Next-Door Nemesis(7)
“Right? It was so much fun.” Her smile returns to its full-blown glory and the teeth she must have professionally whitened every month nearly blind me. “Wasn’t high school the best?”
I try to think of a response that won’t encourage a further walk down memory lane or require me to explain why I’d rather get daily Brazilian waxes over ever going back to Central High. “It was something.”
“Wasn’t your reunion last year?” she asks. “I was a couple of years under you and I just started a Facebook group to start planning ours.”
I look to my house, wondering why of all times my mom isn’t standing in the front window, ready to join in on neighborhood gossip. The twenty feet to the front door never seemed more insurmountable and all I want to do is escape.
It’s at this hopeless moment that I remember something. While my life has been spiraling out of control, sending me on a twirly, whirly ride down the sewer that is reality, there’s one thing I know will never change: other people’s desire to talk about themselves. I’m always only one question away from becoming a head-bobbing observer. And if the glossy veneer of Ashleigh Whittington tells me anything, it’s that she’s dying to talk about herself.
“You’ve always been so organized,” I compliment her, trying anything to avoid discussing my dark high school days. “And it looks like it’s paid off.” I turn around and point to the house, where the moving men look like they are racing to finish before she returns. “A homeowner already? What an accomplishment!”
Even though being tethered to central Ohio is adjacent to a life in purgatory to me, it’s not a lie. Homeownership is major. I can’t even afford rent. Being stable enough that a bank trusts you with hundreds of thousands of dollars is so far out of the realm of possibility for me that I can’t even fathom it.
“Thank you so much! It’s our first home. Grant and I,” she clarifies without me asking. I know I’ve successfully shifted any and all attention away from myself. “We just got married in April. So I’m not actually Ashleigh Whittington anymore; I’m Ashleigh Barnes now.”
“Congratulations, a lot of milestones happening for you.” My face is starting to ache from smiling. As a devoted follower of resting bitch face, my muscles aren’t used to this much strain.
She must not notice my discomfort though. Instead of ending the conversation like I was hoping, she lifts her hand and shoves her giant diamond in my face.
“Thank you!” She looks down at her ring and lets out a dreamy sigh. “He’s a dentist.”
I’ve never heard anybody make dentistry sound so romantic.
“Oh wow.”
“I know, a doctor’s wife. Can you even?”
She forgets about her giant diamond and wraps her long, thin fingers around my wrist while the other hand is still clenching the tumbler I’m now doubly convinced is housing chilled Pinot Grigio. She lets out a high-pitched squeal I’m sure will send dogs running and begins to jump up and down.
And it is wild.
I try to match her energy but fail massively.
Thankfully, before she notices my lack of enthusiasm, a nice-looking gentleman wearing a polo drenched in sweat approaches.
“All of the boxes are in, Mrs. Barnes.” His deep voice is a welcome change after the long burst of her whistle-tone screaming. “We’re ready to start bringing in the furniture but need you to tell us where everything goes.”
This poor man looks miserable. I wouldn’t be surprised if today is the day he decides to change careers. The dread in his voice is unmistakable, but Ashleigh either is the most oblivious person in the world or ignores it. Either is plausible.
“Thank you so much, Mark. Let me just say goodbye to my friend and I’ll be right there,” she says.
I don’t know what’s more shocking: that she called me a friend or that her tone was devoid of the condescending tone most people around here have when speaking to hired help. Ever since I’ve moved back, I’ve kept to myself, not even remotely interested in forming any new bonds or friendships. But even with her ultrabubbly personality and zest for reminiscing, I feel like Ashleigh is creeping past my defenses.
Mark, my grumpy soul brother, grumbles something that sounds like “thanks” before turning on his well-worn tennis shoe.
“Well, it was nice running into you.” I start the goodbyes, ready to retreat into the fortress that is my childhood bedroom and reinforce my no-new-friends policy. “Congratulations again on everything.”
“Before we go, are you back for good or just visiting?” she asks, and I freeze beneath her kind, curious gaze.
I want more than anything to say I’m on my way out, but the hard truth is that I’m stuck here until further notice.
“I’m staying for a little bit, just not sure how long.” Even if all my prospects are dry and I haven’t opened my computer in weeks, I can’t bring myself to say this move is permanent. Somewhere deep down, I’m still holding on to the glimmer of hope that all’s not quite lost.
“Well . . .” She drags out the word and her blue eyes sparkle with an excitement that both terrifies and intrigues me. “We’re hosting a housewarming party soon and I’d love for you to come. You can meet Grant and, not to brag, but I make the world’s best cocktails and even though people tell me it’s not a real skill, I’m an expert at building cheese boards.”