more than any number of words ever could.
“I think this is wonderful,” my sunny, ever-the-optimist mom says. “What does running for the HOA even entail? Is there anything we can help you with?”
“I’m not totally sure yet,” I say, instead of admitting that I only signed up out of revenge and have no idea what I got myself into. “I’m going over to Ashleigh’s later to start researching and planning my campaign strategy.”
Mom looks very impressed. Dad looks . . . skeptical.
“Well, before you go figure out how to take over the neighborhood, don’t forget to take care of the garden.” He slides a little piece of paper across the table that I know is a checklist. “The compost is due for a turn today and the grass needs to be mowed.”