The Neighbors (19 page)

But he hadn’t. Harlow was convinced: without her, that man wouldn’t have a shred of self-confidence. He
liked
what she did,
liked
having such a dark secret. It made him feel powerful, and that power came without an iota of personal effort.

“I
saw
you,” she said in an angry hiss. “What did you do?”

“I’m going out,” Red said, deliberately ignoring his wife’s question. “Pick up a few supplies.” He knew it would rile her, but he was too irritated to care. Maybe she’d break down and beg him to tell her what was going on; maybe, for once, she’d act like she cared about him and what he did, if only to keep her precious Andrew within reach.

Harlow pointed the knife at her husband with a scowl. “You go back out there and tell him I’m making lunch.”

“He’s a big boy,” Red told her. “I think he should go home for lunch.”

Harlow’s expression went livid.

“You
think
?” she snapped. “I don’t have you around to
think
.”

“Well, maybe I’m tired of not thinking,” Red said. “Maybe I’ve had it.”

“You’ve had it?”

“I’m not helping you with this.” He motioned to the side of the house; Andrew was there somewhere, painting trim that had been repainted a dozen times over by Harlow’s boys.

She blinked at him, shaking her head, the morning sun glinting off the blade of the knife in her hand.

“Excuse me? With
this
?”

“With anything,” Red corrected, but as soon as he said it, his skin went tingly with nerves. He waited for her to laugh, and she did, right on cue.

“You refuse to help me with anything?” Her eyes turned to the ceiling, that bitter chuckle poisoning the atmosphere around them. “You mean you refuse to unload the dishwasher ever again? Because God knows I have to ask you to do
that
forty times a day.”

“Jesus,” he murmured. “Don’t start, OK?”

“Don’t start?” She snorted. “Don’t start what, the laundry? Because I can’t remember the last time you helped me with
that
task, either. But hey...” She held her hands up, the tomato in one, the knife in the other. “What was I thinking, asking my husband to help with household chores? Am I nuts? I must be, Red. I must be, since you’re not going to help me with
anything
.”

Red squeezed the bridge of his nose, wincing at the headache that was stirring just beneath the surface of his skull. She was like a vampire; the mere sound of Harlow’s voice was sapping his energy.

“Jesus Christ, just stop. He didn’t say a damn thing,” he told her. “He was zoned out.”

Harlow blinked, suddenly looking like a woman who’d just been given terrible news.

“Zoned out?” she asked. “You mean like on drugs? Oh my God...”

“Not like on drugs,” Red muttered. “Like zoned out, in la-la land. He was thinking about something else. I asked him; he said it was nothing, so it’s nothing.”

“Right,” she quipped. “Because you turning into a psycho during dinner last night was nothing.”

“I’m going,” Red told her, hooking a thumb toward the front door. “Do you need anything?”

Harlow exhaled a frustrated sigh, shooting daggers at him. But Red wasn’t in the mood. He lifted his shoulders and said, “Fine,” before turning to go.

“Eggs,” she spit out. “And butter. Unsalted.”

He pulled the keys to the Cadillac from his pocket.

“Oh, and we need toilet paper.”

Red stopped at the front door, his eyes closed. He stood there for a long while, contemplating telling her to go to the store herself, but he decided to suck it up instead.
Fine
, he thought to himself.
I’ll go clear across town if it means staying out of this house for a few minutes longer.

“Are you going to write that down?” Harlow asked, looking skeptical.

“Why don’t
you
write that down?” he mumbled beneath his breath.

“What was that?”

“Yes,” he muttered, stalking across the living room in search of something to write with. “I’m writing it.”

Harlow watched him for a moment, then disappeared back into the kitchen, apparently satisfied with Red’s compliance. Because that was the only thing that satisfied her anymore—that and her boys. Never Red. Never him.

