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“I wasn’t trying to rub it in his face. It was a simple question. And he really shouldn’t be drinking if he’s taking painkillers and antibiotics.” I leave out the part about how the drinking is the reason he’s in this predicament in the first place, since that’s a whole different beast to tackle.
“I know, honey. Remember that this is hard for him. He’s always felt like the moon to your sun, so he’s more sensitive than usual, especially with you coming home and helping out with the business while he’s healing. I’ll have a talk with him,” my mom says, always standing up for her little boy.
I don’t push it, in part because I’m tired and this conversation requires energy I don’t have. Besides, Billy’s room is down the hall, and the walls are thin in this place.
We finish up dinner, and I head back to the trailer, glad that I don’t have to worry about running into my brother for the rest of the night. It’s weird being in my late twenties and dealing with teenage-style sibling squabbles again.
The low tones of rock music come from next door, accompanied by the repetitive pounding of a hammer and the occasional obnoxious whirl of a skill saw. And of course, because the night wouldn’t be complete without a campfire, he has one going, except he must be burning something wet because the plume of smoke is thick and acrid. I immediately zip up the interior lining on the big window in the dining area so the campfire crackling less than thirty feet away doesn’t choke me out. It’s meant to keep rain out and let fresh air in—when there isn’t a stinky fire going next door.
I don’t bother to shower. It’s pointless with a campfire raging beside me. Instead I turn on my TV and flip the limited channels I have access to. My parents have basic cable with a sports package add-on, so finding something semientertaining that isn’t a football game can be a challenge.
The TV drones in the background, mostly drowned out by the noise from next door, but I’m so engrossed in setting up a new online version of my dad’s invoice form that I don’t notice it for the most part.
Two hours later, I have several new streamlined forms that I’ll introduce slowly, one at a time, so as not to overwhelm my old-school dad and uncle. I’ve also revised all their spreadsheets, categorized their expenses for the bookkeeping software, and created a spreadsheet for billable hours to use moving forward. My hope is that I’ll be able to increase their bottom line, lower their expenses, and give them a better sense of exactly how much each project is going to cost with built-in incidentals—especially if they’re looking at more projects on the other side of the lake.
It’s well after ten by the time I finish getting ready for bed, and still I hear music and hammering next door. Not to mention a giant spotlight aimed in this direction. I still don’t understand why he’s trying to fix up Bee’s place. It’s not like an investor is going to keep Bee’s cottage. Not when they can knock it down and build something better. All it will take is one McMansion on this side of the lake to drive up property taxes and make it harder for the locals to stay afloat.
I pull my pillow over my head and try to block it out, but I’m a light sleeper and this is honestly too much. Plus, now I’m spitting mad because all I want is Bee back and not Douche McJerk who has no respect for his neighbors. I toss my pillow aside and inchworm to the end of the bed, slide my feet into my flip-flops, grab my phone, and step out into the inky darkness.
It’s a muggy night with the promise of rain in the coming days, which reminds me that I need to patch the bigger holes before that happens. We’ve had a few little showers, but not an actual summer storm that can pull shingles off roofs and raise the water level a couple of inches. I turn on the flashlight and trudge through the brush and past the campfire, which incidentally has been left unattended. It’s down to a smolder, but Van has left out hot dog sticks and a bag of buns.
I keep going, toward Bee’s front porch and the blinding spotlight. Standing in front of the cottage is Van. Shirtless. Sweaty and shirtless. The bright light shines directly on him, accenting the dips and ridges, the smooth planes of muscle.
Van is ripped. Probably because he spends a lot of time at the gym, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. He lifts his ball cap from his head and runs a hand through his deliciously sweaty dark hair before he flips his cap around and replaces it, backward this time.
