Dare to Love the Guy Next Door by Ellie Hall
Paisley
I’m lying on the couch in the most awkward position. Leg flung over the back, head tipped off the cushion. Why don’t I reposition? I’m not sure it’s worth the effort. Week one in Seaspray Beach I was up and about. Week two, I’m feeling kind of blue—trust me, it has nothing to do with Jason.
I think I’m becoming a mole person, barely leaving the cottage. My best friends are on to me because they’ve been texting me with more check-ins than usual.
Daisy: The breakup coverage is definitely getting blown out of proportion. There are bigger problems in the world.
Blakely: But it comes with the territory. Paisley was engaged to a high-profile guy. Of course, the media mavens are going to be all over it.
Mila: Media mavens? What is this 1950? 1970? Nineteen-something?
Blakely: Don’t be a shrew.
Mila: I rest my case.
Me: That’s my line. I’m the lawyer...and falling behind on work by the day.
Oops. I should not have pressed send. But Daisy and Blakely aren’t wrong. The Jas-ley breakup is all over gossip sites, Twitter, and group chats. I finally turned notifications off on my phone because I was being tagged in too many posts and comments. It seems half the country thinks he should take me back and the other half want to date the cheating loser.
But I don’t want the girls to get worried. I’m, uh, not really on a case. More like falling behind in my life...not sure where to go or what to do.
In a way, the split was a wake-up call. But where does it leave me?
Cora: What do you mean?
Me: Oh, it’s a big case but the Wi-Fi is spotty here.
I hate lying but don’t want them to become concerned because a couple of them will appear on my doorstep with ice cream (and believe it or not, I can’t eat any more of it. I single-handedly cleared out the shelf at the market down the street). The other two would find pitchforks and flaming torches, track down Jason, and see that he gets run out of the village…or wherever he is.
Me: I’m fine. Everything is fine. Jason keeps texting me that he’s sorry. Probably doesn’t want me to spill his secrets. Ha. But yeah. I’m fine. Really. Just fine.
No one answers for a beat and I realize that they’re probably conversing in another chat.
Me: Seriously. My neighbor is handy (and handsome), so I’m not completely alone up here. I’ve been taking daily walks, reading, and relaxing.
Daisy: Does that mean you’re staying offline?
I only gave them the handsome “nibble” so they’d know I’m not preoccupied with the breakup. And really, I’m not. Yes, it stinks and I hate how everyone has an opinion about my life—particularly the cake and confetti part, but there’s another deeper, older issue that rose to the surface.
Cora: What do you mean handsome? Tell us more.
Blakely: Is he Forever Marriage Match material?
Mila: She’s not thinking about that now. She just had a breakup!
I’m not not thinking about it. I mean, Griffin’s appearance hasn’t escaped my notice. It’s hard to ignore an unexpectedly handsome person who walks around shirtless on the beach, on his deck, and on a surfboard.
Blakely: I want a full rundown.
Daisy: Only if you’re ready, Paisley. Jason’s departure from your life is still fresh.
Me: Yeah. True, but good riddance. I’m glad I found out now and not later.
Cora: That’s the spirit!
Me: Funny thing, I knew my neighbor when I was a kid...
I go on to tell them about my childhood visits to the seacoast, Griffin, and how he took the gum out of my hair.
Daisy: That’s kind of romantic.
Me: Not really. My hair is still oily from the peanut butter.
Cora: So he could definitely be your Forever Man.
When we went to our frenemy Miranda’s wedding, we recalled a pact based on a silly agreement back in high school that if we were still single by the time Miranda tied the knot, we’d all marry the next guy we dated—a little short-sighted and I think there’s some leeway there, but the gist is: Find a guy to marry by our ten-year high school reunion or else.
Cora’s happily engaged, but she’s counting down for the rest of us to find our Forever Marriage Match (FMM for short).
Blakely: I took a picture of the scroll. I can’t believe we wrote the pact on a scroll.
Mila: I thought it was a dare.
Daisy: Same thing.
Mila: Is not.
Blakely sends a screenshot:
We vow to enact this Marriage Match
If we don’t marry before our enemy.
From that cue, we have one year to say I do.
The next guy we date will be our fate.
Our grooms-to-be hold the key
To our hearts it’s true, so we won’t die blue.
The pact is a fact, an oath to betroth.
To break is to partake in work for the snake.
We five declare to complete this dare.
All those years ago, we signed it. Now, I’m a lawyer so no way would this hold up in court. At least not in this country. However, when tried by a jury of my peers (Mila, Blakely, Cora, and Daisy), there’s no refuting it. A gavel-like bang sounds from next door. I’m getting used to the construction sounds but had to pull out my noise-canceling headphones the other day when the jackhammers were on.
Daisy: I’m looking at the quiz we created and according to the results, Paisley is best paired with a guy who likes the outdoors, doesn’t have facial hair, and is a fan of...I can’t read the name of this band. I think that it’s a band.
Blakely: That would be the Bengals. I remember how desperately you wanted to go to the concert.
Mila: Never date musicians.
Me: Are they as bad as actors?
Mila: Worse.
Me: I had such a huge crush on Benji, the singer.
Cora: He had facial hair.
Me: And he was like 27 years old. I’d say it was an infatuation.
Cora: So you’d make an exception when it comes to the facial arts.
I send the emoji with the raised eyebrow. Why are they badgering me? Oh, right because their best friend super senses know I’m descending into a dark, lonely place. A place where my inner voice sounds like it’s crying out, asking for help.
Help! Help!
Alright, alright. Tonight, I won’t eat potato chips dipped in a tub of chocolate cake frosting. Instead, I’ll have a proper dinner, watch a romcom, and tomorrow I’ll go for a bike ride.
