“Moving is definitely an adventure. I was born in California, then I moved to Louisiana, and then to Missouri, and then to Alaska, and then to Arizona. And they were all adventures.”
“Did you like moving so much?”
She seems to mull it over. “It can be hard to leave your friends. But you know what I love about moving?”
He sits up straighter in his chair. “What?”
“New experiences, new people, and new chances.”
“I like meeting new people,” he says.
“Then I bet you’ll love it.”
The attendant takes her seat by the door while Ethan settles in with his AirPods and a game on his phone, swiping across the screen in hot pursuit of candy, or boxes, or gems, or other absurd things.
I pop on an audiobook on the science of sleep.
Soon, we’re soaring into the sky.
As the jet reaches higher, I repeat in my head, New experiences, new people, new chances.
Even though this move is about my family, those words still resonate with me.
That’s where the true awareness comes in.
An awareness of what I’m choosing to step into, and what I’m choosing to leave behind.
After years of being devoutly single, and then a few more of being a devoutly single dad, I’ve decided to embrace a particular aspect of this move—a brand-new chance.
I’m ready to date again.
Dare I say, I’m ready to find the one. To settle down.
Call me a unicorn.
I’m the guy who’s looking to get hitched.
Maybe I’ll find her on the other side of the country.
3
January
That fine Saturday in August when the hottie moved next door
* * *
I can frame a door, work a power saw, and build a cabinet. Call if you need someone to fix a sink, repair a pipe, and change a tire.
I’m wired for the practical.
I’m not a swooner.
My brain doesn’t go upside down when I see a handsome man. I don’t faint over muscled arms or chiseled jaws, and I don’t melt over buttery British voices and GQ faces.
I did the whole swoon-over-a-pretty-boy routine with my ex, and that was a mistake akin to installing a toilet without connecting the pipes (awesome child notwithstanding).
I learned my lesson, so I refuse to flutter my lashes or hump a hottie’s leg.
Especially when he’s my new neighbor.
But giving him a welcome gift?
I should have thought of that sooner.
It would be terribly rude if I didn’t pop over right the hell now with a welcome-to-the-neighborhood basket of goodies.
After I close the front door behind me, I set my boba tea on the bright orange coffee table—a flea-market find that I painted with Alva. I take a deep, fueling breath, snapping my fingers, trying to think.
I need to give him a gift. What do we have handy?
Think, think, think.
Wine?
That’s always safe . . . unless someone is an alcoholic.
Some of the honeysuckle soap I made last week?
That could work, but will he suspect I’m secretly saying, You smell?
Maybe something from my garden? Cilantro? Arugula? Tomatoes?
Who doesn’t love tomatoes?
“How about you offer to hammer anything he needs nailed? That could be your welcome gift,” Wednesday says as she heads to the kitchen and drops her plastic cup in the recycling bin. Grabbing mine, I follow suit. “Or there’s a half-full bottle of fancy mustard in the fridge,” Wednesday adds. “Offer him that.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” I grab a pretty wicker basket from the counter, remove the loaf of bread in it, then grab some scissors.
“Are you going to frolic over there with your basket like the Easter Bunny?”
“No, Spawn. I’m going to give him some cilantro and daisies.”
“Nothing says ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ like the most-hated garnish and the nastiest-smelling flowers,” she says.
I shoot her a sharp look. “Wrong. Everyone knows sunflowers are the stinkiest flowers.”
“Oh! You’re right. Those are gross.”
I scurry across the kitchen to the back door.
“Why are you acting like you’re about to run a race?” she calls out.
I snap my gaze back to her as I dart onto the doormat. “Because,” I say, flapping my free hand, “we have a new neighbor, and we have to give him something.”
She follows behind as I rush to the garden in our yard. “So you’re giving him . . . vegetables?”
I shoot her a look. “Everyone loves fresh veggies.” I kneel beside my garden beds, snipping some cilantro, setting it gently in the basket, then adding some radishes. Radishes are making a comeback. I’ve seen them all over the menus at both fancy hipster restaurants and cheap hole-in-the-wall joints.
“No,” she says. “Everyone loves peaches. Everyone loves cookies. Not everyone loves veggies.”
I flap my arms around, gesturing to the yard. “Well, I don’t have cookies or peaches.”
“Maybe get some, then?”
“I’ll start with veggies. He can make a salad.”
“Awesome. Radish salad sounds delish. Let me know if I can have some too.”
“You’re now banned from salads for your impudence,” I say, and snip some daisies too.
