She stepped off the back deck and started toward the tall row of hedges that separated his house from hers. Part of her wished Kevin were with her, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not after their spat this morning, which started after she’d casually mentioned that her cousin was getting married. Kevin, buried in the sports section of the newspaper, hadn’t said a word in response, preferring to act as if he hadn’t heard her. Anything about marriage made the man get as quiet as a stone, especially lately. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised—they’d been dating almost four years (a year less than her cousin, she was tempted to point out), and if she’d learned one thing about him, it was that if Kevin found a topic uncomfortable, then more than likely he wouldn’t say anything at all.
But Kevin wasn’t the problem. Nor was the fact that lately she felt as though her life weren’t quite what she’d imagined it would be. And it wasn’t the terrible week at the office, either, one in which she’d been puked on three—three!—times on Friday alone, which was an all-time office record, at least according to the nurses, who didn’t bother to hide their smirks and repeated the story with glee. Nor was she angry about Adrian Melton, the married doctor at her office who liked to touch her whenever they spoke, his hand lingering just a bit too long for comfort. And she surely wasn’t angry at the fact that through it all, she hadn’t once stood up for herself.
Nosiree, this had to do with Mr. Party being a responsible neighbor, one who was going to own up to the fact that he had as much of a duty to find a solution to their problem as she did. And while she was letting him know that, maybe she’d mention that it was a little late for him to be blaring his music (even if she did like it), just to let him know she was serious.
As Gabby marched through the grass, the dew moistened the tips of her toes through her sandals and the moonlight reflected on the lawn like silver trails. Trying to figure out exactly where to begin, she barely noticed. Courtesy dictated that she head first to the front door and knock, but with the music roaring, she doubted he’d even be able to hear it. Besides, she wanted to get this over with while she was still worked up and willing to confront him head-on.
Up ahead, she spotted an opening in the hedges and headed toward it. It was probably the same one that Nobby snuck through to take advantage of poor, sweet Molly. Her heart squeezed again, and this time she tried to hold on to the feeling. This was important. Very important.
Focused as she was on her mission, she didn’t notice the tennis ball come flying toward her just as she emerged from the opening. She did, however, distantly register the sound of the dog galloping toward her—but only distantly—a second before she was bowled over and hit the ground.
As she lay on her back, Gabby noted dully that there were way too many stars in a too bright, out-of-focus sky. For a moment, she wondered why she couldn’t draw breath, then quickly became more concerned with the pain that was coursing through her. All she could do was lie on the grass and blink with every throb.
From somewhere far away, she heard a jumble of sounds, and the world slowly started coming back into focus. She tried to concentrate and realized that it wasn’t a jumble; she was hearing voices. Or, rather, a single voice. It seemed to be asking if she was okay.
At the same time, she gradually became conscious of a succession of warm, smelly, and rhythmic breezes on her cheek. She blinked once more, turned her head slightly, and was confronted with an enormous, furry, square head towering over her. Nobby, she concluded fuzzily.
“Ahhhh . . . ,” she whimpered, trying to sit up. As she moved, the dog licked her face.
“Moby! Down!” the voice said, sounding closer. “Are you okay? Maybe you shouldn’t try to get up yet!”
“I’m okay,” she said, finally raising herself into a seated position. She took a couple of deep breaths, still feeling dizzy. Wow, she thought, that really hurt. In the darkness, she sensed someone squatting beside her, though she could barely make out his features.
“I’m really sorry,” the voice said.
“What happened?”
“Moby accidentally knocked you down. He was going after a ball.”
“Who’s Moby?”
“My dog.”
“Then who’s Nobby?”
“What?”
She brought a hand to her temple. “Never mind.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, still dizzy but feeling the pain subside to a low throb. As she began to rise, she felt her neighbor place his hand on her arm, helping her up. She was reminded of the toddlers she saw at the office who struggled to stay balanced and remain upright. When she finally had her feet under her, she felt him release her arm.
“Some welcome, huh?” he asked.
His voice still sounded far away, but she knew it wasn’t, and when she faced him, she found herself focusing up at someone at least six inches taller than her own five feet seven. She wasn’t used to that, and as she tilted her head upward, she noticed his angled cheekbones and clean skin. His brown hair was wavy, curling naturally at the ends, and his teeth gleamed white. Up close, he was good-looking—okay, really good-looking—but she suspected that he knew it as well. Lost in thought, she opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, realizing she’d forgotten the question.
“I mean, here you are, coming over to visit, and you get slammed by my dog,” he went on. “Like I said, I’m really sorry. Usually he pays a bit more attention. Say hey, Moby.”
The dog was sitting on his haunches, acting pleased as punch, and with that, she suddenly remembered the purpose of her visit. Beside her, Moby raised a paw in greeting. It was cute—and he was cute for a boxer—but she wasn’t about to fall for it. This was the mutt who’d not only tackled her, but ruined Molly as well. He probably should have been named Mugger. Or better yet, Pervert.
“You sure you’re okay?”
The way he asked made her realize that this wasn’t the sort of confrontation she’d wanted, and she tried to summon the feeling she’d had on her way over.
“I’m fine,” she said, her tone sharp.
For an awkward moment, they eyed each other without speaking. Finally he motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “Would you like to sit on the deck? I’m just listening to some music.”
“Why do you think I want to sit on the deck?” she snapped, feeling more in control.
He hesitated. “Because you were coming over?”
Oh yeah, she thought. That.
“I mean, I suppose we could stand here by the hedges if you’d rather,” he continued.
She held up her hands to stop him, impatient to get this over with. “I came over here because I wanted to talk to you . . .”
She broke off when he slapped at his arm. “Me, too,” he said before she could get started again. “I’ve been meaning to drop by to officially welcome you to the neighborhood. Did you get my basket?”
