The Player Next Door

Did he tell his friends? Was he laughing about it with them? Mocking me?

The parking lot has emptied out with only a few students lingering. Aside from Dean Fanshaw, no one left is associated with Shane and that crowd. Thank God.

Dean is Shane’s very best friend and, unlike Steve, isn’t known for being a jerk. What he is known for—and for good reason, based on what I witnessed—is boning every girl who’s willing. Currently, he’s too busy mauling Virginia Grafton’s neck against the hood of his truck to notice me.

I keep my eyes forward as I rush past them and his red pickup, trying my best not to think about warm summer nights stretched out in the back of it, cradled between Shane’s long, muscular thighs, my back resting against his chest, struggling to focus on the movie playing on the drive-in screen ahead.

I’m so focused on not catching Dean’s attention that I almost miss the two sets of legs dangling over the open tailgate, tangled in each other.

Almost.

One set, long and male, I recognize instantly. It’s the shoes I recognize, actually—white Vans. Shane’s favorite.

The other legs are shapely and lead into a short, powder-pink skirt that I distinctly remember from second period English.

I’m frozen in place as I watch Shane and Penelope Rhodes lost in a kiss, Shane’s fingers woven through her fiery-red hair, while his other hand slips beneath that tiny skirt.

I was so wrong.

Ignoring me earlier was not the worst thing Shane Beckett could have done today.

Two

August 2020

* * *

I inhale the stale air in the living room, rife with the smell of old wood steeped in summer’s humidity. The widow Iris Rutshack left the house spotless, at least. Or rather, her children must have, because I can’t imagine the ninety-year-old woman on her hands and knees, scrubbing grime off the thick pine baseboards.

I smile with giddiness.

This place is mine.

I used to walk past this charming clapboard house every day on my way home from school. I’d admire the pale blue exterior and the covered porch running along the front, adorned by a matching set of rocking chairs that Mr. and Mrs. Rutshack—old even back then—filled every afternoon, watching the kids go by. On the odd day that their watchful gazes were distracted by a singing bird at their feeder, I’d stick my hand between the fence pickets and steal a bloom from the wild English-style garden that bordered the sidewalk.

Then I’d keep going all the way home to our low-rent apartment complex, my feet growing heavier with each step closer. When I closed my eyes at night, I’d imagine I was drifting off to the rhythmic sound of creaking chairs and cricket chirps, and not to the barfly screwing my mom on the other side of a too-thin wall.

“Thanks, Gramps. Whoever you are.” My voice echoes through the hollow space as I wander. Technically, my father’s father bought the house for me. He was never a part of my life, but he knew who I was—the product of a fling between his twenty-eight-year-old, truck-driver son with a criminal record and my then-fifteen-year-old mother—and was kind enough to name me in his will.

The house needs some TLC, more evident now that the furniture is gone. Nothing fresh paint, new lights, and a belt sander to the worn golden oak floors can’t fix. I knew that when I put an offer in, and ever since I signed the sale papers, my butt’s been glued to the shabby couch of my Newark apartment while I’ve binge-watched home-reno shows for inspiration. Of course, most of it I can’t afford. Slowly but surely, though, I’ll turn this place into the charming seaside retreat—minus the sea—that I’ve always envisioned.

Checking the time, I fire off a quick “Where are you?” text to my best friend, Justine, and then head to the porch to wait for the U-Haul. They were supposed to be here an hour ago. I’m annoyed, but I can’t be too annoyed, seeing as Joe and Bill—Justine’s brother and boyfriend—are driving two hours each way to move me in exchange for beer and burgers and a night on air mattresses.

Well, I’m sure Justine will repay Bill in some sordid way that I’d rather not think about.

Leaning against the post, I smile at the hum of a lawn mower churning through grass in the neighborhood. I’ll have to pay a neighborhood boy to cut my front yard until I can afford my own mower. The gardens, I’ll tend on my own. Iris and her husband doted on this property for sixty years, and I promised her I’d keep them thriving. Maybe that’s a tall order, seeing as I have yet to keep even a cactus alive. First stop tomorrow is to replace my long-lost library card so I can borrow some gardening books.