“Then I’m done helping her.”
And he meant it.
When Vanessa called about scratching sounds in her garage, he told her to contact pest control.
When she complained about a sticking door, he sent her a handyman’s number.
But Vanessa didn’t stop.
She simply stopped pretending.
Whenever Irvin worked outside, she leaned over the fence to talk to him.
She brought homemade cookies and claimed she had made too many.
She found reasons to touch his arm.
And every time, Irvin stepped away.
Then she announced a neighborhood barbecue.
Irvin received an invitation.
I didn’t.
He showed it to me.
“I’m not going.”
I looked through the kitchen window toward Vanessa’s house.
Then I thought about the pickle jar.
The shelf.
The batteries.
Every fake little emergency she had used to borrow my husband.
And suddenly, I had an idea.
“Actually,” I said, “I think you should go.”
Irvin stared at me.
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
He studied my expression.
“Should I be worried?”
