Page 3 of Collins
Living with her is going to be…different.
Quieter in some ways. Louder in others. The trailer always smells faintly like cigarette smoke and something fried. The record player drifts through the place like background noise, tangled up with the hum of an old fan and the occasional rasp of her lighter sparking to life.
It’s not the life I’m used to.
But it’s real.
And for the first time in a long time, I think that might be exactly what I need.
I take one last look at the dolphins, lined up and gleaming.
“Yeah,” I murmur to no one. “This’ll work.”
Even if I’m not entirely sure I believe it yet.
Nan is a five-foot-tall force of nature with a Southern drawl that thickens with every drink she has. Which, at eighty years old, is more often than you’d expect. She’s stubborn, sharp-tongued, and entirely set in her ways…but beneath all of that is a heart of gold.
This will be an entertaining experience, to say the least. I just hope I don’t end up regretting my decision to stay.
My *NSYNC poster curls slightly above the headboard, corners taped down. I toss my clothes into the closet, placing my brown leather journal under a folded sweatshirt for safe keeping. Then I reach for more essentials, my stuffed animals.
The yellow dude, a potato-shaped plush, lands first. His neck tilts at a permanent angle, threads strained and thinning from years of being clutched too tight, too often. I press my thumb into the worn spot out of habit, like checking for a pulse. He still fits perfectly in the crook of my arm. The rest follow, myarmy of Beanie Babies lining up shoulder to shoulder across the comforter.
I snap the top sheet open, and it billows once before floating down. The smell hits me midair, it’s warm, clean and unmistakable. Something soft and floral, laced with that faint sweetness that always reminds me of white chocolate. It clings to the fabric as I smooth it flat, tugging each corner tight, sealing the mattress in something that feels grounding.
For a second, my hands still, the scent lingers.
It presses in, quiet but insistent, brushing against something in my chest that almost aches enough to name.
Almost.
I’m quickly pulled from my thoughts when the rumble of a pickup truck through paper thin walls and the vibration of the floor catches my attention. Creeping up to the window, I peer out the blinds to find three tall, tanned, light caramel-haired guys climbing out of a white pickup with the words “Combs Landscaping” on the side. They seem too engrossed in shoulder punches and shit-talking each other to notice the trailer next door. So I inch closer toward the windows, pulling the blinds back, practically smashing my face against the glass. The three of them must be brothers, cousins at the very least. Same skin tone, hair color, and damn good looks.
I’m nearly jerked out of my own skin when a sudden knock at the bedroom door startles the shit out of me. I jump and the blinds rattle as they snap back into place.
“Come in,” I yell, with a hand on my heart.
Slowly, the door creaks open and there’s Nan leaning against the frame with a smirk on her face, white hair in disarray—it tends to get that way when she leans back in her recliner with one of her smutty novels she loves so much.
“You wouldn’t be spying on my neighbors, would you?” Nan has a mischievous glint in her eye that says she knows exactly what I was doing.
“Those guys live next door? I assumed they were visiting Debbie. Doesn’t she still live there?”
“She passed away just after Christmas,” Nan says with a hint of sadness. “Her grandsons, the Combs boys, moved in shortly after. Their parents were killed in a car accident not long before Debbie passed. Those poor boys, losing so much, so fast.”
Chills find their way up my arms, that’s so sad.
I knew they had to be brothers.
She gestures toward me and points down the hallway. “Come on, hon, I made us some BLTs with tomatoes straight from the garden.” She turns on a heel and saunters toward the kitchen, and I follow, brown-toned carpeted floor slightly creaking with each of our steps.
An hour later, I’m walking next door with a full stomach and all the fixing for several more sandwiches Nan made to take to “the boys.” She insisted I bring them over, claiming her hip was bothering her too much and she needed to sit down. Call me crazy, but I swear she’s trying to play matchmaker.
Just as I’m about to knock on their front door, fist in the air, a voice booms from behind me.
“Did Nan make us more food?”
Startled, I whirl around and find the most ethereal brown eyes looking back at me.
