Page 15 of Not Home Alone

I swallow a mouthful of cheese and hold my breath because I would not put it past Grant Moody to serve me with some kind of eviction notice. Maybe if he thinks I’m asleep or dead he’ll leave me alone.

“Tucker?”

“Yes?”

“I can drive to Vinny Sarducci’s to pick up an order within the next half hour.”

I scrunch up my face and throw my hands up in the air, shaking my head and looking for confirmation of Grant’s unbelievable obnoxiousness from some invisible imaginary companion. “Good for you, Moody! Good for you!”

“I mean, if you want me to leave the house and drive to Vinny’s to pick up a dinner order for you, I can do that. I looked it up, and they’re still taking pickup orders.”

My brain is processing his words, but his voice and tone made those words feel like a threat. Or at best, he’s daring me to acknowledge that he meets the bare minimum definition of a decent human being now that he’s made this offer. And I will not. I absolutely will not. He is not the good guy. “I don’t want you to do that.”

“Okay. I tried.”

“Yes. You made a heroic effort. I’ll be sure to let everyone in town know that your father has indeed taken the top dickhead spot. For now…”

He sighs very dramatically. As if I’ve inconvenienced him by not making him run an errand for me. “I mean, earlier you threatened to order food and eat and read in front of the fireplace, so I thought I’d⁠—”

“Thanks so much! I’m fine. You don’t have to feel bad about eating half of my welcome basket.”

“Good. Because I don’t.”

“Great! But I mean, did it really not occur to you when you saw the welcome basket full of fresh food, that perhaps it was there because a guest was arriving?”

“No. I was hungry after taking down all the Christmas lights by myself, so I ate something. There was no thought process.”

All of a sudden, something occurs to me. “Hey, was there a card or a note with the welcome basket?”

“No. There wasn’t.”

“So, Colin just left a generic welcome basket on the counter? Nice touch.”

“Who is Colin?”

“The property manager!”

“Are you sure his name’s Colin? That doesn’t sound right.”

My jaw drops. “Oh my god! Are you implying that I don’t remember his name? I remember everything. You’re the one who doesn’t process thoughts.” I have never once thought about my blood pressure outside of a doctor’s office, but I can actually feel it rising every time this man opens his mouth. Rubbing my temples for dramatic effect, I close my eyes and try to picture my happy place so I can calm down.

Except the Home Alone House is the happy place I usually picture, and now Grant Moody has ruined it for me.

“You sound a little tense, Tucker,” he says, with a teasing tone that makes me want to throw things at the door.

After a calming, deep breath, I say, “This is a 2,800 square foot house—why are you loitering outside the door of my tiny piece of it? Shouldn’t you be in a cave plotting the demise of the town or something? I’m trying to eat my cheese and no crackers in here.” Uttering the words “no crackers” makes me think of The Notcracker, which reminds me of why I hate Grant Moody, which causes me to blurt out, “Ugh! Can you just leave me alone?” for totally logical reasons.

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound exasperated; he sounds kind of hurt.

And I suppose I could see how what I said might have been rude. So I yell, “Thank you!” It didn’t come out sounding polite or grateful so much as it sounded like I want him to go to hell. But it’s not my fault he’s such a handsome asshole, and it’s definitely not my fault he’s in this house when he shouldn’t be. So I grab the apple from the basket and take a bite out of it.

“Good night, Tucker,” he says. And I know why he said it—he’s trying to be more polite than me. He’s not. No one is more polite than me.

“Nighty night! Sweet dreams!” I call out.

“You too,” he replies.

“Thank you so much!”