* * *
Alva: You should never regret your dolphin fantasies. But is he appearing in other dreams?
* * *
January: Sigh. Yes. In my dating dreams. And I don’t want to have those. I don’t want to have those at all! Make them stop.
* * *
Alva: Girl, I think we need to talk.
When I pop into her salon later that day during a break between appointments, Alva shoots me a come to your bestie smile. But as I slump down in the red chair in front of the mirror, I’m not sure what to say.
Other than what’s become brutally obvious.
“I like my neighbor,” I confess.
She squeezes my shoulders. “I know, sweetie. I know.”
16
Liam
On Sunday night, after Ethan slips into the land of Nod, I wander through my new home like a dog unsure where to settle.
I push open the back door, head down the steps, and flick on the pool lights. Flopping down on a lounge chair, I swipe to an audiobook on my phone, trying to zone in on the power of virality.
I keep rewinding the first five minutes on exponential growth, but I can’t bloody focus, on account of staring over the fence and wishing my neighbor would appear.
I go back inside. Gritting my teeth, I tell myself not to pop out onto the front porch just so I can swing my gaze left and see if she’s home.
I remind myself I don’t need to wander down the driveway and check the mail.
It’s Sunday night. There is no fucking mail.
I issue a restraining order against me going to the guest room just to straighten the blinds on the window that looks out on her kitchen, where I can sometimes see a sliver of her when she’s at the sink.
I don’t do any of those things, because I’m not a stalker.
Or a creeper.
Or that kind of guy.
Also, there’s no furniture in my guest room, so it’d be really obvious that I was spying.
Instead, I retreat to my bedroom and slump down on my bed with the black cover, flashing back to January’s comments on my monochromatic color scheme.
A smile bends my lips as I remember the day I met her.
How fiery and fun she was.
How outgoing and welcoming she was.
How easy to talk to she was.
She’s still all of those things.
And we’re two trains chugging in opposite directions.
I reach for my wallet and flip it open. Sliding out the card from Valeria Rodriquez, I replay my brief ice cream encounter with her.
The sparkless one.
But that’s not her fault.
Perhaps we’ll find that magic in person.
When we talk.
When we connect.
It can happen, surely.
And I can do this.
I can absolutely do this.
After all, dating, searching, and hopefully finding that special someone is my big goal, after helping my dad.
And since I’m doing just fine on that first one, it’s time to stay the course on the second.
I text her.
On Monday morning, Ethan and I hop on our bikes and ride down Mallard Lane, then along the next one, making our way to Duck Falls Elementary. When we reach the school, he parks his bike in the rack and shoulders his backpack, then gives me a salute and says, “Okay, you can go now.”
I laugh. “Were you worried I’d cramp your style?”
He shrugs. “Kind of.”
I punch him on the shoulder. “Glad I’ve raised you to be so independent at the ripe old age of nine.”
“Nine and four-fifths.”
“Hello? Arithmetic, please. You turn ten in a month.”
“Nine and eleven-twelfths.”
“Well done. Thank you.” I roll my eyes, then grab my phone, holding it up. “Pic for Aunt Jane and Oliver?”
“Sure,” he says, giving a smile for the camera, then he whirls around and calls out, “Also, you look clean.”
“All without any white sneakers.”
I send the first-day-of-school pic to my New York friends and family, then hop back on my bike and wheel away, heading to The Good Egg. It’s a cute little breakfast café just off the Duck Falls town square, where I’ve arranged to meet Valeria for a quick breakfast date.
A breakfast date that might lead to sparks.
A man can hope.
A man in pursuit of Ms. Right can dream indeed.
When I arrive, I park the bike outside and lock it up, then head inside and grab a booth, looking around as I wait.
Does January ever come here?
Does she pop in on Mondays?
Would she order the veggie omelet? Maybe make a joke about tormenting me with peppers? Then I’d tell her I actually love peppers—red, orange, and yellow.
But not green. Never green.
Bet that’d surprise her but make her roll her sky-blue eyes too.
A ray of warmth spreads over my skin as I imagine that conversation, having it with her. Here, or at her home, or mine.
The bell tinkles above the door, and for a sliver of a second, I imagine it’s her.
In her pink work shirt.
In Timberlands.
With that crooked grin.
