Page 3 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

“You stay here,” I instructed Mav. “I’m going to go check things out in the rest of the house.”

Maverick must have picked up on my hesitation because he handed me his Bullseye stuffed animal, which had been renamed Deputy Neigh Neigh. “Neigh can go with you.”

“Thanks.” I took his stuffie, tucked him under my arm, then headed down the narrow hallway, wielding my tennis racket like a sword.

My heart was pounding wildly with each step, not just because of what might be waiting for me but also because I was luminescence-challenged. I’d never met a dark room my imagination couldn’t fill with murderers, so I flipped on as many lights as I could. Unfortunately for my undiagnosed nyctophobia, the house still had a very doom-and-gloom feeling, thanks to the out-of-date wood paneling on the walls.

My legs were shaking, but I forced one foot in front of the other. I didn’t have a choice. I was the adult in the situation. I was the first and last defense, no backup. In each bedroom, I searched closets, corners, and even peeked in the attic, which revealed no critters or squatters that I could see.

I did discover the screen on the back door was slamming against the house, thanks to the wind that had picked up since we’d arrived, which was the most likely culprit of the spooky sounds. As I shut it, I noted the sky was now covered with grey clouds that had rolled in during the short time since we’d arrived, giving the atmosphere an ominous feel.

“Mama?!” Maverick shouted from the front room.

“Coming, bud.” I sighed in relief that my investigation found zero intruders, animal or human. I walked back down the hallway only to find Mav’s tiny face looking up at me with the same fear and trepidation I felt about this entire experience.

I had to, “Suck it up, Buttercup,” as Uncle Walter used to say. It was one of the few things I remembered about my visits with him. Walter was my dad’s uncle and after my dad passed away when I was six, he began sending Christmas cards and birthday presents. He also came to Seattle for my eighth grade and high school graduations.

Thanks to my parents’ substance abuse problems, I became a ward of the state when I was three. My mom was in and out of rehab until I was ten and she passed away from a heart attack. My dad died from an overdose when I was six. Walter Foster was the only blood relative I knew, and I used to daydream about him showing up at one of my foster or group homes, telling me to get in the car, and bringing me back to his picturesque farm to live in Valentine Bay, like a rural Daddy Warbucks. But that never happened.

It was surreal to be standing in the space I used to spend hours, weeks, months fantasizing about living in. It definitely wasn’t how I’d pictured it.

“What’s back there?” Mav pointed down the hallway I’d just come from.

“Just a lot of dust and empty rooms.”

Maverick’s shoulders relaxed, and I noted his exhale before he began bouncing on his feet and asked, “Is one of them my room?”

“Yep, you can pick out whichever one you want.”

In a rush of excitement, he raced down the hall, and there was banging of doors until I heard him yell, “This one!”

He’d chosen to claim the room with the bunk beds. I was pretty certain he hadn’t even noticed how big it was, or that it had a gorgeous view of the ocean. I would bet my life savings, which wasn’t much, the only thing he saw was the bed. He’d always wanted bunk beds, but I’d never had a good enough reason to spend the money and get them since he was an only child. This was his chance to sleep on the top bunk, once I made sure it was secure.

“Okay, let’s go get our stuff!” I exclaimed, hoping to make the day seem as fun and not scary as possible despite the horror-movie-sky and haunted-house dwellings.

The moment we set foot back onto the porch to unpack the car, we were greeted with a single, monstrous clap of thunder. Seconds later, rain began to fall in sheets. It truly felt as if the entire Pacific Ocean was being poured onto Valentine Bay. I told myself that since it was good luck if it rained on your wedding day, maybe the same applied for your start-a-brand-new-life-by-moving-to-a-town-you’ve-never-even-visited day.

“Ready?” I asked Maverick as I opened the front door, he nodded and I smiled widely. “Set, go.”

We raced to the SUV. Mav grabbed his art supply duffle and beloved collection of plastic horses. The wind caught the passenger door of the back seat where I was grabbing a box and a moving bag, and nearly ripped it out of my hands, slamming it shut with a noise like a gunshot.

“This is good luck, this is good luck, this is good luck,” I muttered, struggling up the slick walk while rain pounded against my cheeks.

The trips were many since I was the sole adult unpacking the car. Maverick helped to his four-year-old capacity, but it was times like these I wished that I had a partner, someone to share the load and also commiserate with.

No. No, I was not going to think like that. The truth was, most, if not all, of the men I’d been with would have complained about the weather, the house, the traffic. They would have been in a bad mood that I would be dealing with. Maverick’s dad was the worst of all. My former eighty-year-old neighbor, Miss Suzie, who babysat for Mav nicknamed his dad, Tanner, Princess, because he didn’t have a job, never took the trash out, or fixed the car, did any household repairs or any of the stereotypical things she associated with men doing. He also wanted to have dinner served to him, refused to help with groceries, the stroller, Mav’s diaper bag or any packages because of a back injury he had from when he played football in college.

It wouldn’t have been that bad if we hadn’t lived in a four-story walk-up with no elevator. Miss Suzie, who lived on the second floor, would always see me and ask where the Princess was and why he wasn’t helping.

I found it amusing but when Mav, who was around two at the time, began to call Tanner “Princess Daddy” which he did not find amusing, the nickname became a thorn in my side because Tanner blamed me for it.

This was better. I only had myself and Maverick to worry about. No one else’s moods, or needs, or desires. No one to tell me that they were going to do something, only to let me down.

When the final box and bag were inside, I fished out towels and found the bags with our clothes in them.

After Maverick took a bath and I showered we changed into pajamas and I slipped on my pink, fuzzy slippers. Maverick unpacked his toys while I handled unpacking the kitchen so I could try to feed us. He assembled a herd of horses on the front windowsill, giving a chosen few placements of honor. Pancake, Batman, Sprinkles, Chicken Nugget, and Bob were the clear favorites. “You don’t have to be scared of the new house,” I overheard him explain solemnly, “Mama says it’s an adventure, like Pippy Longstocking or Dora the Explorer.”

While Mav gave his herd a pep talk, I took inventory of our food situation. It was grim, but not catastrophic: a loaf of sandwich bread, peanut butter, two boxes of mac and cheese, a can of soup, and some slightly wilted strawberries. I’d also had the foresight to pack a small cooler with milk, eggs, butter, and a jar of Rao’s marinara. Spaghetti would be quick and easy. All I had to do was find the box with the pasta and hope the stove worked.