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I’ve been sitting in my rental truck, parked outside Gran’s house—my house—head resting on the steering wheel for nearly an hour. I can’t bring myself to go inside. I can’t force myself to walk to the back of the rig, pop the latch and take my first box in. It seems so final that way. So real that Gran is gone.
It’s not the first time I’ve been here since the funeral. I’ve spent many days cleaning out her house and getting it ready to be “mine.” Initially, I came armed with my three-pile plan—keep, donate, garbage—certain that if I was organised physically, I’d be prepared mentally. Two things to became clear soon afterward.
The first was that my garbage pile was far larger than the curbside bin could accommodate and I was going to have to rent a dumpster. A big dumpster. It seemed it had been a while since I’d ventured to the lower floor of the three-level split home. If I thought she had a lot of junk stashed in her kitchen drawers, the lower floor was a whole other level of shock. I wouldn’t have labelled her a hoarder per se, but there were definitely some interesting and useless finds down there. Like boxes of yellowed paper from the days of the dot matrix printer, but no printer to warrant keeping it.
The second thing I realised was that I didn’t wish to donate any of Gran’s belongings. Selfishly, I wanted to keep all of her crazy to myself. Aside from the clothing, I couldn’t bear to give any of her things away. It would be like giving her away. Each one of her trinkets had a story, and I could still hear her voice in every one of them. I could see the smile on her face from the day in kindergarten when I handed her the painted rock paperweight. I could recall the lengthy environmental discussion about printing emails from my parents when she had already read them online. I could hear the excitement in her voice when she taught herself to code from one of the Dummies books and how she made a cat catch a mouse on the screen for one point.
Poker for Dummies, Bartending for Dummies, Stock Investing for Dummies. There must have been thirty of those boxed and packed away in the storage room. They served her some good, though. She always won at least something from her weekly poker games, she made a mean Old Fashioned, and the sum Kelsey inherited from Gran’s stock picks is impressive. The one manual she didn’t use to its potential was the home maintenance book. I grow nervous when the house creaks, fearing it’s about to cave in on me. Over the years, I tried to get her to fix the house—at least the major things—but she kept telling me I could take care of it when the house was mine.
The time has come.
My eyes mist over for the thousandth time this month. I lift my head off the steering wheel to grab a tissue and scream so loud that I scare myself with the volume. Standing beside my window is Owen. Of course, it doesn’t register as him at first. All I see at first is the torso of a man with muscles large enough to break the hinges off the truck’s door and haul me away over his big shoulders.
Now that I know who the shoulders belong to, I’m fine with this idea.
I press the button to unroll the window, then remember the engine is off. I open the door a crack and he grabs on, pulling it to its end so he can rest his forearm on the doorframe. His other forearm settles on the truck’s exterior behind my head, forcing him to lean towards me. He’s wearing the exact same thing he did to the funeral reception: a t-shirt and Carhartts. All black. I’d trade a tailored suit for worn-in, filled-out work pants any day. The suits in my life tend to make my job harder, whereas the trades are always there to make life easier.
Consistent with his clothing, Owen’s stance against my vehicle is casual, like we’re having a regular conversation in the street. Like he didn’t scare me enough to pee in my pants a smidge.
“Where’s your help?” His hazel eyes focus on mine, and he doesn’t smile while providing this odd greeting.
His aura is completely different today from the one other instance I saw him. What was warm and sincere at Gran’s funeral is now cold and apathetic. Even so, his voice travels through my body like it did at the funeral luncheon, warming me from top to bottom as each cell in my body trembles.
“Help?” I shake my head in tight movements, giving an answer to my question.
He doesn’t grasp the subtlety. “Who are you waiting for?”
Has he been watching me sit in the truck for an hour while I alternate between laughing and crying about childhood memories?
“I’m not waiting for anyone.”
Owen dips his chin, then double taps the roof. “I’ll do it.” He signals me out of the cab with a nudge of his chin that makes his hair dangle across one eye. Dark locks hanging freely across his forehead, along with his beard, add more shade to his already sombre appearance. Everything about him is dark except for his eyes, which stand out like two lighthouses on a dark night.
“You don’t have to.”
I’ll be living with Kelsey once the permits come in and the renos get underway. The few belongings I’m moving in today are packed into a set of luggage and a single box. The truck is to move out the pieces of Gran’s life that I’ve boxed up and am keeping in storage.
Besides, I don’t need help. The tears may give off that helpless girl vibe, but I’m anything but. I’ve lived on my own for a long time. I can rewire a light switch, I can change the oil in my car, and I can perform CPR if I have to. I’m pretty sure I’m good to lift a few boxes and rolling suitcases.
I swat my hand to wave him off, but quick as a ninja, his hand comes off the roof and catches the tips of my fingers before my hand lands back in my lap. He adjusts his grip, getting a better hold of my hand, then stretches my arm out to assist my exit from the truck.
He looks at my feet, studying my bright pink, pointed-toe flats. “Use the running board.” He points where I should put my foot, as if I’ve never ridden in anything larger than a compact vehicle before. I’m all for chivalry, but it’s the twenty-first century and I can get myself out of a vehicle—even one that’s high enough to require a slight hop.
