Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Forty
Eventually, I rally and manage to push the lawn mower through the gate. I leave it right there in front of it, though, unwilling to move it one inch farther than I have to. Besides, it isn’t like I’m not going to have to push it right back out in a few hours.
I’m soaked in sweat by the time I make it into the house. My mother takes one look and her eyes go wide. I wait for the inevitable comments about how unfeminine I am or how no man wants a woman who can sweat like I’ve been wrestling with oiled pigs, but she doesn’t say anything.
However, she does press her lips together really hard, like she’s having to fight to keep the words in. I almost want to hug her, sweat and all, for making the effort.
Instead, I start shedding clothes as soon as I get upstairs, leaving a trail of stinky, soaking-wet garments from the door of my bedroom all the way to the shower. The fact that I’m going to have to pick them up in a little while doesn’t excite me—the only thing worse than sweaty clothes are cold sweaty clothes—but I seriously can’t stand having them on my body for one more second.
I get right into the glass cubicle and turn the water on full blast, only yelping a little when the cold spray hits me. Then I just stand there until my body temperature settles back into some kind of normal range.
Eventually I’m revived enough to actually clean myself—shampoo, conditioner, body scrub—but it takes a while. I haven’t felt this hot since I caught the flu about seven years ago and ran a temperature close to 105.
Normally, I’m not a water waster—I try to keep my showers in the seven-minute range because water is a precious commodity—but today, I blow that all to hell. I stay under the spray long after my hands turn pruny and every goose bump on my body becomes activated. Then—and only then—do I turn the shower off with a sigh of regret and finally step out.
I know I’m just going to have to get hot, sweaty, and nasty again later, but I decide to hell with it and take my time doing the whole girlie routine. I start by slathering my entire body with my favorite Jo Malone lotion, which I promised myself I’d only use on special occasions, since I definitely can’t afford to buy more. It’s a nice follow-up to the full-body sugar scrub I did in the shower. Then I do my whole skin-care routine—something I’ve been pretty lax with since I moved into the house—and I don’t even skimp on the products. Some days, a girl deserves to treat herself.
After a blowout that leaves my hair in shining waves—again, something I haven’t bothered with in quite a while—I slip into my most upscale pair of yoga pants (which isn’t saying a lot, but still) and my most flattering rose tank top. A slick of lip gloss across my lips and a touch of mascara on my lashes, and I figure my mom won’t have much to complain about over lunch, even if she wants to.
Satisfied and feeling pretty damn good, I head downstairs. My stomach is growling like an enraged bear.
I’m barely halfway down the stairs when I hear Mom and Sarah chattering amid the clanging of pots and pans. Even more surprising is the fact that Nick’s deep voice sounds like it’s coming from right in the middle of the action—which, it turns out, it is.
The three of them are in the lemon-yellow kitchen like they all belong there together. Sarah and my mom are setting the table, and Nick is sautéing chicken in a pan.
“I thought you were going home,” I say. He was walking to his house when I went inside.
Nick doesn’t bother glancing up from the frying pan. “I did go home. And now I’m here. Some people can do more than take a shower in an hour and a half.”
“Yeah, well…” I walk farther into the kitchen, getting the glasses out of the cabinet while I scramble for a witty comeback. “Sometimes efficiency is highly overrated.”
Oh, girl, that’s what you’re going with?
Ignoring my snarky inner voice, I make eye contact with the back of Nick’s head, expecting him to argue with me. Everything about him screams that he’s the most efficient person on the planet, after all. But instead of coming back at me with facts and figures, he looks up with an amused grin that kind of freezes when our eyes connect.
And suddenly, that weird breathless feeling is back. It’s the one that makes me feel like all the baggage from my broken marriage is sitting squarely on the middle of my chest.
“What’s wrong?” I ask when he continues to stare at me without saying anything.
“Nothing. You just—” He breaks off and blows out a long breath. “You look nice.”
“Yeah, well, when you last saw me, I was at risk for drowning in my own sweat. Anything is an improvement over that.”
“Nothing wrong with working up a little sweat,” he says, turning his attention back to the chicken.
