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Which irritates me a little. I don’t need to be told to take care of our girl. I was already concluding on my own we should go back into the house. But that’s the downside to being the youngest in our foursome. I’m not always taken seriously. Just because I like to play strip video games doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. The fact that theydon’tmakes them idiots.
Dani waves Hughes off, though, before I can tell him to kiss my ass. “Inside or outside, I don’t think it matters, Michael. If they drop that, we're all in serious trouble.”
“Good point,” I tell her, squeezing her hand. “Let’s walk down the street a little bit.”
Our neighbors, Mark and Marissa, are watching wide-eyed from their front steps, mugs of coffee in their hands, their pug and their young daughter running around the little patch of grass between the house and the sidewalk.
“If that falls on my house, you owe me Racketeers season tickets for the rest of my life,” Mark says, eyeing the hot tub. His tone is casual though, like he assumes this will all be fine.
Mark and I have hung out a few times already with Michael. Mark’s around Nathan’s age, but he’s chill. He likes to brew his own beer and talk hockey with us. He’s the kind of guy who assumes things will work out for him because they usually do, and he parents from a chair, letting his kids have more independence than Marissa does. She’s the anxious parent, hovering, and she’s doing that now, eyeing our delivery with genuine fear, which is fair.
“Mark!” Marissa jumps and grabs his arm, spilling his coffee down the front of his T-shirt. “Jesus, do something!”
Mark shakes coffee off of his hand. “I am doing something. I’m getting us hockey tickets.”
Marissa makes a sound of disgust. I don’t think we’re her favorite neighbors. I’ve gotten the impression she doesn’t approve of our relationship. Either that, or she’s just anxious in general and it’s nothing personal. At any rate, she and Dani haven’t really connected. Dani squeezes my hand now.
“Sorry,” she says. “The crane operator assured us they do this all the time.”
“I doubt that,” Marissa mutters.
Mark sighs. “McNeill, how about legacy hockey tickets that can be passed down to our kids? Season tickets in perpetuity.”
“We’ll get you box seats for the playoffs,” I tell him. “It’s the least we can do.” They’ve already tolerated our remodeling and they’re about to endure many nights of me making out with Dani in the hot tub.
Nathan is probably right. There isn’t enough privacy, but hell, we live in the city. Privacy is at a premium. We all agreed for various reasons this house is the best option for this phase of our lives and relationship, so even though Nathan hates having to interact with the neighbors, he’s going to have to play nice.
“This is the last of the home improvement projects,” I tell Mark. “Aside from Michael’s plans for a garden. I heard talk of a living greenery wall and a fountain. I’m trying to talk him into letting me add a rock-climbing wall and a trampoline.”
Marissa just grabs her daughter by the arm, turns, and goes back into the house without a word. I watch her retreating back with chagrin. “I was kidding about the trampoline.”
Mark scoffs. “Don’t worry about it. It’s your yard, do what you want.”
“Michael wants to do a salsa garden,” Dani tells him.
“What the hell is a salsa garden?” Mark asks. “It sounds amazing.”
“We’re going to have tomatoes, onions, and peppers we don’t know what to do with, so we’ll be dropping off produce for you.”
“Excellent, I’m looking forward to that. And cilantro, right?” Mark asks. “I love cilantro so much I’ve contemplated rolling it up and smoking it.”
That makes me laugh. There doesn’t seem to be much Mark isn’t willing to smoke.
Several other neighbors have wandered out of their houses to watch Operation Hot Tub.
“Hi,” Dani says, turning to greet a couple I don’t recognize from a few doors down. “Sorry for the noise.”
The crane is loud. As is Nathan, who is now stalking over toward us, swearing repeatedly.
“No worries,” a woman who looks around my mother’s age says. “I would love a hot tub myself. Aching joints.”
“Same,” I tell her. “Occupational hazard.”
“What do you do?” she asks, her smile friendly but blank. “You’re so young, you can’t possibly have bad knees yet.”
“Trust me, they’ve gotten pretty banged up over the years.” I realize she has no idea who I am. I also realize I’ve gotten used to fans recognizing me and this is a little…humbling. I fucking hate it. “I play hockey.”
“In university?”
