Next-Door Nemesis(34)
“Sure,” I agree, my curiosity more than a little bit piqued.
Plus, if all else fails, I’m pretty sure I can trick him into saying something else incriminating enough to put on my next flyer.
Chapter 13
As the last two women leave Nate’s house, leveling me with a final glare before the door shuts behind them, a heavy silence falls over the now-empty space. It’s later than I thought it would be. Apparently, suburban folks love a good spread on a weeknight. There’s not a single scrap of food left over on the many platters scattered across his kitchen. Empty wine bottles and glasses litter every surface in sight.
“So . . .” Nerves I didn’t expect come out of nowhere. “What a night, am I right?”
His back is toward me as he finishes locking up and I take a moment to stare without him knowing. I was right when I guessed his outfit earlier. His khaki pants mold to the backs of his thighs, which have grown thicker since our high school days. As the night wore on, he undid the buttons on his sleeves and rolled them up. He’s always so uptight, so polished, that the barest sight of his forearms sent a few of his guests scrambling.
“That’s one way to put it.” He runs his hand through his slightly overgrown hair. He sounds tired, run-down even, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s regretting asking me to stay. “You were a hit though.”
Much to my shock and awe, he’s not wrong.
After I said goodbye to Ashleigh with promises to text her when I got home and meet her for lunch to debrief tomorrow, I was forced to mingle with Nate’s other guests. I tapped into my extrovert reserves and made my way around the room.
I made sure to say hi to the neighbors I’ve known throughout the years, asking how their spouses and children were doing, but also made sure to introduce myself to the attendees I hadn’t yet met. I even managed to wrangle an invitation from Mrs. Morris to join her and Nate on their morning walks. Nate’s eyes almost popped out of his head when she offered, and although agreeing was on the tip of my tongue, I politely declined.
I also fell in love with Caroline and Hank Sanders. They bought their house the year I left for college. I’ve seen them out and about over the years, but tonight was the first time we’d ever spoken. They’re both in their late thirties; she works from home as a part-time psychologist, and he runs a construction company in Columbus—which he absolutely didn’t refer to as C-bus. They have two kids who go to the local middle school and are getting too cool to hang out with them anymore. She went to school in NYC and even though she moved out here kicking and screaming, she’s really come to enjoy the quiet peacefulness our suburban town offers. We have the same taste in food, shows, and books, and before she left, she invited me to her next book club meeting. Something I agreed to with no hesitation whatsoever.
Actually, I got along with pretty much everyone. The only people who were noticeably cold toward me happened to be the same women who lingered next to Nate all evening long, giggling at everything he said and ignoring the diamonds adorning their ring fingers.
“Well, duh.” I infuse my words with a heady dose of sarcasm. “I’m a freaking delight. I don’t know why you sound so surprised.”
“No. It’s not that,” he says. “I’m not surprised people liked you as much as I’m surprised that you seemed to like them.”
I think that if I dig around deep enough, there might have been a compliment rolled up in there. “Ummm, thanks?”
“Welcome.” He turns away from the door, and I can’t help but notice the circles beneath his eyes or how slow and heavy his steps are.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He may be my sworn mortal enemy, but it’s only fun to destroy him when he’s at his best. I’m not a monster; I don’t enjoy kicking people when they’re already down. If I’m going to spend my days working on campaign signs and my evenings mingling with my constituents, I need to know if my competition is up to par.
“Am I . . . yeah. I’m fine.” His steps and his words falter. “Thanks.”
I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic, and for some reason, it’s a kick to the stomach.
For a few years, I knew him better than I knew anyone. I could tell what he was thinking with a single glance. I could decipher what he meant by the tilt of his lips or the subtle inflections in his speech.
Now his face is marred with lines and I don’t know whether they came from laughing or frowning. He’s a stranger, and as much as I want to deny it, I hate it.
“Umm . . .” I fiddle with a loose thread on my sweater, unsure of what to do with my hands. “Can I help you clean up the kitchen?”
This is so fucking awkward.
“Sure,” he says, but it sounds more like a question.
I push off the stool and head to the sink anyway, rolling up my sleeves before I turn on the water. Suspicion dances behind his eyes and I can tell he doesn’t trust my motives.
“I still hate sitting idly and awkward tension,” I explain in another uncharacteristic move. “I’m not offering to be helpful; this is a fully self-serving activity.”
Once I got to sixth grade, my anxiety during tests became so bad that my mom had to go to the school and ask the teachers to either allow me to stand or let me sit on a bouncy ball. To this day, the only reason you’ll ever find me exercising is because I’m literally buzzing with anxiety.