Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

This is the stuff I’ve been trying to get out of my parents ever since I’ve been back here: I want to know what the situation is with Billy and whether the DUI charge was a random accident or something more. “How many days a week would you say he was an asset?”

Aaron is silent for a few moments, weighing his response. “Maybe half and half just before he had the accident. Before that it was most of the time, but I don’t know, Dee . . .” He looks around, not wanting to be caught gossiping. “He’s changed in the past year. Something is just . . . off, I guess? He was always into mischief, but it was basically harmless when we were kids. Now, not so much.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “I don’t want to throw him under the bus or anything, but recently, like say maybe the past six months, I haven’t been hanging out with him all that much.”

“I noticed he was with the Wallace boys at the beach party.”

“Yeah. He’s been spending more time with those two, and they’re nice enough guys, but they’re not all that motivated. Mostly all they do is drink beers and drive around on their ATVs. And maybe that was fine when we were teenagers, but we’re adults. I guess I’m looking to settle down, and he’s still partying like it’s senior year.”

“I’m worried about him,” I admit.

“Honestly, me too. I’ve messaged him a bunch of times since the accident, but he hasn’t had much to say other than the painkillers they’ve been giving him kick some serious ass. Last week he asked if I had his journal from high school, though, which was weird.”

“I didn’t even know he had a journal.”

“Me either. He doesn’t seem like the type to put his feelings on a page. I chalked it up to the painkillers and left it at that.” Aaron gives me a small smile.

“Maybe that’s all it was, some kind of dream thing?” But I’m not sure I buy that. Billy has always been different, but this is more than that. I don’t know how to broach this with my dad without him going on the defensive, but I don’t feel like I can ignore it anymore.




As a teenager I used to get so annoyed that we always had to be home to have dinner as a family. It didn’t matter if I was halfway across town with my friends, usually Tawny and Allie, sometimes Tucker—I’d jump on my bike and pedal my butt home. Sometimes the ride would be fast and reckless as I cut through the paths in the forest because I didn’t want to be late and end up on dishwashing duty. But lately I find myself looking forward to family dinners, even with Billy’s unpredictable moods.

“Where’s Billy?” I ask as I set knives and forks on top of the napkins. That’s one thing my mom always had: pretty napkins. Most of the time they were one season out of date because she always bought them on sale, so in the winter we’d have fall and Thanksgiving themes, and by spring it was snowmen and holly. Currently the napkins we’re using have an Easter theme.

“Still in his room, I think. I knocked on his door a few minutes ago. When you’re done setting the table, could you knock again, please?” She tastes the potato salad, her expression contemplative, before she turns back to the fridge, grabs a jar of pickles, and pours in extra dill juice for flavor.

“Sure thing.” Once the salt and pepper are on the table, I head down the hall to Billy’s room and knock, calling out, “Dinner’s ready.”

I listen for the sound of the bed creaking, or the computer chair rolling across the floor, but all I’m met with is silence. I knock again. “Hey, Billy, you in there?”

When I don’t get an answer, I open the door, thinking maybe he’s wearing headphones. But he’s not. He’s fast asleep, drooling on his pillow. His bedroom smells like stale farts and beer. A stack of empty bowls sits on his nightstand, and empty beer cans peek out from under his bed.

I cross the room, stepping on a discarded chip bag, which crinkles loudly, and poke him in the shoulder. When that doesn’t rouse him, I give him a solid shake. He groans and flings his arm out. I’m agile enough to get out of the way before he can accidentally smack me. But he hits the can sitting on his nightstand and it tips over, brown liquid splattering the tabletop, his pillow, and the side of his face before I can right it.

“What the hell?” He scrubs a hand down his face and blinks a few times.

“It’s dinnertime. I knocked a bunch of times and so did Mom, but you didn’t answer. Have you been up at all today?”

“I couldn’t sleep last night.” He throws off his covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He’s shirtless, exposing his torso. Billy has always been lean, wiry even, but he’s exceptionally thin right now. So much so that his collarbones are sharp points, poking at his skin, and I can practically count his ribs. “Can you pass me that shirt?” He motions to the one hanging over the back of his computer chair.

I toss it to him, and he gives it a cursory sniff before he pulls it over his head. “I can help you clean up in here after dinner.” I open the window to let in some fresh air.

“Don’t do that!” he snaps.

“It smells like a frat house. You need some fresh air, and probably a little sunshine, unless you’re trying out the whole vampire vibe.”

His eyes flare and he looks around the room, as if he expects one to appear. “That window needs to stay locked, otherwise people can get in.”