Chandler goes slow past the other houses in the neighborhood; they’re not the most modest homes, but none of them are as showy and huge as they are in Buzz’s neighborhood. And I have a hundred dollars burning a hole in my pocket that says the house Chandler grew up in is probably more than triple the size of any of these.
She locates my driveway and pulls in, crawling to a stop and putting the car in park, eyes roaming the yard.
Unbuckling the seatbelt, I grab the leftovers from dinner tonight—the ones Mom put in containers for me—from her back seat and pull at the door handle.
One foot hits the cement driveway, but I find myself turning my head to glance over my shoulder and ask, “Want to come in?”
Immediately I want to facepalm myself. Why the hell would I ask her to come in? And for what? So we can awkwardly stand in silence?
Say no, say no, say no.
“Sure, I guess I could, since I have nothing else going on.”
Sure, you guess? Since you have nothing else going on? A backhanded statement if I’ve ever heard one. I grunt as I make my way to the garage door, punch in the code and wait for it to rise, duck underneath to get inside, Chandler nipping at my heels.
Just as I’m turning the doorknob to the right, Chewy hopping up and down on the other side, the one voice I did not want to hear calls out, into the dark.
“Hey Mr. Wallace!”
I halt with my hand on the door, paralyzed, then spin on my heel. “Uh. Hey Molly—what’s up?”
My next-door neighbor is waltzing into the garage, brazen as you please, holding a plate of what appears to be chocolate chip cookies, shit-eating grin splashed across her bratty face.
“I just saw a car pull up and thought you’d be hungry.”
Liar.
She saw an unfamiliar Jeep and decided to be nosey and come on over, uninvited.
“Uh, thanks—but we just ate.” I pat my stomach. “We were just at my brother’s for dinner and we’re stuffed.”
At the mention of a ‘we’, Molly’s eyes go to Chandler, who’s smiling back at her graciously, most likely waiting for an introduction since that would be the polite thing for me to do. Introduce them.
But I don’t.
Molly takes it upon herself, sticking out the hand that’s not holding the plate of cookies. “Hi, I’m Molly. You must be Chandler—no offense, but I’ve seen you on the news.” She pumps Chandler’s outstretched palm vigorously. “I’m Mr. Wallace’s house sitter and official dog walker.”
“House sitter?” Since when? “Dog walker is more like it, though I don’t know about official—Molly is not my house sitter.”
The teenager shrugs. “Tomato tomahto.”
“You’re not.” I beg to differ, but she isn’t having it, determined to stick her nose into my business.
“Eh. Agree to disagree.” She flounces her nose in the air, flipping her hair.
“Stop doing that.”
She ignores me completely.
Molly scoots around us both and pushes through my laundry room door, setting the plate of cookies on the washing machine and bending to greet Chewy before I can think twice about it. “There’s my pretty boy! Want to go for a quick walk? Yes you do! Yes you do!” The leash is fastened to the dog before I can object, Chewy the beast already zipping past us from whence Molly came.
That damn kid!
“One of these days I’m going to strangle her,” I grumble, picking up the discarded cookies, plucking one off the plate and popping it into my mouth, whole. I chew, complaining through the crumbs. “Honest to god, she’s been coming over constantly, like she’s my mother.”
Chandler laughs. “Did it occur to you that she may have a crush on you?”
I laugh at that, flipping lights on as we walk from room to room and enter the kitchen. “Uh, no—the kid does not have a crush on me. She acts like I’m her dad or her older brother. And she’s really bossy.” Plus, I’m pretty sure she knows the code to get in the house, even though she hasn’t said anything about it.
To busy myself—because I haven’t had an actual woman in my house other than Hollis, my mother, and my friends’ girlfriends and wives (on the very rare occasions when I entertain, which is never)—I grab two wine glasses from the bar and snag a bottle of red from the rack.
Pry the cork out, relieved it’s an easy task, and pour us both a small glass.
Hand her one and raise mine. “Here’s to surviving a night with my family.”
Chandler laughs again. “I had fun. Who wouldn’t? Y’all should have a reality television show.”
Y’all.
God I love Southern accents.
Too bad she’s not actually Southern…
“A reality TV show? Do you have any idea what a monster my brother would be if he had a camera in his face and an audience? He’d be unbearable to live with.”
Jesus, I cannot even imagine what Buzz would be like if he had cameras on him, filming his every move. He’s already a showboater—I don’t want to know how he would behave with more motivation to be…funny.
Once, when we were in middle school, he entered the talent show and did stand-up comedy, which meant he basically made fun of me the entire three minutes he was up on stage.
“Sometimes I feel ugly,” he said, kicking at an imaginary rock. “Then I look over at my brother and I’m suddenly over it.”
The crowd roared.
“I always wanted my mom to trade in my brother, hoping I had one out there who was identical. I think I’d get very emotional when we finally met, don’t you? I’d be beside myself.”
My parents thought it was hilarious and for weeks they talked about how brave he was, going up in front of all those people. Buzz likes to entertain the family during the holidays—Christmas is a big one, standing by the tree, giving his “pre-present opening” speech, which is mostly jokes at my expense.
Dick.
“I think he means well,” Chandler is saying, taking small sips of her wine. Licks her lips. “He’s such a nice guy—and so funny. I can see why Hollis fell in love with him so fast.”
I grunt.
Sometimes I feel I’ve spent most of my life going through the motions of being happy and carefree instead of actually doing it.
Just kidding; I don’t—not even a little.
My brother shows emotions, but at least I don’t put on a show for the sake of other people.
Shit, where did that thought come from?
Did I just therapy myself?
“This wine is good.” Chandler is turning the glass, staring at the legs of red dripping down the inside like cherry juice. “Where did you get it?”
Not at some fancy vineyard. “The grocery store.” Aisle twelve.
She hums. “I like it.” Smacks her lips, licking—and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she already has a little buzz going, even from the few sips she’s taken.
I chug half my glass then pour a little more.
“I’ll take a bit more, too.” Chandler extends her arm and holds hers out, getting comfortable on the barstool, stealing a chocolate out of a bowl the cleaning lady put out.
Incidentally, something I forgot to mention is that Buzz and I have the same woman come weekly to tidy shit around our houses, and if I’m being honest, she spoils us rotten. Sometimes she makes me food, too, and leaves it in the fridge, especially in the middle of the football season when I’m dragging ass and can barely remember to feed myself.