She heard a buzzing near her ear and waved at it. “Yes. Thank you for that,” she said, slightly distracted. “But what I wanted to talk about . . .”
She trailed off when she realized he wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was fanning the air between them. “You sure you don’t want to head to the deck?” he pressed. “The mosquitoes are vicious around the bushes here.”
“What I was trying to say was—”
“There’s one on your earlobe,” he said, pointing.
Her right hand shot up instinctively.
“The other one.”
She swatted at it and saw a smear of blood on her fingers as she pulled her hand back. Gross, she thought.
“There’s another right by your cheek.”
She waved again at the growing swarm. “What’s going on?”
“Like I said, it’s the bushes. They breed in the water, and it’s always moist in the shade. . . .”
“Fine,” she relented. “We can talk on the deck.”
A moment later they were in the clear, moving quickly. “I hate mosquitoes, which is why I’ve got some citronella candles going on the table. That’s usually enough to keep them away. They get much worse later in the summer.” He left just enough space between them so they wouldn’t accidentally bump. “I don’t think we’ve formally met, by the way. I’m Travis Parker.”
She felt a flicker of uncertainty. She wasn’t here to be his buddy, after all, but expectation and manners prevailed, and she answered before she could stop herself. “I’m Gabby Holland.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” she said. She made a point to cross her arms as she said it, then subconsciously brought a hand to her ribs where a dull ache remained. From there, it traveled to her ear, which was already beginning to itch.
Staring at her profile, Travis could tell that she was angry. Her mouth had a tight, pinched look he’d seen on any number of girlfriends. Somehow he knew the anger was directed at him, though he had no idea why. Aside from being tackled by the dog, that is. But that wasn’t quite it, he decided. He remembered the expressions that his kid sister, Stephanie, was famous for, ones that signaled a slow buildup of resentment over time, and that’s how Gabby seemed to be acting now. As if she’d worked herself up to this. But there the similarities with his sister ended. While Stephanie had grown up to become a certifiable beauty, Gabby was attractive in a similar but not quite perfect kind of way. Her blue eyes were a little too wide set, her nose was just a bit too big, and red hair was always hard to pull off, but somehow these imperfections lent an air of vulnerability to her natural good looks, which most men would find arresting.
In the silence, Gabby tried to collect her thoughts. “I was coming over because—”
“Hold on,” he said. “Before you begin, why don’t you sit down? I’ll be right there.” He started for the cooler, then rotated in midstride. “Would you like a beer?”
“No, thank you,” she said, wishing she could get this over with. Refusing to sit down, she turned with the hope of confronting him as he strode past. But, too quickly, he dropped into his chair, leaned back, and put his feet on the table.
Flustered, Gabby continued to stand. This was not working out as she’d planned.
He popped open his beer and took a short pull. “Aren’t you going to sit?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I’d rather remain standing, thank you.”
Travis squinted and shaded his eyes with his hands. “But I can barely see you,” he said. “The porch lights are shining behind you.”
“I came over here to tell you something—”
“Can you move just a few feet to the side?” he asked.
She made an impatient noise and moved a few steps.
“Better?”
“Not yet.”
By then, she was almost against the table. She threw up her hands in exasperation.
“Maybe you should just sit,” he suggested.
“Fine!” she said. She pulled out a chair and took a seat. He was throwing this whole thing completely out of whack. “I came over because I wanted to talk to you . . . ,” she began, wondering if she should start with Molly’s situation or what it generally meant to be a good neighbor.
He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve already said that.”
“I know!” she said. “I’ve been trying to tell you, but you haven’t let me finish!”
He saw her glare at him just the way his sister used to but still had no idea what she was so wound up about. After a second, she began to speak, a bit hesitantly at first, as if wary that he was going to interrupt her again. He didn’t, and she seemed to find her rhythm, the words coming more and more quickly. She talked about how she’d found the house and how excited she’d been, and how owning a home had been her dream for a long time, before the topic wandered to Molly and how Molly’s n**ples were getting bigger. At first, Travis had no idea who Molly was—which lent that part of the monologue a surreal quality—but as she continued, he gradually realized that Molly was Gabby’s collie, which he’d noticed her walking occasionally. After that, she began talking about ugly puppies and murder and, strangely, something about neither “Dr. Hands-on-me” nor vomit having anything to do with the way she was feeling, but in all honesty, it made little sense until she started gesturing at Moby. That allowed him to put two and two together until it dawned on him that she believed Moby was responsible for Molly getting pregnant.
He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t Moby, but she was on such a roll, he thought it best to let her finish before protesting. By that point, her story had veered back on itself. Bits and pieces of her life continued to come tumbling out, little snippets that sounded unrehearsed and unconnected, along with bursts of anger randomly directed his way. It felt as though she went on for a good twenty minutes or so, but Travis knew it couldn’t have been that long. Even so, being on the receiving end of a stranger’s angry accusations about his failures as a neighbor wasn’t exactly easy, nor did he appreciate the way she was talking about Moby. Moby, in his opinion, was just about the most perfect dog in the world.
Sometimes she paused, and in those moments, Travis tried unsuccessfully to respond. But that didn’t work, either, because she immediately overrode him. Instead, he listened and—at least in those moments when she wasn’t insulting him or his dog—sensed a trace of desperation, even some confusion, as to what was happening in her life. The dog, whether she realized it or not, was only a small part of what was bothering her. He felt a surge of compassion for her and found himself nodding, just to let her know he was paying attention. Every now and then, she asked a question, but before he could respond, she would answer for him. “Aren’t neighbors supposed to consider their actions?” Yes, obviously, he started to say, but she beat him to it. “Of course they are!” she cried, and Travis found himself nodding again.