“Um. Yeah.”
“The fence is trashed.”
At least my hair has been washed this time. Though my tank and sleep shorts are as old as the hills. It’s not like anyone usually sees me before I go to sleep. No idea when I last bought myself something nice to wear. Years most likely.
“Guess you could cut the branch up for firewood,” he continues. “I am happy to help if you need someone to do that.”
“Thank you. I’ll figure something out.”
He braces his hands on the bottom window ledge. The way the pose displays his biceps is a thing of beauty. But life experience has taught me not to trust pretty people. The privilege is real. Studies show they are less likely to be found guilty of a crime or tend to get lower sentences. My ex was attractive and look where that got me. I’d been average my whole life. Neither the first nor the last to be selected for sports teams. Just somewhere in the messy middle. Ryan was the first person to really pick me, and it seemed profound at the time. Not so much these days, however.
“Do you think it’s a sign?” asks Noah.
“A sign of what?”
“That we’re supposed to be friends.”
I cock my head. “You think the universe reached out and smited this tree to get us talking?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Just seems unlikely that it would be some random natural occurrence. I mean…what are the odds?”
The wind and rain start to ease as the storm moves on. Behind him is a mattress made up with dark linens and a tower of boxes stacked against a wall. We can see straight into each other’s bedrooms now.
“I can’t exactly tell if you’re joking or not,” I say. There were nineteen years of normal before my life got derailed. I know how to socialize in theory. It’s just been a while since those skills have been put to use.
He smiles. “Let’s do proper introductions. Noah Allard. I am thirty-five, divorced, and a chef. A friend opened a restaurant and needed some help, so here I am.”
My mouth opens but then closes. I don’t want to be curious about him. To be honest, this whole conversation is probably a bad idea. I really can’t afford to get distracted from my mission. The cadaver dog trainer has agreed to go out with us for one day in six weeks or so and we need to make the most of it. Last year we searched with ground-penetrating radar. But the moisture level in the soil made it useless. Digging holes here, there, and everywhere in nearby national parks isn’t an option.
Then there’s the not insignificant fear that my new neighbor doesn’t know who I am or my history. When he finds out he might well run for the hills. It’s happened before. There’s no good time to share a past like mine. Talk about trauma dumping.
And yet.
“What were you going to say?” he asks.
“Where were you before?”
“L.A.”
“Big change.”
“Yeah. But I was ready to slow down. I needed to,” he says. “What about you?”
“I, um, was born here. I’m twenty-nine.”
He nods encouragingly. “What do you do for a living?”
“Data coordinator.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It pays the bills, and I get to work from home.”
His smile is lopsided. Imperfect. “You’ve lived here your whole life?”
“Yeah. In this part of the country. What’s the restaurant you’re working at like?”
“It’s called The Table at the Church Street Marketplace. My friend Ivy opened it a while back.”
