Chapter 4
You know how when you’re thinking of buying a new car, all of a sudden you start seeing that exact car everywhere you go? Or you finally learn the name of an actor you saw once and then he’s on your TV all the time?
Turns out, it’s not just the universe haunting you with your thoughts, but instead literal, actual brain science. I might have gone to school for writing, but occasionally I paid attention in my other classes and for some reason, the frequency illusion is one of the few things that stuck with me. Basically all it says is that the frequency of seeing these things hasn’t changed at all, but that once your brain is aware of something, it influences where your attention goes.
It’s really simple and pretty funny.
Or at least, I used to think it was funny until my brain decided to become hyperaware of Nathanial Adams.
In the days since running into Nate, I’ve seen him or something that reminded me of him everywhere I look, and I’m this close to losing what’s left of my ever-loving mind. When Ashleigh told me he was her Realtor, I didn’t realize what she was really telling me was that he’s pretty much in charge of selling every single house in the neighborhood. I can’t drive down the street now without literally seeing his face on all the for sale signs scattered through the neighborhood.
“Ughhhh.” I take a sip of my （non-hazelnut） coffee and aim my eyes out the kitchen window. “Could Nate be more ridiculous? I mean, who does he think he’s fooling?”
“What’s he doing this time?” my mom asks without looking up from the grocery store ad she’s been inspecting for the last five minutes. “Oh, honey!” She nudges my dad sitting next to her. “Did you see that steaks are on sale at Meijer? We should host a barbecue this weekend! You grill and I’ll make my famous potato salad and sangria.”
My dad looks at me and the silent threat comes through loud and clear in his narrowed mahogany eyes.
While my mom has been married to a Black man for thirty-six years, it has not deterred her from adding raisins to her potato salad. While there are many potential reasons for this, it’s likely because my dad is a giant teddy bear who doesn’t have it in him to let her know her recipe is a travesty. Whenever we visit his side of the family, the poor man works overtime to make sure we’re never involved in any sort of potluck situation.
“A barbecue sounds great.” He gives in to Kimberly Carter as always. “I’ll run to the store tomorrow.”
“Mom. Focus!” While my parents being marriage goals is adorable and all, it doesn’t distract from the way they both totally dismissed my latest problem with Nate. “Why is Nate walking with Mrs. Mullens and Mrs. Potts? What’s he up to?”
“He’s just a nice boy,” Mom says. I’m pretty sure she’s trying to piss me off at this point. “He goes on walks with them every Tuesday and Thursday.”
“He takes old ladies on walks? Twice a week?” I ask incredulously. The levels this man will sink to have no bounds. “Has anyone checked his basement for bodies lately? I’m just going to put it out there, but there’s gotta be, like, a ninety-eight percent chance he’s a serial killer. No normal twenty-nine-year-old man buys a house alone in the suburbs, joins the HOA, and volunteers for morning walks unless he’s hiding a freezer full of fingers in his house.”
“Honey.” My mom’s voice turns as sweet as the term of endearment and she places the ad she’s been so enthralled with on the table before slowly removing her reading glasses. None of these things bodes well for me. “You and Nate used to get along so well. I always thought you’d end up dating one day. I still don’t understand what happened to the two of you.”
“Nothing happened.” I take a long sip of my coffee, trying to push away the onslaught of memories—and hurt—that comes with reminiscing. “He cared about being popular and I didn’t. We grew apart.”
“Sure,” my dad’s deep voice cuts through the room. “Because hating a person you haven’t seen in ten years over nothing makes total sense.”
I thought internet trolls filling up the comment section were brutal, but they have nothing on my middle-aged parents. Sheesh.
“If you want me to go, just say that.” I walk over to the coffee machine and top off my cup before finding a lid to screw on.
“Well, since you offered . . .” My dad turns in his chair and gestures toward the front door. “Could you go water the flowers and the tree out front? I’ll order a soaker hose later this week, but it needs to be watered before that.”
If I was adding anything of value to the house, maybe I’d attempt to talk my way out of this chore that will force me into the sun. I’m still recovering from the sunburn I got while planting the dang tree. But my dad’s back has been bothering him since he ignored my sage advice to pick up the tree with his legs instead of his back and now I’m in charge of all gardening responsibilities.
“Fine.” I pretend to be put out, but there’s no power behind it. “But let me put on sunscreen first this time.”
“And a bra . . . and a clean shirt!” my mom shouts, unable to help herself. The midwestern motherly urge to nag and/or criticize one’s child cannot be tamed.
* * *
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After finding clothing that will both please my mother and be appropriate for yard work, I grab my AirPods and turn on my favorite podcast as I get to work.
Before I know it, I lose myself in the simple activity, soaking up some much-needed vitamin D while the cool mist of the garden hose keeps me from getting too hot. I’m wrapped up in the host’s story, my writer’s mind busy anticipating what happens next and laughing at their over-the-top jokes, when a hand on my shoulder startles me half to death.
I scream out loud and spin on my three-dollar Old Navy flip-flops, never losing my grip on the spray nozzle. It all happens so fast that by the time my mind catches up to what’s happening, Nate is standing in front of me soaking wet.
“Oh my god!” I lower the hose and push up the lever on the back of the nozzle to stop it from spraying. “I’m so sorry.”
Nate shakes his head and water droplets explode off his slightly-too-long hair. I wish I could say he looks like a wet poodle, but he manages to look like a fucking ad for Realtors Gone Wild. It’s not that he’s jacked and his T-shirt has now molded to six-pack abs or anything. In fact, he’s softened up since high school. I don’t know if it’s because in LA, everyone was so obsessed with having the perfect body or because it’s so different from Peter’s, but I love a freaking dad bod.
And of course Nate “Single in the Suburbs” Adams is rocking the shit out of his.
“What the hell, Collins?” Nate growls, forcing my attention away from his physique and up to his face. The hazel eyes I spent so many summers staring into lack all the warmth I remember. A stark reminder that this isn’t a man I want to know. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” My spine snaps straight and adrenaline pumps through my veins, preparing me for the fight ahead. I’ve been villainized enough in the last couple of months and I’m not taking it anymore. Especially not over something so freaking stupid. “You snuck up on me while I was holding a hose! What did you think was going to happen? There’s no way you’re going to flip this to make me the bad guy here.”