The Nice Guy Next Door (When In Waverly 1)

Millie

I’m going to lose my mind. I’m going to combust. Joan will not leave Jameson’s side. She has stayed at his house for the last three days. She cooks for him, she cleans for him, she organizes his pain meds and antibiotics for him, and she answers his phone for him. All stuff that I’d love to be able to help him with if she’d just leave for a little while! Except for answering his phone. No idea why she keeps doing that.

I love Joan. She’s a fabulous woman. But I want to talk to my boyfriend without his mama chaperoning. Jameson has told her repeatedly that he’d be okay if she left for a little while, but she insists that she’s perfectly content to stay right here next to his side every time.

I get it. I really do. Her child was shot right in his own front yard by a psychopath. That would put every mother in the world on high alert. I don’t blame her one bit. If it had been Lo, I would have marched into that jail cell he’s being held in and beat him with that baseball bat one more time. And Lo isn’t even my child.

I just really want to profess my undying love for her son! And I want to do it right now! I wanted to do it days ago. How much longer can she stay here without being forced to run home for something? Doesn’t her fiancé miss her?

I thought she would eventually have to go to the grocery store, but to my great disappointment, she had them delivered. Yay for the modern age.

The three of us are sitting in the living room together, watching some barbaric TV show with guns, explosions, and an overabundance of violence that Jameson picked out. I think I must have PTSD, because I can’t stop flinching when I hear the gun sounds.

Joan is nodding off in the recliner and jolts awake every time the action picks up and the TV gets loud. Watching her is proving to be more entertaining for me than the show.

“Mama, go take a nap in the bedroom,” Jameson suggests. I sit up a little straighter, hoping she’ll take the bait. I’d much prefer her just leave for an hour or two, but this might be the best chance I get.

“Oh, no. I’m okay right here,” she says, and I deflate a little. What does she think is going to happen? She’ll still be in the house. I’ll be right here with him. She doesn’t think I’m a good enough babysitter for her grown son?

Well, Joan, I heard the same care instructions you heard. Keep the arm in the sling and still. Keep the wound dry. No lifting. Pain meds as needed. I got this!

“Mama, I insist. Go take a nap,” he says in a commanding voice I’ve never heard from him before. I start to stand up to go take a nap, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back down next to him.

Joan takes a moment to observe me and Jameson side by side on the couch. A worried expression settles on her face. She’s never going to leave. But then she surprises me and asks to speak to me alone for a moment.

I follow her back to the bedroom she’s staying in, and she closes the door behind her. We stand and watch each other for a few seconds as she gathers the words she wants to say.

“My son cares for you a great deal,” she settles on. This is not what I thought we were going to talk about. I assumed she was going to go over a list of all the things I should do for him while she’s napping.

“Do you really think so?” I ask.

“Yes, I do. Which concerns me.” My heart immediately plummets to my stomach. I’ve never heard her say anything that would lead me to believe she didn’t want me with her son until now. I thought she would be happy for us. Right now, she sounds almost angry.

“Why are you concerned?” I ask hesitantly, not entirely sure I want to know the answer to this question. Joan has the potential to ruin my chances with Jameson. He’s not an absolute mama’s boy, but I know he trusts her judgment, and he cares about her. He would at least hear her out if she went to him with her concerns.

“You’ve said, more than once, that you have no interest in being in a relationship and settling down. That scares me because I see the way my son looks at you. I’m worried you’re going to break his heart,” she says with a crack in her voice.

“I won’t!”

“You will. I’m not going to lie. I did hope for a relationship between the two of you for quite a while. But I’ve watched him pine after you, and all you’ve done is string him along for months. It’s cruel.”

I’ve never in my life been called cruel before this moment, and it hurts to hear it from Joan. I like her. She’s kind and giving and vivacious. She’s someone I can learn from. Her words swirl around in my head as I try to contain my emotions.

“Before Jameson, I did not want a relationship. I didn’t want to give myself to someone and have them ripped away from me. I never thought the risk would be worth it before,” I say, watching her reactions carefully.

“Has that changed?” she asks. I nod my head, and relief washes over her face.

“Jameson is so patient. He has been giving me time to think and consider what I want. But after what happened the other night, I don’t need time to think anymore. All I’ve been able to think about is the what-ifs.”

“And you want to tell him?”

“I do. Ideally, I would have said all of this to him first, but…”

“But I haven’t given either of you a moment alone. I get it,” she interrupts with a laugh. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get out there.” She wraps me in a hug and then pushes me out the door, and my heart instantly takes off into a gallop. Am I having a heart attack? This cannot be healthy.

This cannot be the way I go: Millie Parker, 26, dies from fear of professing love. That would be mortifying to have in your obituary. I take a deep breath and then force my feet to carry me down the hall and to the living room.

I pause before turning the corner to bolster up a little more bravery. You can do this. You’ve done much scarier things—like face a murderous psychopath with nothing but a baseball bat, for example. What’s the worst that can happen? He could laugh in your face, tell you he doesn’t feel the same, and then you’d be forced to see him on a daily basis because he’s your next-door neighbor.