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She gestures toward the rickety porch. “I mean, once you have that area spruced up. It’ll look great with some pretty flowers in the mix, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. Thanks, Mom.”
She reaches for me, rests her arm around my shoulders, and squeezes me in. “We’ll get this place fixed up. Don’t you worry. It’ll just take time. And I think your work situation will get better, too. Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
Movement, way down the street, catches my eye.
Cars drive down this street all the time, but this one is unique. The shiny, new, black Land Cruiser slows down as it nears my home.
The blinker comes on.
My heart flutters. My stomach drops. I feel my palms heat up.
Is that…?
Yes, that is Brock behind the wheel.
I smile at the sight of him. What is he doing here?
It looks like he has the dogs in the back of the car. I can make out Zoey’s pale head, nose to the back window.
He told me—in one of those extra phone calls, between his other meetings—that he and the dogs have reached a new level. He said it’d still be helpful if I did morning and mid-day walks but that he felt comfortable handling the rest. I congratulated him on his progress and told him he was becoming a great doggy uncle.
So, what’s he doing here?
When I reach up to fuss with my bangs, my mom watches me. She eyes the black SUV, then swivels to face me again.
“Ooooh…” she says, with a knowing nod. “Ah ha. I see.”
I bend my knees quickly to check my reflection in my car mirror.
The mirror used to be crooked. The mechanic that Brock hired yesterday to put in that new battery also took care of other things; when we got back to my car, I found that the side mirror had been straightened, and a dent on one of the back doors popped out and smoothed. The driver’s side window miraculously works again, too.
My mom giggles as she watches me examine my reflection and fuss with my bangs. “Oh, Gwen,” she whispers. “You are an open book!”
“What are you talking about?” I whisper back. I shift to the side so I can look past her.
Brock steps out of his car and positions himself by the back door. When he opens it, the dogs crowd in on him. Zoey licks his face as he hooks a leash to her harness.
My mom looks that way. “An open book with good taste, I see. Who is he?”
“My boss.”
“He’s your boss? The one Clay said has been calling you at all hours?”
“Yes, Brock’s been calling me a lot, but it’s more complicated than Clay thinks. Mom, Clay is perceptive, but he’s also a guy, and I can’t tell him girl stuff.”
“Like how you are in a total tizzy over your boss!” My mom wiggles her eyebrows. “Honey, I am so happy for you.”
“There is nothing to be happy about,” I say, now through clenched teeth. “And I’m not?—”
I peek past her again. Brock’s working on Mr. Brown’s leash-harness connection now. His fingers work the clips.
I still have time.
Time to ask my mother to please, pretty please, not embarrass me. She’s prone to telling men stories about how cute I was as a toddler, for some reason. I do not want Brock to know how much I loved traipsing around pushing my dolly in a stroller, while wearing nothing but my diaper.
I would die.
