Lucky bitch.
“Hi, I’m Ronnie!” The woman stuck out a chipped-nailed hand.
As Michaela shook her hand, Ronnie glanced back over her shoulder and pointed. “I live right there,” she said, indicating the house across the street and one over to the right. “I saw the moving trucks and figured I’d come to introduce myself and see if you wanted to take a break from the unpacking and have some cookies.”
Though the welcoming smile and offer had her wanting to say yes, years of programing had Michaela’s insides recoiling at the idea of cookies.
That’s not you anymore.
If she wanted a cookie in the middle of the day without plans to exercise it away, she could damn well eat a cookie. Hell, she could have ten of them, and no one would say a word. Nobody would be seeing her on Instagram and judging every inch of her within seconds of the treat hitting her tongue. She wouldn’t have to read dozens of critical comments which would make her drink the self-loathing away.
The same panic that had gripped her last night threatened to return, but she recalled Ralphs's words.
Don’t second guess yourself.
Easier said than done, but she’d give it her best. Making friends and being neighborly was part of her new life now. She needed to remember Ronnie didn’t know she was Scarlett, and embrace the chance to make a friend. To chase away some of that loneliness she’d mentioned to Ralph.
“Uh, I’m Michaela, but feel free to call me Mickie, or even Mick.”
The woman’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? Your name is Mick?”
The unease returned. Had she inadvertently outted herself? As far as she was aware, her actual name had never been made public. She’d gone to great lengths to keep it that way. “Y-yes.”
“Holy shit, that is so perfect.” Ronnie’s head fell back, and she let out a joyful laugh. “Priceless.”
“Uh, okay. Why?”
Ronnie waved her hand. “I’ll explain another time. You game to hang for a bit?”
“Yeah. That sounds great, thanks.” She almost turned to grab her phone and purse but stopped herself. There was no need to check social media, and no one would be calling.
Huh, that was kind of freeing.
“Awesome. Follow me,” Ronnie said before turning and leading the way across the street. “You don’t need to lock up. We can see the house from my porch.”
As Michaela stepped out of her house into the crisp early September air, she swallowed her nerves. What the hell was she supposed to talk about with Ronnie? Her house? The fact she had no job? The weather?
Ridiculous.
Who would have believed a near thirty-year-old woman worth millions of dollars who’d charmed the entire world for a decade would be terrified to spend an hour making small talk with her neighbor?
CHAPTER FOUR
KEITH DRAGGED HIS tired ass into the kitchen sometime shortly after noon. He hadn’t slept this late since he’d been in his early twenties. And, Christ, that was a decade and change ago.
Damn, when had he gotten so old?
Scrubbing a hand down his stubbled face, he veered straight for the coffee pot. Thank God, one of his siblings took pity on him and left a full pot hot and ready to go. He was tempted to drink it straight from the pot since one or two cups wasn’t going to cut it.
Gonna be one of those days.
Even if it was already half over.
Oversleeping tended to happen when a man worked a fourteen-hour day then spent the night dragging his drunk-ass, belligerent father out of a bar. He’d had hopes of dumping the old man in his trailer and making it back home before midnight, but the trailer had been in such a disgusting state he’d had no choice but to spend a few hours cleaning while his father slept off his sixth binge in as many days. It was either that or he’d be getting a call from the board of health condemning the place. Food wrappers, weeks’ worth of unwashed dishes, piles of trash, and a few unidentifiable items littered every spare inch of space in the mobile home, turning Keith’s stomach.
Fuck.
Every time he left the toxic shithole, he swore he’d never be back. Never clean up after a man who wouldn’t piss on Keith or any of his siblings if they were burning. But inevitably, he’d walk out of the trailer and his mom’s weakened voice would sound in his ear.
“Please just don’t let him die alone in there,” she’d whispered after she’d awakened from the surgery to repair the ruptured aneurysm she’d suffered. But that hadn’t been all. She’d gone on, pleading her case for a man who’d treated her almost as poorly as he’d treated his kids. “I know he’s not perfect,” she’d continued. “But I love him, Keith. I’ve always loved him.” She hadn’t lasted long after that. Not even a full day following surgery, she had a stroke. The surgeon had warned them it was a possibility. Something about the blood vessels in her brain constricting and spasming following the rupture. He still didn’t fully understand. But back then, all he’d known was that his mother was dead, and she spent her last hours worrying about his jerk of a father.