The problem is, up until Griffin’s contractor brought up my brother, I’d successfully compartmentalized the memory. Years of therapy proved very useful in returning to the cottage, but hearing Lyric’s name spoken aloud and then the concern on Griffin’s face, made me crumble inside. It was like the protective walls I’d built around myself turned out to be made of sand and one powerful wave washed them out to sea.
Blakely: Does the guy next door have facial hair?
Me: Sometimes. He’s not often clean-shaven.
Blakely: That’s a deal-breaker for me.
Me: We’ll make sure never to send you to the mountains where the men are ruggedly handsome.
Cora: But you sent yourself to the sea where the men (man) is...
I send the monkey covering its eyes emoji. A strange, moan-like sound comes from outside, bringing to mind Thorndike the Sharp-Toothed Terror.
Mila: Okay, girls. Let’s not bug her. But maybe grab coffee with the guy next door...or another human and send a selfie for verification purposes. If not, you can bet your cute booty we’ll all be there by the weekend.
Cora: That wouldn’t be so bad. I’ve been wanting to go to the beach before the end of the summer.
It’s not that I don’t want them here, but this is my haven for now. A place where I can leave a sink full of dishes, not have to wake up at any particular time, or answer to anyone. Not that they’d expect me to, but there is a certain amount of showing up I’d have to do if they visited.
Showing up that I haven’t been doing for my life. Not since this unexpected swell of grief took me under. I called into work and used sick days. However, apart from sad, I feel perfectly fine.
Someone’s agonized shouts come from outside. “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”
I leap to standing, my joints popping after being stationary for so long. I peer outside. My house is set back farther from the beach so I can’t really see Griffin’s deck, but Thorndike circles overhead like a vulture.
Me: Guys, gotta go. I think the neighbor is in trouble.
I’m not wearing a bra or anything I’d ever be caught on the streets of Manhattan in, but Griffin has seen me wearing a trash can, so I throw caution to the wind and rush next door.
He lies prone on his deck under a ladder, with his foot in a bucket, and a rope tangled around his ankle.
“Did Thorndike do this?” I ask, glaring skyward.
“He incited the incident. I need your help.” He moans, clutching his arm close to his body.
“Where are your barbecue tongs?” I ask.
He groans in response.
“Right, not the time for making jokes.” I spring into action, pulling the ladder off him, but the base snags in the rope.
“You can tell me how you got into this mess later, but do you need me to call an ambulance or—?” The rest of the question lodges in my throat when I realize someone must have had to make an emergency call for my brother years ago.
“No, it’s just my wrist. I tried to Hulk my way out of here, but that rope—” Griffin points with his good hand.
“I can’t fathom how this happened, but just a sec. I can get you loose.”
I untie the rope from the bucket that he must’ve been filling when clearing the gutter. I then manage to unwind it from the rungs of the ladder.
Griffin slowly gets to his feet. When he turns around, my eyes widen. I failed to mention that, as per usual, Griffin isn’t wearing a shirt. It must be a surfer thing. But that’s not the issue. Much.
But his sculpted chest isn’t the only problem.
“Don’t move.”
He ducks. “What? Is it Thorndike?”
“More like a spike. I think a piece of the deck...” What appears to be the tip of a six-inch splinter pokes out from the soft space below his ribs but above his trim waistline.
“Okay, lean over the picnic table and stay perfectly still. I happen to be an expert at this.”
“You’re also a doctor? A nurse?”
“No, like I told you, I’m a lawyer. I’m also a skilled splinter remover. My parents never replaced our dock up on the lake and my siblings and I would get at least a dozen per year. It was on me to take them out. Probably because I was the youngest and had the smallest fingers.”
My throat feels scratchy at the thought of my brother. Up until the other day, I could think about him without trouble. Funny, how grief can creep up when least expected.
I push it away and focus. “Griffin, take a deep breath and tell me you have antiseptic in the house.”
He nods and inhales, filling his lungs. His skin is tan, warm, and smooth—no hairy back for this guy.
Oh, the things I know about Jason’s grooming habits. The things the internet would love to be privy to...but back to my patient, this is purely clinical touch right now.
With a smooth and steady hand, I pull the wooden dagger out.
“Did you get it all?”
“I’m inspecting.” And trying not to inhale your summery scent—don’t want to swoon and pass out during your time of need. “You are all clear. But we should clean the spot.”
“Come on inside but be careful. The place is a disaster right now so watch your step.”
After I treat Griffin’s back, I say, “How about your wrist?”
“Unfortunately, I’ve fallen on a deck and hurt my wrist before.”
“Maybe you should hire someone to clear the gutters.”
He chuckles, which I take as a good sign.
“No, I was at a raging party in the Maldives. Miscalculated the distance from the deck to the pool. Make of that what you will.”
“I see.” Thoughts of Jason’s exploits fill my mind.
“Ice, over-the-counter pain relievers, rest. I should be as good as new in a few days,” Griffin says casually.
“Then my work here is done.” I brush my hands together.
“No, it’s not.”
I tilt my head in question. “Do you want me to wrap your wrist? Are you right-handed or left-handed?”
“No, I want you to make dinner.”
My eyebrows pinch together in question. “My apologies. I only provide legal and expert splinter removal services.”
“Rather, put dinner together. It’s already made. Mostly. Everything is in the fridge and just needs to be warmed up. I’ll supervise.”
I open and close my mouth, ready to protest.
Griffin lets out a sound that’s a combination of a huff and a sigh. “You haven’t left your cottage in days. You don’t suddenly have someplace to be, do you?” he asks innocently but pointedly.
“No, I guess not. But you have to put on a shirt.” I poke his very hard chest and might need a brace for my finger.
His lips twitch with a smile.
