Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

I look around my half-packed bedroom and consider what’s left of my life here. I have no job and no boyfriend. All the people I’ve worked with have either had to take jobs elsewhere or were part of a couple, putting me on the outs. Sure, I’ll get the occasional text message or invitation to go out for drinks, but they are proximity friends, not the kind I would reach out to after Jason and I broke up.

I have a couple of girlfriends from college I still talk to, but I spent most of my time studying and working, trying to get ahead. I’ve realized that as much as I love the city, I built a life in a bubble that consisted mostly of my boyfriend and my job, and with both of those gone, there’s not much left for me to hold on to.

Besides, my dad asking for help is a big deal. We’ve always gotten along well, and I know how much work the project-management side of things can be, especially since it’s such a small business. I don’t want my dad to end up in the same position he did two years ago—not when I can actually do something to help. Even if it means leaving the city behind.

“Okay, Dad, I’ll come home.”





CHAPTER 2

SMALL-TOWN WOES

Dillion

Two days later I’m behind the wheel of a rented U-Haul, driving the contents of my apartment back to the town I grew up in and swore I’d never live in again. I remind myself that this is temporary—that I’m only going to be here as long as my family needs my help, and then I’ll move back to the city. I’ll have time to job hunt without the pressure of taking just any job. At least that is what I’m telling myself.

I pass the old, worn sign that marks the beginning of Pearl Lake. YOUR DREAMS ARE A BOAT RIDE AWAY is written underneath in fancy cursive with a small, wilted-looking garden surrounding the base of the sign. The summer’s barely begun, and we’re already having one of those nasty heat waves. The grass has taken on the hue that’s typically referred to as “August gold,” everything dry and brown and brittle. We obviously need a good dose of rain soon, or there won’t be any bonfires happening on the beach. The trees lining the sides of the paved road are lush and green and full. Sporadic driveways create breaks in the tree line, with sleepy little cottage-style homes tucked inside them. It’s the opposite of Chicago, and every time I visit, I can’t wait to get back to the hustle and bustle of the city.

I turn onto the main road leading into town, shifting gears as I climb the steep hill, gravel spitting under my tires. When I reach the top, I downshift and take a moment to appreciate the view of the lake. It’s completely unobstructed at the highest point. The beautiful, clear, deep-blue water is surrounded by the same lush trees and evergreens. To the right are massive estate-style lake homes rising up above the landscape. Their presence is a reminder of all the things I aspired to as a teenager. I wanted to be on the other side, to have all the things they did.

Sandy artificial beaches lead into the water; boathouses and expensive water toys are tied to docks; trampolines and floating mats dot the water. Jet Skis and speedboats cut lines through the lake, toy-size in the distance. For the people on that side of the lake, their time here is an escape from their busy lives rather than their normal. I envied their ability to leave Pearl Lake when I was young.

The left side is far less opulent. A span of beach, with darker sand and fuller trees, fills up one corner, and the rest is lined with trees, with small narrow docks and tin boats dotting the water. And smack in the middle is Bernie’s house, the great divide between the rich and the moderately average townies, which is what the locals called themselves.

I exhale a breath as I head down the steep decline, veering left toward the downtown area so I can stop and pick up my mom on the way to the house. I timed the trip so I’ll arrive right as her shift ends.

I turn onto Main Street and pass the eye roll–inducing stores frequented by the more affluent members of the community—high-end furniture stores and water-toy rental places; a couple of nicer restaurants owned by city people; Indulgence, the overpriced ice cream and chocolate store I always secretly wanted to go to but couldn’t bring myself to because it would mean that I was taking business away from Corbin’s convenience store, which was owned by one of my dad’s friends.

I pull into the town parking lot and back my monster of a moving van into one of the spaces at the edge. I’m slapped with muggy June air as soon as I open the door and hop down onto the pitted pavement.

A group of teenagers from the rich side of the lake are draped across the ancient picnic table beside the equally ancient food truck. The same one I used to work at when I was their age. It was probably one of my most and least favorite jobs. I smelled constantly of stale french fries that summer. But it was a job, and money in my bank account. It was also the last summer I spent in Pearl Lake.

A teenage girl with long blonde hair pulled up into a high ponytail leans out the window while one of the summer boys flashes his perfect straight-toothed smile at her. Memories, some fond, some not, bubble to the surface.

Those summer boys were always so polished. Entitled and privileged, aware they had more and were better off than those of us who grew up in a small town, isolated and insulated. And in some ways, I bought into their narrative—their arrogant demeanor made my friends swoon. Local boys either cowered or puffed out their chests and looked down at those rich kids because they had more money and never had to work to earn it. Not like the townie kids, whose parents ran the local shops, catering to the people who came here for a few weeks or months of the year and then left everything behind again.