Page 10 of The F*ck-It List

“Oh, um.” She stutters to a halt in front of me, in the middle of the road. “They’re…they’re mine.”

I look between her and the underwear several times, unsure of what to say. I’m just about thrust them at her and make a hasty retreat when she speaks again.

“There was a spider,” she blurts rather frantically.

“And it made a break for it with your underwear?” My tone is flat and my face expressionless.

“More or less,” she mumbles, looking to the ground where her bare feet rest over the rough road surface. I’m briefly annoyed she hasn’t got shoes on; it must be uncomfortable. Colour has risen high on her slightly rounded cheeks, and her lips purse as she chews on the inside of her cheek. “There was a kerfuffle and I accidentally lost control…of my underwear.”

“Right,” I say, drawing out the word disbelievingly. “Well, here you are.” I extend my arm out to offer her the offending garment, but she looks at it and swallows loudly.

“I just want you to know, I’m not usually the kind of gal who throws her panties out the window only for strange men to pick them up before she can get to them,” she babbles.

“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to wave the pink lace at her again for her to take it, but she kind of jerks back from the offering.

“But you know, this thing was really big—”

“Right.”

“—I mean, it must have escaped from the zoo or something, it was basically Shelob.”

“The fuck isShelob?” I say, screwing my face up in utter confusion at what she’s talking about and why I’m still holding her fucking thong. My arm drops to my side as it’s becoming increasingly clear she’s not taking it from me.

“Oh, you know…” She perks up a bit, giving me a happy little smile. “The spider fromLord of the Rings?”

“Never seen it,” I grumble.

“Oh.” Her smile drops. “Well, you should read it, it’s really good.”

“I don’t read.”

She blinks at me like I’d admitted to not beingableto read, her expression turning almost sad. “I see.”

I raise my hand again and once more try to palm off her delicates, but she shies away.

“Um, so, you see…this isn’t my usual MO or anything, I’m not some weirdo who like…gets off on tall handsome strangers holding their underwear—”

“That’s great, so can you justtakethem?” I snap, waving them in front of her.

“—but could you maybe, um…check them?”

“Excuse me?” I say, my brows shooting to my hairline.

“It’s just if that…thingis still in there, I may actually have an aneurism. I’m not sure my anxiety could handle it touching me.” She fans her face with her free hand. “Just thinking about it is making me kinda nauseous.” She’s hopping from one foot to the other, her pink hair piled high on her head bobs from side to side and I honestly don’tknow what the fuck is happening right now, but I hold my hand up to try and get her to stop jumping about.

“Okay, okay,” I say placatingly. With a sigh both long and loud, I hold up my new neighbour’s underwear, still touching only the smallest amount of fabric as possible with my thumb and finger, and I twist them around to…inspect them. Holy fucking hell. I don’t see a hairy tarantula; I see pink lace and sheer fabric with a thin string at the back that must nestle so prettily between her arse cheeks. It’s hard not to picture. Clearing my throat like it might distract me from the fact blood seems to be sinking south, I hold the thong in front of her again. “No spider,” I croak.

Obviously feeling a lot more confident after my assessment, she snatches them from me and straightens her shoulders. “Thank you, I, uh…I appreciate it. And sorry. That was really weird.”

“It was,” I agree rather awkwardly.

The silence stretching between us feels stifling in the cool, early summer morning air. So even though she looks like she might be trying to find something to say, I walk away and refuse to turn back to watch her retreat back inside. Nor do I dwell on the fact she called me handsome.

After hanging three new doors for the Gordans and putting up custom shelves for Mr and Mrs Pointer, I arrive at Mrs James’s front door. I don’t have my toolbox for this job, and I shove my hands inmy pockets after ringing the bell while I wait for her to answer. The yapping of her little dog is loud and constant until Mrs James’s aged voice calls out. “Oh hush, you silly thing. It’s only August.”

One side of my mouth tips up as I listen to her continuing to berate the chihuahua with the familiar clicking sound of her walker frame heading toward the door. When the bolt slides loudly and the door clicks open, Ruth James gives me an assessing up and down.

“Hmm,” she hums, lips pursing. “You need to shave.”