Dare to Love the Guy Next Door by Ellie Hall
Griffin
Could I have been any more awkward? Not to sound like the kind of pretentious poser I despise, but typically I have some game. Like, I can talk to women and not sound as if I don’t speak the English language. I can be close to a girl and not obsess over how my arms are too long and my legs feel like they’re made of Playdough.
But something about Paisley takes me back to being a bumbling dweeb. As a kid and teenager, she wasn’t wrong. I was the high-energy goofball of the bunch. Maybe it was because Holden was always smarter than me and I felt like I needed to be extra loud and bouncy to get attention, or perhaps it was because Holden was blessed with the handsome genes early on like Paisley accurately remembered.
Thanks to puberty running its course and braces in my late teens, a solid tan, and a life spent surfing, I’m no longer hideous. But Paisley is gorgeous. Always was. Always will be.
All it took was one look all those years ago. I remember her family pulled up in a green station wagon with wood paneled sides. It was their first visit to the cottage next door. The house had sat empty for a few years prior. Looking back, I realize now her grandparents must’ve passed away. Her brother and sister scrambled out and ran down to the beach. She moved more slowly. First, surveying her surroundings with the cottages perched above the beach, the sand and long grass waving in the breeze, and the ocean crashing beyond. The sun played hide and seek that day. Second, when she got out of the car, she spotted me, sitting on my family’s back deck with my legs dangling over the side.
Our gazes met. She gave me the smallest smile. A little upturn of her lips. She waved and stood there a moment as if waiting. I wandered over, probably acting as the town welcoming committee.
I didn’t realize the meaning of what she was doing at the time but have thought a lot about it since.
The ocean with her majesty is grand. No doubt. I’ve built my career around it. But I’ve also built my life around relationships and connections to people, or at least I’d like to think I do so.
Paisley looked for connections before she jumped into experiences. I think that says a lot about a person. She is a who kind of person, not a what kind of person. Relationships over things and stuff.
From that summer onward, the best day was when the Jones family rumbled into the driveway of the cottage next door.
During that first meeting, we were both seven. Over the years, we ran and played in the same circle. It wasn’t until I was about ten that I became aware that the other kids thought I was annoying. Seriously, I was a ball of energy. I credit growing up on the beach. I played hard. Slept hard. Repeat. Something about the water propels me in life.
A few times, Paisley stood up for me. The other kids would tease me about my teeth or cowlick—thankfully, I outgrew it but have learned to keep my brown hair trimmed short. They’d tease her about her name, making up silly rhymes. It was harmless, really, but I like to think we bonded over being the younger kids, the weird ones.
However, as we approached our teens, nothing about Paisley was weird. She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Holden realized my crush before I did. In fact, I don’t think I even knew what a crush was other than when she was around I felt extra bombastic.
I sigh. But I shouldn’t be thinking about crushes or S’mores and the night we played spin the bottle and the older kids’ dared us to kiss.
We’re both coming off breakups and being at the beach is a retreat, a chance to regroup.
But having my hands in Paisley’s hair earlier, breathing her lilac scent, just being around her...
I scrub my palm down my face as I go to the kitchen sink to clean up my dishes from lunch.
The expression she wore when I mentioned surfing rises to the surface of my mind. She looked like the saddest girl I’ve ever seen and I know sadness. I want nothing more than to see her smile, to be the source of her smile. I wonder if something happened. Oh right, her fiancé cheated on her. Of course, she doesn’t want to hang out with a dude right now and go surfing.
However, in the coming days, it’s hard not to want to hang out with her. Paisley is relatively petite and curvy in a delightfully feminine way. She practically occupies the entire beach, plants an umbrella and blanket in my mind, staking claim to a spot to call her own.
Every morning, when I’m out surfing, she walks along the shore. I should be watching the waves on the horizon, but can’t help cast my gaze toward land, seeking her out.
In the afternoon, she suns herself on her deck, reading while I grill tacos. I’ve seen her practically naked, but the way she fills in the bathing suit ignites my crush anew.
During the evening, she watches the sunset and eats dinner in the picture window overlooking the water. It’s impossible to ignore her which is exactly what I should be doing.
The waves are flat and I need a distraction.
I read, refresh my knot-tying skills, and wonder where all that energy went that I used to have. I’ll be darned if Brianna sucked it out of me.
I’m home but still feel unmoored, adrift.
Sitting in the living room, amidst a well-worn linoleum floor, windows out of plumb, and the rather dreary décor, an idea starts to take shape, emerging from the peeling wallpaper, scuffed baseboard, cracked trim, sagging floors, and furnishings that have seen more winters than seems fair.
Inspiration strikes. I clap my hands together, prepared to breathe life back into this place.
When I meet the contractor in the driveway the next day, Paisley rides past on a bicycle and parks in her driveway. I give her a friendly wave and am surprised when she comes over—we’ve barely said hello since the gum incident.
“Are you having work done on your cottage?” she asks, nodding at the truck with the contractor’s logo. He’s standing by the garage, writing something on a clipboard.
“Yeah. Figured it’s time. Don’t want a winter storm to wash the place out to sea.”
She tinkles a laugh. “Yeah, the wind was whipping the other night, I felt a gust, but had already closed the window. Probably need new ones.”
“Hey, no poaching my contractor, but if he does a good job, I’ll give you his number.” I wink.
He appears, tucking his pencil behind his ear and extending his hand to Paisley. “Hi, I’m Joe Thompson from Thompson Brothers Building and Carpentry. You must be Mrs. Sanders.”