There’s something in his tone that has my heart beating too fast, even as Sarah lets out a little snort.
My mother is surprisingly quiet.
I’m in the middle of trying to think of another comeback—I’m fast like that—when my phone dings. I glance down at the text from Mikey, asking if I want to meet for a drink around two.
It’s pretty much the last thing I want to do—I’m tired and grumpy and it’s way too hot outside right now—but I make the mistake of mentioning the invitation to my supporting cast.
“You should go,” my mom says. “He sounds like a nice guy.”
“He’s a very nice guy.” I sit down in the empty chair next to her. “I’m just not sure I want to go anywhere right now.”
“You should totally go,” Sarah chimes in. “You look super hot and besides, what else do you have to do?”
What do I have to do? The only things that come to mind are drudgery, followed by hard labor, followed by chores. “Clean out another room so that maybe, maybe I can get my ass off that miserably uncomfortable couch. Plus, I still have the lawn to finish.”
“The lawn?” Sarah looks confused. “But—”
Nick places the four perfect portions of chicken on a platter in the middle of the table and sits down across from me. “You should go.”
It’s pretty much the last thing I expect him to say. On the plus side, it makes the breathless feeling go away really fast.
I’m trying to process the why of that when I happen to glance out the window with a view of the front yard. Then I’m breathless for real, because all the air in my lungs whooshes out in one big angry breath. My entire front lawn has been mowed.
“What did you do?” I demand.
“What do you mean?”
He tries to look innocent, but I’ve gotten to know him well enough now to see a hint of something lurking behind his eyes. The big jerk. We had a deal. Just because I’m broke doesn’t mean I need his pity.
“You. Mowed. My. Lawn.”
“Oh, that.” He serves Mom a piece of chicken, then passes the tray to Sarah. “I thought it would free up the rest of the day for you—”
“So I can go on a date with Mikey?” Acid that has the distinct hint of hurt burns the back of my tongue.
“That wasn’t my first choice, no.” He shrugs. “But, like I said, you should go if you want to.”
Oh wow. Isn’t that just fucking big of him to allow me to live my life. “Thanks for the permission.”
He sighs. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t actually care what you meant.” Heat stirred up by frustration and annoyance and bruised feelings makes my whole body tingly in a very bad way. “We had a deal. I give you a dollar and mow the lawn, and your firm will represent me in my divorce.”
He shrugs again. “Yeah, well, I decided to renegotiate after you almost gave yourself a heart attack today.”
“That was not your decision to make,” I snap. Doesn’t he get that I don’t want anyone taking care of me anymore? Men. I swear.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were emotionally invested in the lawn.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I was only trying to help.”
“Oh, no.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You don’t get to do that.”
He looks mystified while Mom and Sarah are both watching the happenings as if it is the best reality show ever.
“Do what?” he asks.
I’m not buying it. I’ve had men do this shit to me over and over in my life—the whole time acting as if I’m the one with the problem or that my concerns or feelings aren’t valid. Karl was an expert, and now that I think about it, so is my dad.
“You did what you thought was best for me,” I say, forcing myself to keep my voice steady even as my knee is jiggling under the table to let out some of the angry adrenaline rush. “But you never even bothered to ask if I agreed. You did what you wanted to do and didn’t care at all if I wanted help.”
“Are you kidding me?” He looks incredulously from Mom to Sarah as if they’ll back him up against the overreaching, hysterical, probably PMSing woman.
They’re now looking at every single spot in the kitchen except the two of us, and I can’t blame them. Part of me feels guilty for putting them in the middle of this, but I’m not backing down.
“No, I’m not,” I say. “I didn’t ask for your help—”
“You literally mowed SOS into your lawn.” Nick leans forward on the table, his entire body strung tight. “It’s the universal call for help. Pilots flying into Newark from all over the world probably think you’re asking for help, so how the hell was I supposed to know you weren’t?”
“Because,” I say, my temper on the precipice of going Mount Vesuvius. “If I wanted help, I’d ask for it.”
My phone buzzes again with another text from Mikey. I don’t think about it. I don’t even read his new text; I just started thumb-typing that I’d love to go out and get a drink. Right. Now.