Dreams of 18(2)

I chuckle. “Besides, Mom’s not here so you can drop the good girl act. What the fuck are you doing scaring me like that?”

“First, it’s not an act. You just don’t get it because your mind’s always in the gutter. And second, don’t you know what day it is today?”

At this, my heart starts beating erratically. Hope can do that to you. It can give you arrythmia.

Honestly, I’m not a fan of hope.

Especially when the giver of that hope is a member of my family. When it comes to my family, it’s always better to expect the worst.

I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously. “I think I know.”

“So you should also know what I’m doing here.”

Okay, so I’m just gonna go ahead and think it: Is she here to wish me a happy birthday?

Because if she is, then it’s unprecedented.

It’s never happened before.

Last year on my birthday, I stole Mom’s choice of poison, chardonnay, and gave myself the worst hangover in the history of mankind.

Which is okay. I mean, I deserved it for drinking that stuff like water, sitting up on the roof, singing happy birthday to myself and watching the moon. I would’ve gotten away with it too, if not for my lovely older sister, Fiona.

She saw me lurking around the house with the biggest pair of sunglasses, flinching at every loud sound, and immediately ratted me out to Mom.

When I told them it was my birthday the day before and I was just trying to have some fun, Mom’s response was to avoid my eyes and plead a headache, while Fiona said, “Oh, I thought your birthday was in December. That’s weird.”

And then she walked away like I hadn’t spoken at all.

So really, I should know better than to hope.

But what if?

What if Fiona remembers my birthday this year? I know Mom and Dad don’t. They’re not even home. Mom’s at the country club and Dad’s out of town.

However, it looks like I’m wrong about the birthday thing, and a sucker. Because Fiona hasn’t looked away from the window ever since she came crashing through the door. Her eyes are glued to whatever is happening out there.

And there are things happening out there, for sure.

Now that my headphones are off, I can hear them – men talking, thuds of heavy things being dropped on the ground, a truck rolling in maybe.

Pushing my disappointment aside – because hello, this is my family, I really should know better – I walk to Fiona. I retrieve a lollipop from the pocket of my shorts and unwrap it, sticking it in my mouth.

Lollipops are another thing of mine.

Giving it a long suck, I ask, “What the hell is happening out there?”

The window in my bedroom overlooks the house next to us. It’s been empty for the past couple of months because our neighbors moved away to go live on the west coast.

But it looks like someone’s moving in today.

Twirling my lollipop on my tongue, I notice the front yard is overrun by boxes and random pieces of furniture. There’s a couple of moving trucks parked out front. And there are people, lots of them. Moving guys from the looks of it.

They are all dressed in navy blue overalls with what’s probably their company logo scribbled on their front pocket. A coffee table, a lamp, the thin rectangular box of a TV are emerging from the truck one by one and being carried to the house.

“Why are we spying on these people?” I ask Fiona.

“We’re not spying. We’re observing.”

“Okay,” I accept as I watch a few guys haul in a black leather couch. “Well, what are we observing?”

“Don’t you ever listen to Mom?”

“Not particularly.”

I hear Fiona sigh before she launches into a reply.

I would’ve listened to it, I promise. I’m not as horrible a listener as my sister thinks me to be. But as I look around, my gaze hooks onto something.

Or rather someone.

A man.

It’s not my fault that my eyes won’t move from him. Not really.

Because he sticks out. For more reasons than one, actually.

Firstly, he’s the only one who isn’t in blue overalls. He has a black and white plaid shirt on with a pair of black jeans and the biggest boots that I’ve ever seen. I think those boots are used for hiking.

I think he’s just come from hiking, what with how worn and mud-streaked they are, making him look tough and manly.

With my lollipop stuck between my teeth and the side of my mouth, I look at his face and decide that I was wrong.

It isn’t the streaks of dirt on his hiking boots that make him look masculine, it’s his dark stubble.

Actually, can you even call it stubble if it’s thick enough to bury your fingers in? A beard, then. Or the beginnings of one.

It covers his jaw, which is angular and square, broad even. He reaches up and scratches it, drawing my attention to his long fingers and his exposed forearm dusted with dark hair and the winding ridge of a vein.

Bones and muscles, that’s what comes to mind when I see him do that, scratch his almost-beard, I mean. And strength.

The kind that I’ve never encountered before.

I take him in as a whole: his dark messy hair, his wide stance, his squinting-against-the-sun eyes.

Yeah, strength. And masculine beauty.

He can’t be from around here. It’s impossible.