Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I don’t sprawl on my back, but I do enjoy the rays for several minutes. I sit up, snapping a shot of my snoozing dog, then write a post for later with the caption: Mom made me run today. I feel like she’s trying to send me a message, but little does she know I’m not listening.
When I turn onto my block, I run into my brother’s crush checking her mail outside her townhome. I’ve talked to her a few times, since, well, nosy girl here. “Hey, Jessica,” I say to the pretty woman with the sleek black hair. She’s wearing a T-shirt that catches my eye—there’s a drawing of bees and the words Protect Pollinators on it. “Nice shirt.”
With a small smile, she plucks at the blue V-neck. “Thanks. I designed this one.”
I knew she was an illustrator, but had no idea she made cute T-shirts with sayings I love. “I hope it’s getting”—I pause theatrically—“all the buzz.”
She laughs kindly at my pun. “It is. I can’t keep them in stock, but I found a local distributor of fair-trade T-shirts—” She breaks off and waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t want to hear all the details.”
O ye of little faith. “Actually, I do.”
“Yeah?” She sounds enthused.
“One hundred percent.”
We chat for another fifteen minutes about her business and how she sources her hand-printed tees. I can’t get enough of the details. We’re kindred spirits, it seems. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she gestures to her home. “I should get back inside and do some more work. But,” she says, with a hopeful smile. “I’m traveling to Korea next week to see my mom. Is there any chance you could check the mail while I’m gone?”
“Absolutely,” I say, then exchange info with her.
After I say goodbye, I head up the steps to Adam’s home, my gaze swinging to another neighbor’s home. Ford’s place looks quiet. I don’t notice any movement inside. I pause by the door, Adam’s words echoing. He’s wise about the importance of getting along with neighbors. The world has both become more global and much smaller. From Jessica’s request to check her mail, to stories from friends of mine in Seattle who lost power after a bomb cyclone several months ago and took turns with neighbors charging each other’s phones based on whose portable battery had the most power, it’s common sense to get along with your neighbor.
Not to date them.
When my phone dings with a text later that night from Ford as I’m making cauliflower mac and cheese, I figure it’s neighborly to answer. I’m just practicing good getting-along skills. I swipe it open as I sprinkle the cheese into the casserole dish.
Ford: Remind me never to get on your dog’s bad side.
Skylar: Hate to break it to you, but you’re definitely at the top of his burn book.
Ford: I took him for a forgiving guy. My bad.
Skylar: Just kidding. He loves everything, even ornery people. Well, everything except exercise. He rebelled today when I took him jogging.
Ford: He can jog?
Skylar: Is this a reference to his short legs? Your dog has short legs too.
Ford: Fair point. But she also doesn’t jog.
I’m tapping out a reply when I stop, wondering why he wrote. There’s nothing practical in his note. It’s…a remark. A throwaway comment. Something fun. My lips curve into a grin as I dictate a response.
Skylar: Why don’t you want to get on his bad side?
Ford: I looked him up. His commentary is withering.
That’s too delightful. Opening the oven, I picture Ford checking out Simon’s social. I imagine the smirk on his face. The roll of his eyes. The temptation to leave a like or a heart. It’s a nice image.
Skylar: Scathing reality judges have nothing on Simon.
Ford: Truer words.
I close the oven and set the timer. The phone goes quiet, and something soft settles into my chest—the awareness that Ford had written simply to compliment…my dog. And to let on that he’d looked him up.
I peer out the back window, but there’s only one light on in his home. Same as earlier. I check the hockey schedule. Ah, he’s in Los Angeles. They played this afternoon—I hop over to the sports news—and won. I stay on the site to watch a few highlights. Then a few more.
Skylar: I’m making cauliflower mac and cheese. I bet it’s not on your meal plan, but I can leave some on the front porch for you.
Ford: Sounds delicious. I’m landing soon. Will be home in a little while.
A little later, I put the food in a casserole dish and then write a note from Simon on his branded stationery. The one where he’s lounging on his side, giving, naturally, the side-eye.
You’re lucky. She serves me the same dry brown rocks every night.
As I head to the door, I feel a little fizzy knowing Ford wrote to me from the plane. Though I absolutely should not be feeling anything for my neighbor. Correction: My brother’s neighbor.