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.”
The good news is that if I ever do gather the courage （and funds） to return to LA, I can always fall back on my newly acquired landscaping skills to help pay the bills when times get hard.
“Ten-four, Papa-roo.” I pull out the name I called him when I was younger and watch as his face instantly softens. He’s such a teddy bear. “And I know you said you didn’t trust me with the edger last time, but I really think I’m ready now.”
My fatal flaw is thinking I can do anything after watching approximately one and a half YouTube videos on any given subject. Fix the leaky sink? No problem. Work potentially deadly equipment? Easy-peasy. Win a homeowners’ association election for a neighborhood I vehemently dislike and haven’t lived in for ten years? Piece of cake.
He doesn’t even pretend to consider it. “Absolutely not.”
“Fine.” I pout. “But don’t complain to me when your lawn is looking disheveled because you don’t have faith in your daughter.”
“I’ll manage.” His deep chuckle blends with my mom’s light giggle. Even their laughter is in perfect harmony. It’s unnecessarily adorable.
“Whatever,” I say once I’ve drained what’s left in my mug. “While you two are in here laughing and holding hands, your daughter will be outside, doing tough labor with no appreciation.”
My martyr act has never been successful, and ten years out of the house hasn’t changed that.
“Sounds good,” my mom says.
“Enjoy yourself.” Dad smirks over the rim of his coffee cup.
I almost respond, but my parents thrive in the morning. I’m no match for their abundance of comebacks and burns.
Plus, I have a plethora of yard work to do before going to Ashleigh’s house to start planning how to bring Nate to his knees . . . I mean, my campaign strategy.
* * *
? ? ?
I don’t know how long I’ve been outside, but the sun is high in the sky as I finish pushing the lawnmower across the grass. My T-shirt is sticking to my back and my curls are growing frizzier by the second, reminding me how much I hate humidity.
Summers in LA are hot. If you live in the Valley, between the traffic and the extreme heat, it’s basically like living in hell. But at least it’s a dry hell. There’s nothing worse than feeling damp all the time. Disgusting.
Pieces of grass fly from the mower and stick to my legs and arms as I move back and forth across the yard. I can feel the grime layered onto my skin: sweat, dirt, grass, repeat. A thousand showers won’t be enough to make me feel clean after this.
But even with all that, I’m not miserable. The mower is so loud, it drowns out all my thoughts. And trust me, my mind is a much more peaceful place without the constant stream of negativity and self-doubt trying to bring me down.
So I might be dirty and stinky, but I’m also calm.
And obviously that can’t last.
“A fair way away from the glamour of Hollywood, aren’t we?” Nate’s grating voice breaks my Zen with the efficiency of a baseball bat against a car windshield.
I turn to face him and my palms itch with the urge to slap the smug smirk off his face. Of course, where I look like a hot dumpster in my years-old workout gear, Nate looks fantastic.
It only makes me hate him more.
He should be very grateful my dad didn’t hand over the edger after all.
“Well, as the future homeowners’ association president, it’s crucial that my neighbors see how dedicated I am to landscaping.”
The second thoughts I had about running against him this morning are cut down faster than the blades of grass sticking to my legs. I was considering taking up needlepoint with my mom, but after watching Nate’s grin falter and eyes narrow? It’s clear that needling Nate is more than enough for me.
“You made your point. You were able to make your little scene,” he says. “Now can you drop this whole charade? There’s no way you actually want to be on the HOA. You’re just wasting everyone’s time if you keep this up.”
“Are you ever not a condescending ass?” I mean really? If he asked nicely or—god forbid—apologized, I might back out of this. Probably not—I like messing with him way too much—but the chances would be much higher. He’s a smart person. I don’t understand how he doesn’t realize his reactions only spur on my questionable behavior. “You’re not concerned about me wasting people’s time. You’re afraid you’re going to lose.”
“Lose to you?” His bark of laughter should offend me, but instead it draws me closer. “You’re delusional. You don’t even like it here. How are you going to convince people to vote for you, a person who ran away from this place as soon as she got the chance, over me, the person who never left and has been on the HOA board for four years?”