Paisley’s cheeks are a pretty shade of pink, but maybe it’s from the bike ride.
“Oh. Oh, no. I’m Paisley Jones. I live next door. Well, for now. My family owns the cottage.”
Joe’s expression falls. “Jones? Your brother was Lyric, right?”
I’ve seen Paisley smile many times, but the expression that accompanies her reply is something else—an attempt at a smile. “Yeah. He wanted us to call him Ric though.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Nice meeting you. I’d better go.” She hurries off without another word.
Joe gives me an overview of the scope of work and promises to get me an estimate by Monday. “I usually do paperwork on the weekend.”
“Ah, you should be out enjoying summer days while you can.” I spread my arms wide.
“Yeah. Don’t get out on my boat as often as I’d like, that’s for sure. Shame about Ric Jones.”
“You knew Paisley’s brother?” He was the oldest in the family—a daredevil and jokester.
“We hung out a bunch of times. You know how things used to be—everyone in the same age range used to gather randomly together and get into trouble.” His smile is mild behind his beard.
“Sure do. Times have changed. I’m Paisley’s age. We used to play when we were younger. I always remember Lyric being this larger-than-life kid—guy. Back then, seventeen was old. Ha ha.”
“Memorable name, that’s for sure. Really tragic what happened.”
I tilt my head. For some reason, I don’t know what happened, which is odd because those summers are vibrant in my memory.
“Pop always said we had no business going out in the water when the ocean was in a bad mood.” Joe chuckles. “He said the same thing about Mom—steer clear when she got stormy. I remember it was a rough day. The swell was all over the place. Lyric got too close to the rocks. The little motorboat washed up in a dozen pieces, at least.”
My eyes widen. “That was Lyric?” I vaguely recall the story, the tragedy. I never made the connection that Lyric Jones, the kid I knew, and Ric Jones were the same person.
No wonder Paisley doesn’t want to go in the water. I might have second thoughts if something had happened to Holden. Then again, Dad died while at sea too.
Maybe, in addition to recovering from the breakup, this place reminds her of losing her brother. Rarely a day passes when I don’t think about my parents. To a degree, I know what it’s like to lose someone to the big blue—my father didn’t die in a boating accident, but he did pass while at sea. Heart attack while on the job.
Over the weekend, whenever Paisley is outside, I make an effort to say hi or attempt small talk. I want her to make sure she knows she’s not alone. I may have been the annoying kid next door, but perhaps now I can be a friend.
I’m about to head to the water before it gets windy when I spot her sweeping sand from her deck.
“Morning, neighbor,” I call.
She gives me a wave.
“Beautiful day, huh?” I can practically hear my buddies’ laughter. Morning? Weather? I sound like a kook—like this is my first time trying to flirt with a girl. Then again, Paisley was the first girl I ever flirted with.
“This is the life, huh? Beachfront cottage, ocean for miles. People live for this. As I see it, the grass is indeed greener. We’re pretty lucky.” I squish my eyes shut because I sound like such a dweeb. Thankfully, I’m wearing sunglasses and she can’t see me cringe.
“Well, the grass is browner on the other side...said no one ever.”
“Sand is brown.”
“True...and there’s a lot of it.” She leans on her broom and gazes toward the water. This moment would be awkward if I didn’t sense her sadness despite the sun peeking out from the clouds.
I let out a long breath. “Well, uh, if I see Thorndike out there, I’ll be sure to tell him off for you.”
The corner of her mouth lifts toward a smile and if it weren’t for that, I’d bury my head in the sand because I feel like such a dunce.
* * *
On Monday, as promised, I get an email from Joe, breaking down what they must do to get the place up to code, preserve the cottage, and the additional items he recommends, leaving the DIY stuff to me.
When the workers arrive a few days later, I spend the mornings surfing like usual and the afternoons demo-ing, cleaning up the job site, and selecting new fixtures and appliances. It feels good to get my hands dirty.
I angle a ladder to clear out the gutters—a few of them will need replacing. The deck is uneven and the climb a bit wobbly, but I manage to pull out the dead leaves and what looks like a small oak tree growing in the corner.
“Even if we wanted to sell this place, I don’t think it would be fit for much more than the gulls,” I mutter. Not that I intend to sell. In fact, I’m thinking of staying especially as my vision for what it’ll look like when we’re done takes shape. The appraiser already came out and all I need to do is write a check to Holden.
The idea of him and I rolling up our sleeves and doing this project together distracts me. I wish we had a better relationship. He thinks of me as the same old loser as I ever was.
As I climb down the ladder, out of nowhere, Thorndike the Sharp-Toothed Terror dive bombs. I step back to the deck but skid on the wet leaves that didn’t land in the bucket. I lose my footing and my other leg plonks into in the bucket. Arms windmilling, I fly backward.
The landing is hard and all of me hurts. It’s worse than getting tossed in the waves or being held under.
In semi-slow motion, the ladder pitches away from the wall of the cottage and I’m not quick enough to roll out of the way. It crashes and knocks the wind out of me.
When I catch my breath, I try to roll over so I can press to standing, but my wrist feels like a jalapeno pepper on ice. That’s to say it feels hot and cold at the same time. Numb and painful.
My cell phone is on the table by the grill because I was playing music. I can’t reach it from here.
Hoping someone hears me, I shout, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” Remembering an old television commercial with that line, I say, “No, really. I’ve fallen. Can someone please help me?”
I block my face with my arms, sending shooting pain through my wrist as Thorndike circles overhead.
