“You don’t like the look?”
“It seems . . . impractical,” I say, gesturing to the yard to indicate the kid. “I was thinking when we left New York that maybe it was time to torch all the furniture.”
“Go furniture-free? Sleep on the floor?”
I laugh. “No. I meant finally get something that doesn’t scream I’m single.”
An eyebrow lifts. “Are you not single?”
“I am definitely single. Very much so. But I don’t think I need the whole black-and-white-and-chrome look anymore.”
She peers around my monochromatic home. “Yeah, there is definitely a bachelor aesthetic working here.”
“Tell me about it. Even my son has black bedding. We don’t own anything that isn’t black or white.”
“What about gray? Do you have anything gray?”
I screw up the corner of my lips, considering. “We might have a few gray items. But gray is just a variation. New Yorkers aren’t actually allowed to own furniture that’s not black-and-white.”
“Oooh,” she says with an exaggerated nod. “I’ve heard, too, that single men are limited to items made only of chrome, steel, or titanium.”
“Don’t forget iron. That’s a very manly substance, and we like to have lots of iron tables, spikes, and stakes.”
“So manly.” She glances again at my black furniture. At my glass table. At the entirely colorless scheme that doesn’t fit in this bright yellow bungalow. “Are you truly thinking of going furniture shopping?”
“Yes, but I fear I might never emerge from IKEA. I’ve heard tell of a secret fast track to the exits, known only to the most experienced shoppers. The rest of us have to follow the winding trail like sheep, and somehow I always get caught behind a slow-moving family with all day to shop when all I want is a desk lamp.”
She stands and brushes her hands over the front of her shorts. “Why don’t I give you a better housewarming gift? I can take you shopping, Liam.”
“For furniture? You’d do that?”
She smiles. “You’re my neighbor. Of course. It just so happens that I know the secret route through IKEA. Also, it only seems fair—because I hate your furniture as much as you hate radishes.”
“Is it possible to hate something that much?” I counter, enjoying her sarcasm.
She pats the couch. “Yup. I detest it.”
“Well, my furniture is the new brown.”
“Then I’ll be your furniture Sherpa. Are you free tomorrow?”
“As a bird,” I reply, and she laughs.
“Ah, a vet who makes bird jokes. I’m sure that wins you many clients.”
I laugh too, a bit surprised at how well this move is going so far.
That is, if living next door to a pretty, sarcastic, helpful woman I’d love to ask on a date but can’t is a good thing.
But I can make the best of it.
I’ll be friends with the world’s sexiest neighbor with a tool belt and short shorts.
That ought to be easy.
Said. No one. Ever.
5
Liam
As I turn the rental car onto a curving road in neighboring Lucky Falls, Ethan tosses out yet another option for a permanent set of wheels.
“Hovercraft? That slaps. Have you considered it?”
“I have not. Tell me why it slaps,” I say, filing that new slang away in my drawer of Things Kids Say These Days. “Because I’m totally open to a dope hovercraft, but I need to know exactly why that should be at the top top of my list. Why should it be above, say, a Subaru?”
He rolls his eyes and huffs, possibly puffs, with the disdain of youth. “Please tell me you’re not getting a Subaru, Dad.”
I maintain a straight face as I drive. “Why should I not get a Subaru? Isn’t that what dads do? I could also get white trainers and a braided leather belt.”
He recoils in the seat, a full-body shudder I catch in my peripheral vision. “No. Just no. That is . . . You can’t come home if you do that. Also, just call them sneakers.”
“Yo. Sneakers. How’s that?”
“Sort of better.”
I laugh. “So, tell me more about the hovercraft and why it’s better than a Subaru.”
He taps his fingers on the dashboard, full of energy. “Because they’re cool. Reason enough.”
Flipping the turn signal, I slow at the corner. “Cool is, indeed, reason enough.”
“Then can we get a Bugatti?”
“Sure. Want to buy it today?”
“Yes!”
As we slow at a fork in the road, I wiggle the fingers of my right hand. “Crack open the piggy bank, then, and fork over some coin. Do you know what they cost?”
He arches an I have no clue brow. “A few thousand?”
I point high up. “A little higher.”
“A hundred grand?”
My hand stretches toward the ceiling of the car.
“A million?”
“Something like that.”
He glances out the window for a moment, then back at me. “Then how about a Batmobile? Maybe we should just get one of those.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
As we near my parents’ house, his expression turns serious for a second, earnest. “I have something to tell you.”
