Page 35 of Knot So Social

“Fine. But I’ll take the chair and you have your bed.”

“Sure you’re up for that?”

I throw my hands in the air. “It’s only one night. Not gonna kill me.”

He grins. “All right, I’m not one for arguing.”

“You never were.”

Before bed, I set fresh Aloe on the grazes on his arm that might show during his interview. We bunker down with his spare pillow and a tattered throw rug. Thankfully the summer air means neither of us will get cold tonight.

We switch the lights off and his deep breathing whistles through the quiet room within minutes. I lay awake, watching headlights arc across the ceiling whenever a car passes by. The old unease sneaks in as the greatest part of the day’s heat leaches away.

For a man who’s successful, I’m terribly hollow inside, and it took spending a night in my brother’s dinky unit, sharing laughter, to realize it.

The question is, what do I do now? How do I fix a problem I can’t even define?

The hours whittle away, but the question remains.

Chapter eleven

Alessandro

The lovely omega from Number Eight Leighton Drive asked me to do her fencing job. Yeah, her text message came with a kinda weird and super serious legal contract, but signing it is a price I’m willing to pay. I beam down at the phone cradled in my hands as I change the contact name to ‘Willow’ and add a cute picture of a golden retriever.

Not her retriever, obviously. Photographing her dog when we only just met, and without her permission, would be creepy. But the picture I find online of a cute goldie is pretty darn similar.

It’s not like it’s a date or anything, but her contacting me feels like a win. It means she kept my business card and needs my help.

Which is precisely why I’m off to measure her yard . . . as soon as I’m finished with this lawn.

A sharp whistle pierces through the air.

“Hey, Pedro!” Mr Monstead, sitting on the tiered alfresco with his laptop, jabs one finger down into his wrist. “You’re on my time, buddy.”

“It’s Alessandro,” I mutter under my breath as I wave and flash him a smile. “And I bill by lawn size, not the hour.”

He can't hear me from over there.

Mopping the sweat clinging to my neck, I turn back to my machines, refitting the grass catcher and thumbing the throttle back to top gear. Whenever I come to do the lawns, the Monstead patriarch makes his way out onto the top terrace to work, as if to supervise. Maybe the thinks I’ll steal his marble statues if he’s not watching like a hawk.

I’m used to the racism, and there’s no point fighting against it. That would only cost me the work. Besides, I need every cent I can get in order to purchase a ride on mower and grow the business. I’m almost there; should have the money by the end of next month, if all goes well.

Padre always drilled it into my head never to owe any man. He heard from the priest that it’s in the Holy Bible that the borrower becomes a slave to the lender. Don’t you take money from no man, Alessio, he’d say. You work for what you need. Always.

If a stroke hadn’t taken him four years and three months back, I bet Padre would’ve loved to mow lawns with me in Dallas for a spell. Mammina would never have agreed to a move, but she might’ve enjoyed a visit. Still would, but I can’t invite her knowing she’d spend the entire time trying to set me up with women.

She’d also have plenty to say if she knew I lived in a shed.

I throw my weight on the lawnmower, pushing it across the grass, careful to keep my rows perfectly straight. I’ve already done the cutting under the hedges and rose bushes, so once I’ve finished the last quarter acre and blown off the paths, I can get going.

My shirt’s soaked through by the time I’m done, the Texas summer sun brutal at midday. I peel the fabric off and mop up, throwing the wet stuff into a bag in my truck. The curtains in the second-floor windows flutter, and I look up to find Mrs Monstead watching me—far too intently for my liking.

Makes me nauseous, the way some of these rich people look at us workers like we’re meat. As if they get to stare at our bodies as much as they like simply because we’re hired on their estates.

I slide a fresh polo over my head and brush my hair back before returning to Mr Monstead.

“I’m all done, sir. See you next month?”