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“Anywho,” he continues, “wanted to let you know not to worry if I don’t make it round before Friday. Lots of things, you know. To winterize. Then it’s the weekend, of course. Don’t work on the weekend. And I’m sorry to say, I’m probably going to be pretty busy on Monday and Tuesday. Especially Wednesday, because that’s a half-day for city employees.”
“With things?”
“Lots of ’em,” he confirms. “So many things.”
I paste on a mock serious expression. “I understand, Wayne. Can’t ask you to come check out my compliance with so many other things that need doing first.”
“Exactly. I’ll try and get there week after next.”
“But then I won’t be out of compliance.”
“Damn shame,” Bill says.
“Reckon it is,” Wayne agrees. “Anyway, have a nice evening.”
Bill watches him go, grinning. “How about we get a head start on Saturday morning?”
“Sounds good to me. I need to give Tabitha a call today to pick her brain for some extra special touches.” She’d been the queen of pranks during her years as a summer camp counselor, and while she’s a big shot celebrity now, she proved a couple of years ago that she still had skills.
Bill shakes his head. “Poor guy. He won’t know what hit him.”
When an unfamiliar sound wakes me before my 7:00 alarm the next morning, I blink awake and stare at the window, gray light leaking through the panes, trying to figure out what I’m hearing. Then it hits me—it’s the rumble of the garbage truck.
Shoot! Arshneel had told me garbage days were on Tuesday, but I forgot.
Dang it, dang it, dang it. Our trash can was overflowing with move-in debris, not to mention early-stage renovation trash. Since Hill the Pill can see my garbage cans from his carport, I don’t want to reinforce his low opinion of my ability to adult.
The truck sounds close, maybe a couple of houses away, so I fly out of bed and head straight out the back door in my oversize Albemarle T-shirt, shorty plaid pajama bottoms, and socks, thankful that our temperatures in Creekville are still in the low sixties.
Still, I smother a yelp when the door shuts behind me. Those sixties are in the afternoon, and right now, the temps feel way meaner than that. Ten degrees meaner, at least.
I get the first trash can to the curb okay. I race for the other trash can and muscle it down my driveway, but it’s much harder to wrangle because the bottom is full of heavy old things that we keep stumbling across in cupboards and drawers. This includes a rusty hammer, a dictionary predating me, an avocado green analog phone with cracked buttons, and a few empty photo frames.
I’m only halfway down the driveway when the truck reaches my curb, its claw coming out to grab and shake the first can loose. I try to make eye contact with the driver, but he won’t look at me. He has to see me pushing this ridiculous trash can, doesn’t he? But as the claw descends with the empty can, he’s already looking ahead to Hill the Pill’s house, where, of course, his cans wait neatly by the curb.
In a last-ditch effort, I run around to the front of the can and start dragging it. It’s moving, but not fast enough. Between my adrenaline pounding in my ears, the whine of the truck’s engine, and having my back turned to the road, I jump and curse when someone appears in front of me.
Not just someone—Hill the Pill. He lifts one side of the garbage can and nods toward the curb. I lift the other, and we rush it over just as the air brakes release for the truck to rumble forward, but the driver glances over, sighs like he’s disappointed I made it, and brakes again.
We step out of the way as the arm lofts the can in the air and the junk of someone else’s life tumbles into the truck. I don’t take an easy breath until the empty can is back on the road and the truck has rolled on to Henry’s house.
“Thanks,” I say turning toward him. I’m surprised he bothered to help and even more surprised when I register his appearance. He’s wearing running shoes, dark gray joggers, and a tank top with a dog’s head and a logo reading “5K for K-9s.”
It’s not a tight tank top, but sweat has molded it to his chest, and more glistens on his bare shoulders. Whoa.
Henry Hill is YOKED.
He’s also not wearing his glasses, and while I experience no Clark Kent/Superman confusion, this is definitely a different look, especially with his sweaty hair curling at the ends. This is a guy I would definitely look at twice if he jogged past me on the street.
I do not want to live with the knowledge that under his stuffy V-necks and khakis, my nerdy neighbor is asnack.
I clear my throat. “Thank you. I’ll put a note in my calendar that this is trash day.”
“No problem,” he says.
“You were running?” What a stupid question. No, he was training with anti-Christmas guerilla forces. But I can’t help it. Those shoulders are throwing me. I mean, they’reglistening.Even weirder, he’s not looking at me like I’m a bug he’s trying to shoo.
“I run most mornings. Wakes me up better than coffee.”
