I hope I heard wrong.
I had to have heard it wrong.
“C-bus? Yeah, it’s the nickname we all call it. Columbus . . . C-bus. It’s fun,” she explains, like any of the words she is saying make it less cringe.
Fun fact: they do not.
“A nickname? It’s fun?” I repeat her words, struggling to find any of my own.
“Yeah, you know, it’s like the JLo of Ohio,” she says with a straight face.
She has to be trolling me.
She’s definitely trolling.
“The JLo of Ohio? You’re fucking with me, right?” Because I’ve written a lot of ridiculous things during my tenure as a writer, but not even I could muster up the audacity to write something this absurd.
“Not at all.” She shakes her head and, in the plot twist I didn’t see coming, looks at me like I’m the one not making sense! “I think the mayor or somebody said it. I remember reading it in the newspaper and it stuck.”
Okay.
Somebody kill me.
Unless somebody already has and this is actually hell. Which, at this moment, doesn’t feel too far-fetched.
“Ashleigh.” I grab both of her hands in mine. “I say this with love, but I’m going to need you to never say that again. Okay?”
“Oh, just you wait.” Her light and bubbly laughter falls carelessly out of her lips like I wasn’t being drop-dead serious. “You’ll be calling it C-bus soon too.”
“Yeah, I think I’m gonna pass on that trend.”
I know people talk about the economic divide, but this right here might be the truest division between people.
Ashleigh not only intentionally left the house in the most hideous leggings I’ve ever seen, but she also brushed off my very serious linguistic recommendation without so much as a second thought. The differences between the confident and the insecure seem immeasurable. I wonder what I could’ve accomplished if I took Ashleigh’s approach to life. What could I have achieved by now if I didn’t doubt every move I made? While I don’t know for sure, I have to imagine that I wouldn’t be crashing a secret HOA meeting in freaking Ohio.
“So . . .” I look up the walkway, which feels more daunting than I’m willing to admit. “Are you ready?”
Ashleigh’s gaze follows mine and she inhales deeply. “I guess so.”
We start up the brick pathway. It’s like the saddest version of The Wizard of Oz to ever exist. My stomach twists into knots with every step toward the imposing door. My mask of nonchalance threatens to fall as thoughts of what waits on the other side begin to set in. I don’t know what Nate has told these people about me, and I’m about to barge—uninvited—into his home. If this goes badly, the Karens are going to have a field day and my mom is going to murder me.
I hesitate outside the door. My hand hovers over the doorknob as I give myself one final second to come to my senses. Of course, my senses have been on the fritz ever since my brush with viral fame, so instead of turning tail and heading back home, I take a deep breath and push open the door.
Quiet conversation drifts from the back room into the entryway.
I try not to stare as I take in the inside of Nate’s home. After seeing the exterior, I’m not surprised to see the interior also looks magazine ready. From the framed prints on the wall to the various shades of beige rugs protecting the hardwood floors, it looks as if his home was decorated by Average Interiors USA. It’s all very nice, but nothing is personal. There’s not a single family photo to be found. Nothing in this space gives even the slightest hint of Nate’s personality.
When I lived in LA, my apartment definitely wasn’t photo-shoot ready. Most of my decorations came from flea markets and estate sales, but every single piece meant something to me. I didn’t bring it into my home if it didn’t bring me joy or express something about myself. Even though I might not love my mom’s style, at least our home is warm and lived-in. Nate’s place feels like a hotel. It’s beautiful, but it’s cold.
It’s sad.
Nate’s dad had an endless trail of women going in and out of his life, but nobody stayed long enough to turn his house into a home. Looking around his house, all I see is the sad little boy who loved family sitcoms and dreamt of marriage and becoming an accountant. And in a rush of very unwelcome emotions, sadness for the child who wanted to fit in more than anything causes my eyes to water.
Luckily, before I can fall victim to my stupid emotions, his grating voice rises above the whispered conversations.
“I know we’re all looking for a change. I want that too.” He sounds more politician than next-door neighbor. I don’t even have to see him to know he’s wearing his khakis and a button-up shirt. “When I purchased this house, I did it knowing the potential this neighborhood has. To be one where families new and old come together, where we support and look after one another.”
“We all want that. What we don’t want is someone driving around, nitpicking the flowers they plant or where our car is parked, sending us fines and violations for the homes we paid for,” someone in the crowded living room says and is followed by echoed murmurs of “yeah” and “exactly.”
“I’m not here to—” he starts, losing his train of thought when his eyes meet with mine in the back of the room. “I’m not here to monitor the way you live. My goal is to become the person you all feel you can come to with all matters of this neighborhood in order to create a community where we feel safe and our property values increase.”
Dammit.
Even I have to admit that’s a good answer.
A smug smile tugs at the corners of his full lips. He looks over the crowd before deliberately meeting my stare.
Now, it could be said that my tendency to react without thinking could be one of my more toxic traits. However, it could also be argued that my ability to act without fear is one of the best things about me. I like to think the latter is true.
“If that’s true and your overall goal is building community, then why are you hosting this meeting with so many people missing?” I school my features, not wanting to let anyone see how much joy I feel in getting a rise out of Nate. “I know there wasn’t anything posted in the Facebook group, and my parents, Anderson and Kim Carter, who have been homeowners in this neighborhood for thirty years, had no idea about this meeting. Maybe I’m missing something, but that doesn’t seem very conducive to your supposed ‘building a stronger community’ mission.”
His face turns bright red beneath the recessed lighting when I use air quotes while talking. My toes curl in my sneakers as I watch his feelings play across his face.
Pissing off Nathanial Adams is my kink.
“She’s right,” an older woman I recognize from Nate’s morning walks says. “It is important to have everyone involved. Why weren’t they invited?”
“I can answer that one for you,” I say before Nate can respond. I weave through the small crowd until I’m standing beside him at the front of the room. We’re shoulder to shoulder and the heat radiating off him elevates my body temperature. “I think my good friend Nate here is hosting tonight in order to keep me off of the ballot for HOA president. I grew up in this neighborhood, but because I moved out for a few years, he’s worried I’m not qualified for the job.”