Drew wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist and squinted against the sun. Two windows’ worth of trim
painted, he peered at the third. It was a fruitless job, obvious that there was no real reason to repaint the wood other than Red requesting it be done. The paint he was going over was flawless, looking like it had been refreshed not too long ago. For all he knew, he was using the same paint Red had used a few months back. But there he was, sweating in the heat, blinded by the virtuous white that blurred his vision, burning his corneas, lighting up his face like a spotlight.

Mickey’s warnings about the Wards rattled inside his head. He had dismissed his housemate’s opinion because it had come from an unreliable source—unreliable at least as far as Harlow was concerned. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like Mickey and the Wards had a bone to pick. Something about the way each side was trying to turn Drew against the other. Maybe Mickey had vandalized their property. Maybe Red had called the cops on something as trivial as a noise complaint. They were unlikely neighbors, and unlikely neighbors were the most likely to give each other trouble.

His sunburn was starting to sting despite the sunblock he’d slathered on himself that morning. He considered telling Red he’d finished painting when, in reality, he’d only done half the job. It wasn’t as though Red would be able to tell the difference, and Drew would be out of this godforsaken heat. He was about to yank the bucket up and off the lawn, but the tinkle of ice against glass made him hesitate.

Harlow descended the back door steps, a tall glass of lemonade in one hand, a folded blanket draped across the other, a red-lipped smile pulled tight across her face.

“Whew,” she said, “it’s
hot
out here.” Strutting across the lawn, she met Drew beside the window and handed him the glass. “Tomorrow, I’m telling Red ‘no work outside.’ This weather is too much. I’m betting money you forgot to put on sunscreen again.”

“Nope,” he said. “I was on top of it this morning.”

“Thank goodness,” she said, seeming pleased by his reply. “Let’s take a rest,” she suggested, motioning to a shady spot at the far end of the yard. “I’ll open the umbrella.”

They crossed the lawn together. Harlow handed him his glass, spread the blanket across the grass, and fumbled with a beach umbrella before the latch released and it sprang open. She yelped in surprise, then laughed it off, waving her hand at the thing before stabbing it into the grass, settling down next to Drew. “Stupid thing always scares me,” she admitted. “Just like one of those snakes in a can.”

Drew crossed his legs Indian-style and glanced at the stripes of color overhead. It reminded him of visiting the public pool when he was a kid, when the Morrisons were still a family. Scoring the pool loungers next to the outdoor umbrellas was a feat in and of itself. Every time they managed, Drew felt like king of the pool in his Speedo and arm floats.

“So, what’s Red having you do today?” Harlow asked.

“Painting window trim,” Drew replied. “Does he do that often?”

The question caught Harlow off guard.

“Often?”

“Paint the window trim; it looks perfect. It doesn’t look like it needs another coat at all.”

“Doesn’t it?” Harlow looked back to the house with a disconcerted expression. “That’s strange.” Her reply was distant, oddly detached. “I don’t think he’s ever painted the window trim...” she mused, her words fading like the end of a song.

Her attention snapped back to Drew, her eyes set on his, her expression intense. “Are you happy here?” she asked, her tone carrying a renewed sense of purpose.

It was Drew’s turn to be caught off guard. He blinked at the question, then took a small sip of his lemonade before cupping the glass between his palms.

“You mean here, as in...”

“On Magnolia Lane,” Harlow finished.

Drew hesitated. His housing situation was less than ideal. Despite his efforts, the place was still a pit, and Mick had his eccentricities. They’d had their confrontation after Drew had woken to an open bedroom door; and then there was Mickey’s insistence that Drew listen to crazy conspiracy theories about the Wards. But he didn’t want to bring that stuff up. A woman like Harlow seemed less than inclined to understand the inner workings of a bachelor pad, or the tension that went with it. And while Drew could criticize every little detail, the fact of the matter was: Mickey was a guy, Andrew was a guy, and as guys they were both prone to dirty carpets and unkempt kitchens and occasional blowups that would probably resolve themselves in due time.