My fixed look on his square jaw and unmoving eyes probably only lasts for a couple of seconds, but it’s long enough for my brain to let me know it needs oxygen. I yank my hand free, feeling his calloused fingers score across my freshly manicured palm. Simultaneously, I spin to look out the windshield, away from him, so I can contain the frustration and the misguided attraction.
When I turn back a breath later, he’s staring at my fingers curled around the steering wheel. For a moment, I think he’s wondering why he held my hand in the first place. Then it becomes clear that he’s checking out the colour of my nails—the silver that blends perfectly into blue tips. Owen’s brow creases in plain disapproval.
He’s judging my ability to accomplish the job done by my appreciation for a well-maintained set of nails.
Owen’s eyes shoot to my face, and he knows he’s been busted unfairly appraising me. In contrast to his lowered brows, I raise mine and resume making eye contact, issuing my own silent admonition.
He backs away from the door and gives me room to exit. Ignoring his earlier order, I jump down with both feet, bypassing the running board. I walk around to the rear of the truck and undo the rental company-issued padlock, to which I’m sure a thousand people have the key. I hoist the scrolling door open and stare into the belly of the cargo hold.
There it is folks. My life in a cube van.
“What’s this?” His word count almost matches the number of items inside.
“This is to take Gran’s stuff out.” With my plans to gut the house, there’s no point in setting the place up like I’d be staying in it, so I sold a lot of my belongings.
“Before you put it up for sale—”
“I’m not selling. I’m renovating.”
“Why?”
“This home has been in my family for half a century.”
He looks at me as if that means nothing, confirming in my mind that he lives in one of the new builds. I won’t fault him for that—it’s people like him who employ me to design and decorate their homes. At the same time, I wonder why my living arrangements hold so much meaning to him. Could it have something to do with Gran and the community meetings? Is he, awkwardly, looking out for me the way he did for her?
My tone softens at the possibility. “So, like I said, I don’t need help.”
He dismisses my comment and pulls two suitcases forward, setting them on the ground for me, then takes the lone box under his arm along with another suitcase.
“It’s fine.”
Every statement he makes is a cliffhanger. I want to ask him what he’d rather be doing right now, or what he’s avoiding by helping me. However, I’m sure I’d only be left with more questions.
Owen leads me to my front door. I set the suitcases upright and rifle around in my purse for the key under his watchful gaze. It’s too intense to reciprocate, so I focus instead on looking for the key rather than feeling for it.
I finally push the door open and he walks past me while I grab the suitcase handle again. Owen places the box at the bottom of the stairs. At least he has the decency to stay out of the private rooms. An unwanted zip travels from my belly button to my apex at the thought of him in my personal space. There’s a fine line between bad boy and asshole and Owen toes it carefully.
“Do you have the day off?” I try striking up a conversation once more. If we’re going to be neighbours, we should at least be friendly.
“No.”
“Do you work from home?”
“Yes.”
The short remarks begin to sound less captivating and more arrogant. They make it hard to believe that he’s helping me out of kindness, like I had originally thought.
“Lucky for me that your morning was quiet enough to spare me some time.” It’s hard, but I try to sound grateful in my thanks.
“My days are never quiet. You needed help.”
And with that aloof comment, I close the door on the topic. I don’t need to be friends with the entire neighbourhood, even if the idea based on appearance alone is appealing.
I roll my suitcase to the bottom of the stairs and let it settle on all four wheels with less finesse than I would like. I turn to tell him thanks, but I can take it from here, when I smack right into Owen’s solid body, wheeling the last suitcase in behind me. He raises his arm and I think he’s going to steady me, but as unexpected as hitting his wall of muscle is the thumb he drags over my forehead and the knuckles he rests on my cheek. They’re rough and warm, like the finest grade of sandpaper that’s nearing the end of its usefulness. I’m paralysed under his unanticipated contact, and I stand there, gaping at him, wondering why he’s touching me. Curious if he’s going to slide that hand through my hair and pull me in for a surprise kiss. Questioning why it feels so good when I’ve decided I don’t like him.
Owen pulls his hand away and moves back, staring at me like he should apologise, but doesn’t have the vocabulary. Avoiding my frozen stare, he heads to the small mountain of boxes along the wall that need to go into the truck. As soon as he’s out of the house, I run my finger across my forehead, trying to recreate the feeling of his hand. It doesn’t work, though, because I feel something on my skin. Something’s wrong. I rush to the bathroom to learn his real reason for making contact, since desire was obviously not it.
Oh, for fuck’s sakes. An indented, red semi-circle remnant from leaning on the steering wheel graces the centre of my forehead like a beacon. I contemplate staying in the bathroom until he finishes the job since he already thinks I’m helpless, but my self-assuredness resurfaces, and I refuse to let his cocky confidence bother me.
We finish hauling the boxes outside in silence and I break it, only to thank him for his time.
“Welcome to the neighbourhood.”
Why do his words sound more like a warning than a greeting?