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I really should have been questioning my decision-making abilities.
Eventually, I waded through all the shit and ended up here—in my little slice of heaven—or something close to it. The house had been a fixer-upper, which was real estate speak for an absolute money pit. But I hadn’t cared. I took one look at the hand-crafted spindles on the wooden staircase and the gigantic backyard, and I threw my money at it. Well, I made an offer, and since I was the only one interested in a dilapidated property ten miles from town, mine was also the only offer. I got the place dirt cheap, which was good because most of what little savings I had left went into making it livable.
I was lucky that one of my best friends also happened to be a stellar handyman. Kyle Webber—aka, Web— and I had been friends since he moved to Southport in middle school. He had his own landscaping business and knew his way around a hammer. I was no slouch either when it came to project initiative, but YouTube only got you so far when it came to home DIY. Together we sanded and sealed the hardwood floors and built a pretty new deck off the back of the house. I painted the living room and kitchen all by myself though, and it turned out pretty great if you ask me. I had help installing the new kitchen appliances, but that is another story…
“Oof, what is it, buddy?” My massive blood hound mix, Edgar came barreling full speed into my office, knocking over the potted plant and heaving himself into my lap. He pressed his body against me and nuzzled my chin. Even though the dog was easily over a hundred and forty pounds, he had been a lap dog in a previous life. One of my first acts as a new homeowner had been to adopt Mr. Least Likely to Find a Home from the local animal shelter. Edgar was a mess of drool and shedding fur, but was fiercely protective of me, which is all you could ask for from man’s—I mean, woman’s best friend.
I scratched behind his ears and his jowls parted, his tongue lolling out. A drop of drool landed on my jeans, but I didn’t cringe or push him off. Who cares about a little dog drool?
“You really are a needy thing,” I cooed, kissing the top of his head and heaving him gently onto the floor so I could stand up. “Come on, we need to get ready for company anyway.” I turned off my laptop and left my office, closing the door behind me. Edgar followed me out to the living room, panting loudly. I had only just reached the front of the house when the doorbell rang, sending Edgar into fits of howling. He was loud, his bark more than a little intimidating. He may be a gentle monster, but between his size and the implied viciousness of his bark, he’d keep away any would-be burglars. He was the best home defense a single gal could want.
The doorbell chimed again, followed by impatient knocking. I looked at the time on my phone, surprised that it was already seven. I had a bad habit of losing track of time when I was working. I looked down at my torn jeans and paint-stained Foo Fighters T-shirt and figured getting dolled up was out of the question at this point. Good thing my plans for the evening didn’t involve leaving the house.
“Skylar, I know you’re in there!” A muffled voice called out.
“Keep your pants on,” I grumbled, but without ire. I tapped my turtle, Morla’s terrarium as I moved, unhurriedly, to the door.
“You’re borderline rude, you know that, right?” I asked my dearest friend in the whole wide world as I let her and the two other women on my porch inside.
Meg Galloway, now Decate, rolled her eyes, shoving a heavy strand of dark red hair out of her eyes. There were flecks of paint on her chin, which wasn’t unusual for the professional artist. “We had been out there for five minutes already, my arms were getting tired,” she quipped with a grin.
“She bought enough alcohol to knock out an army regiment,” Whitney Webber, Meg’s older sister and Kyle Webber’s wife snarked, lifting a cloth bag, glass bottles clanged tellingly.
“It’s a good thing I didn’t get out of my grunge gear then. No sense in getting sloppy drunk in nice clothes,” I deadpanned, leading the way to the kitchen.
“This is the first time I’ve been out of leggings in weeks, I wanted to make the most of not being covered in spit-up for once,” Lena Wyatt stated, dropping her purse on the table while Meg started filling the refrigerator with wine and beer.
“You’re telling me! I thought we’d be out of the waking up three and four times a night thing now that Tyler is eighteen months. We had to put him in his toddler bed already because he started climbing out of the crib and Adam was worried he’d hurt himself,” Meg sighed and I could see how tired she was.