Was he happy?

“I guess so,” he replied with a shrug.

“You
guess
so?” Judging by her tone, it wasn’t the reply Harlow had hoped for. “Has that Mickey guy been giving you a hard time?”

There it was again: the Wards against Mickey. Drew frowned, wiping the condensation from his glass.

“Um.” Drew paused, carefully considering his words before finally posing a question that had been nagging at him for some time. “Is there something going on between you guys?”

Harlow reeled back. “Going on?” Disgust crawled into the corners of her mouth. “Do I look like the type of woman who would...”

“I mean, why are you so against each other?” he added quickly. “I get that he has issues, but he’s a decent guy. He doesn’t seem to be hurting anyone.”

“Where is this coming from?” she asked, her tone toeing the edge of irritation.

“You’ve told me to watch myself around him, and he’s told me the same about you.”

She blinked her eyes in rapid succession. “He what?” she asked, breathless.

“It just seems like you have a bone to pick, and I’m stuck in the middle of it. I only bring it up because I moved out here to get away from that sort of thing. Drama, I mean.”

“I understand,” Harlow replied, but she didn’t look at him. Her words were distant, far away. “I’m sorry, you’re right.” Squaring her shoulders, she paused, then continued a moment later. “When we first moved here, Mickey would park that greasy old car along the curb, often in front of our house instead of his own. It leaked oil everywhere. Red confronted him about it, and ever since then we’ve had a bit of a feud. But you’re right: you’re stuck in the middle, and it isn’t fair.”

Sitting in the shade of a giant beach umbrella, sipping homemade lemonade, he thought Harlow’s story was as plausible as a story could be.

“I couldn’t help but to stay up worrying about you,” Harlow told him, changing the subject. She kept her eyes on her hands. “You seemed so upset at dinner, and then Red...” She shook her head. “He’s so stupid, bringing up your mother like that. It was completely out of line. I was horrified. I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK,” Drew told her.

But Harlow wasn’t having it. “He wasn’t always like this,” she confessed. “It’s like I hardly know him anymore.” She pressed a hand over her mouth. Drew blinked when he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes.

“Hey, it really is OK,” he reassured her, reaching out to touch her arm.

“It isn’t just that,” she whispered, running a finger beneath her bottom lashes, trying to keep the tears from streaking her makeup. “This house?” She motioned to Andrew’s dream home with a wave of her hand. “It’s a lie.”

Drew chewed the inside of his cheek, his own gaze drifting back to the jewel of Creekside.

“It used to be perfect, but now it just looks the part,” she said, her eyes still downcast. “Inside, it’s a nightmare.”

“What do you mean?” The question slipped past his lips before he could contain it. He didn’t want to pry, but his curiosity was too great to contain.

Harlow pulled in a shaky breath, finally looking up at him with a weak smile.

“We fight. You know, that sort of thing. But you’re young,” she said with a nostalgic smile. “Too young to know how it feels to see something you love disintegrate.”

Andrew frowned. It was his turn to look down. Harlow was wrong about that. He had watched his family fall apart. His father had been great, and then suddenly he was gone; just like Red had been great, and suddenly he was guilt-tripping Drew at the dinner table. He swallowed against the parallel. Perhaps the stars had aligned just right, and Drew had ended up on Magnolia Lane for more reasons than one. Maybe fate had a little something to do with it. Maybe he was supposed to be here to help Harlow through a situation Andrew had already lived through. Maybe he was here to hold her hand and tell her it would all be OK.

“Have you ever wanted to burn down your own home?” she asked him.

He blinked at her, shook his head as if to deny it, but he wasn’t saying no; he was shaking his head because everything was shifting—his perception, his emotions, his loyalty.

“Every day,” he told her.

“Me too,” she whispered as her hand slithered across the blanket, her fingers creeping onto his knee.

And this time, the discomfort didn’t come.