probably playing in the Super Bowl or something equally as cool while Allan himself was likely just crunching numbers, since he’s lame and an accountant for some fast food chain.
He’s staring into my yard, then over at Molly’s retreating form, apprehensive.
Fuck. Just what I need.
“Morning, Allan.” I wave feebly, feeling like a giant asshole and probably looking like one too. “Nice weather we’re having.”
It’s not nice weather—it’s cold and damp, with more rain in the forecast for tonight, snow sure to follow in the upcoming weeks.
Allan doesn’t respond, continues staring me down—not that he’s ever been one for conversation, living in that giant house all alone, the weirdo.
“She’s my dog walker,” I clarify, even though he didn’t ask.
Allan still doesn’t respond.
“She was being nosey and asking me personal questions,” I loudly tell him, verbal diarrhea rearing its ugly head, and I wish I would just shut the fuck up about it already. “Dang kids these days.”
He purses his lips and nods, moving toward the Honda parked in his driveway, eyeballing Buzz’s pimped-out Beemer parked in mine with disdain. He clearly thinks I’m one of those athletes who blows his money on expensive houses, cars, and jewelry.
“Welp. Good talk,” I tell Allan, slamming the door closed behind me as I re-enter the house, ranting in my head about what an odd dude he is. I mean, who just stands there when someone is talking to them and doesn’t say anything back?
He probably thinks you’re a total creep, I rationalize. After all, he did just see a teenager coming out of your house, and the two of you quarreling publicly in the front yard.
Yeah, but Molly and I were arguing like we’re brother and sister.
Great. He’s going to tell his wife and she’ll probably tell Molly’s parents, and everyone is going to think I’m a dickhead, not just my family, Chandler, and Molly.
And all by nine in the morning…
Fourteen
Chandler
“Join Mom and me for dinner?” Dad has his head stuck in the doorway of my tiny little office—more of a cubicle, really—his black hair peppered with gray, the glasses on his nose reflecting the fluorescent lighting from above.
I’ve been here a week and have survived on the Starbucks they serve in the breakroom and the bagels and donuts brought in by contractors—and the administrative assistant Ericka, who’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.
Well. Her and Buzz.
He’s pretty damn hilarious, too.
“I can’t. Hollis and Buzz are back from their honeymoon and she invited me over for dinner to look at their pictures.”
He tips his head. “They just got back today?”
“Yes?”
“And they’re having people over? I would think they’d want to rest and unpack.”
I stand, pushing my desk chair in and powering down my computer. “I don’t think Buzz is the rest-and-unpack type.” I pull my tweed blazer off the hook on the wall and shrug into it. “Besides, they haven’t seen anyone for over a week, so they’re dying to socialize.”
I’m not sure if there will be anyone there besides me, but Hollis mentioned one of the cleaning ladies had dropped off a pan of homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and a giant tossed salad—enough to feed an army—and only a fool would pass up a meal like that.
Especially when operating on a fixed income, like I am.
I haven’t been grocery shopping this week, and my refrigerator and cabinets are looking a bit too bleak. Free food and excellent company?
Yes please.
I’ll have seconds of that!
“Sorry Dad. Maybe some other time.”
I don’t go to my parents’ place often—they’re both very stuffy and formal, and I’m not about living in a gilded cage. That may be great for my mother, but it will never be the life for me. Sitting through dinners with them is almost unbearably stiff.
Considering we’re not living in the 1950s anymore, it’s weird that they run the house as if it were a country club. I want to laugh and talk with my mouth open and snort and have fun!
“Thanks for looking over that new agent contract,” Dad goes on, changing the subject to one he’s comfortable with: work.
“Not a problem.”
“Even though I know that’s not your forte, you should get familiar with the legal mumbo jumbo.”
“Right-o, Daddy-o.”
His lips purse.
I roll my eyes behind his back as he walks me to the elevator bank. Like the gentleman he was raised to be, Dad pushes the down button for me and waits for the car to arrive.
“Have a good time tonight,” he says. “If we don’t see you at the house this