Page 10 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Well, whatever the cause of the frown directed his way, he felt himself rising to the challenge to turn her frown around. And he could do that. In fact, he had done that, just two hours before. His behavior was perfectly appropriate, with or without Ashleigh—his wonderful, steady, and also very color-coordinated girlfriend.

He could start by bringing up the happy coincidence that they were now neighbors. Mention how coincidental it was that they had both left the theatre and followed one another here.

Maybe the topic of his driving skills wasn’t the best to bring up in a moment like this. Fact was, he could hardly see her little green Subaru from the cab of the lifted work truck he’d bought off Craigslist this morning. It had over three hundred thousand miles, oil and antifreeze leaks, burned-out turn signals, no air, and so many unsavory bumper stickers even the Marion jailhouse citizens would be scandalized. And the way the gas and brake pedal jolted him every time his boot so much as graced the pedal . . . well, it wasn’t his best look.

He’d do better, much better, to opt for a general statement.

About her green makeup, which she clearly had no qualms about wearing in public.

About the house.

The neighborhood.

The surprising moment they’d shared behind the theatre.

The way he’d stood there alone on the platform after they’d said their good-byes, then how he found himself racing to the front to get back inside. The way he’d managed to soft-soap the elderly usher with a few sweet words to get back into his seat before she delivered her line. The absolutely epic two-word line. Then how their eyes met, as he felt himself hoping so much they would. And then—

No. The neighborhood. He’d stick with a nice, safe topic.

The neighborhood.

He opened his mouth as a rumble down the street drew his attention away.

And there was his opener.

“That’ll be my dumpster,” Chip said, grinning. “Funny to see you again. Becca?”

Whatever level her frown had been at before, it was now a ten. “Bree.”

“Right. Bree.”

At a honk, Chip turned his attention to the roll-off truck now in view and his friend Andy behind the wheel.

Bree. It was important to remember his neighbors’ names. Bree.

He began striding toward the road, arms waving above his head.

Andy was a man of labor, a man like him. Except he lived on a houseboat on Holston River, and his main Saturday-night entertainment was sharing Cheetos with the fish.

His forehead carried the permanent ripple of four waves stacked upon one another, racing toward the shore of his receding hairline. And when he was disgruntled, the one closest to his eyebrows grew like a tsunami threatening to spill onto his heavy, brooding lashes. As the truck approached, he could see Andy had miraculously managed to grow a fifth wave across his forehead.

The truck squealed, shuddered, and gave a huff as the air brakes released in front of his house. Andy threw the door open. All five-feet-two of the man slid onto the pavement. What Andy lacked in height, he compensated for with the size of other objects. His phone, for example, was as big as a laptop. Sleeveless shirts were always six inches on the long side. And trucks, company or otherwise, were of the type to take over a four-lane road.

This one was no different.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chip noticed Bree checking the time on her phone.

“Ain’t no way we can drop this here, Chip.” Andy slung his head up and down the street. “Ain’t no way. This road’s too narrow—”

“I’ll admit it’s a bit on the slim side,” Chip replied.

“All these parked cars everywhere—”

“There are a few cars.”

“Power lines are hanging down like they never recovered from the 2011 tornado.”

“I only see that one line hanging by about five feet—”