Neighborly(32)

I’m torn. All things being equal—all husbands being equal—Andie is the AV woman to whom I feel most connected, the one I’d most want for a confidante.

I’m also not in the best mood. Doug came in after nine last night, and I couldn’t help wondering what he, Gina, and Oliver had found to talk about for going on three hours. For the first hour, I’d assumed he was just humoring them, not wanting to race out. But after a few more bourbons, they probably weren’t just talking about houses anymore.

Gina isn’t having any sex, but she likes talking about it. Did she tell Doug what I said at girls’ night about my lack of desire for him? He’d be so humiliated.

No, Gina wouldn’t do that. She seems anal-retentive but not mean. Doug was just schmoozing the new neighbors. Maybe he wanted to avoid coming home after the confrontation about the bikes. For us, that was pretty heated. He could have been waiting me out, hoping I’d already be asleep. It’s not unheard of for me to doze off before nine.

So I feigned sleep. It seemed easier that way. But today, I’ve got a pit in my stomach. I just hate having things unresolved between us. I should probably stay home and initiate a big talk with Doug, though honestly, it’s the last thing I feel like doing. And he needs to focus on putting together some more furniture, anyway.

Seeing my hesitation, Andie gives me an out. “Do you have other plans? We can hang out another time.”

I don’t want an out. I want a friend. I want Andie for a friend.

Maybe I can dredge up some strategy that I learned from Dr. Morrison that will allow me to get past Nolan’s resemblance to Layton. I’m willing to try. “Now is good,” I say.

As Sadie and I cross the threshold, I cast a furtive glance down. Another day without a welcome mat. I let out a sigh of relief.

And then realize I sighed too soon. There’s a piece of cardboard on the windshield of the Outback.

Andie hasn’t seen it yet. At least, I don’t think she has. While she’s bent down cooing at Sadie, I grab it and toss it under the car.

YOU THOUGHT WE WERE DONE HERE?

Yes, I’d wanted to believe that.

“Are you OK?” Andie asks me. “You just got really white all of a sudden.”

I try to smile. “I’m always pretty white.”

YOU THOUGHT WE WERE DONE HERE?

The note couldn’t have come from one of the women at girls’ night. They were so nice to me. Not just nice but accepting. Confessional and vulnerable, themselves. They invited Andie just to make me more comfortable. The way they talked to me and looked at me, I felt like part of the gang.

But seemingly overnight, whoever wrote these notes and I have become a we, without my consent. I’m locked in something I don’t understand, with someone I can’t identify. That means she holds all the cards. Whoever it is has the element of surprise. I’m just a sitting duck in my new house.

The wait between notes two and three just underscores it. She wanted me to think it was over, she wanted me to relax, so she could punch me in the gut and remind me who’s in charge. We’re not done until she says we are.

“Are you sure you’re up for a walk?” Andie asks, a concerned expression on her face. “Maybe you could just come to my house and I could make us some tea.”

“Fresh air would be good,” I say. Deep, cleansing breaths, that’s what I need most.

I love the sweet brininess of AV air. I love this neighborhood, and I love our tiny home, and I will not let this bully win.

Andie leads me through the well-maintained residential streets of the AV until we’re on an asphalt pedestrian path that winds along the sandy beach. The water is like a hazel eye, fluctuating with the light. Far in the distance, through a hazy fog, I can make out some of the buildings of San Francisco. I’ll be commuting there soon enough, but for now, I’m on my own island.

Andie stays quiet until she sees that I’m calmer. Then she asks, “Did you have fun at girls’ night?”

I inhale. “I really did.” I try to regain the feeling I had that night, the one that the notes are trying like hell to destroy.

“It’s hard to hang out with women who know each other so well. You did a great job of fitting in. Better than I have.”

“Really?” I can’t imagine that’s true, given Andie’s exceptional social graces, though now that I think of it, the other women were more interested in me than in her. It was something in the way they listened, how they leaned, their eye contact. I was the focus, and Andie was ancillary.

“There’s something special about you, Kat,” Andie says. “Sometimes it’s like your heart is on the outside, you know? Like people can see all you’re hoping for, even though you think you’re guarding it so well. You’re vulnerable in spite of yourself.”

I feel flattered but also exposed. When I was a kid, Layton was the first person to tell me I was special. I was a charity case at that school, and I felt it all the time, except when I was with Ellen. And then when I got to fourth grade, I was in Mr. Layton’s class. He was the most well-liked teacher in the school, by the kids and by the parents. He was handsome. He was respected.

And he chose me! He relished my company. He bought me poetry books. I stayed after class for a few minutes just to talk to him, and then after school, to talk to him longer. Then he started locking the classroom door behind me and lowering the blinds. Slowly, gradually, we were doing other things. I felt like it was at my pace. I felt like it was what I wanted.