Page 8 of Resisting the Grump

Her brows perked up. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a new neighbor? I would’ve insisted you take home a pie.”

His imbecilic note echoed in my head. “Something tells me he’d really appreciate that, but the guy’s an ignoramus who doesn’t deserve pie.”

“Doesn’t deserve pie?!” Grace said. “What did he do?”

“Honestly, I think it’s my fault. I left a note for him when he moved in, and everything’s spiraled out of control since then.”

She turned an ear towards me. “A note?”

“It was supposed to be welcoming,” I said in my defense. “But I guess it came across as more bossy than warm.”

“Bossy?”

I shrugged. “I gently requested he respect some house rules… that I mostly made up. Nothing crazy. Just stuff like quiet hours and asking him not to clog up the recycling on our floor.”

“I usually just go with pie.”

“Yeah, but you live in a house where no one shares walls,” I said. “It’s different.”

“The shape of your home doesn’t change the fact that pie is the way to go.”

“Sucking up isn’t my style.”

“It’s not sucking up,” she said. “That’s the beauty of it.”

“How do you figure?” I asked, using my fork to free another narrow strip of gooey brownie from the pan between us.

“On the surface, it appears to be a friendly and generous gesture. But, if you read between the lines, bringing a neighbor fresh baked goods is a nice way of saying, ‘Welcome to the neighborhood. Let’s not forget who was here first.’ It basically gives you the upper hand off the bat and makes them indebted to you before they’ve had a chance to piss you off.”

I stuffed some brownie in my mouth and let her words sink in. It was hard to decide if I was more perplexed by her perspective or the fact that she wasn’t as innocent as she seemed. “I had no idea there was a deeper psychology to it.” I’d always assumed gifting baked goods was a way of saying, ‘I’m an unfulfilled busybody with nothing better to do than bake food I’m not even going to eat.’ Not that I’d say that to Grace who, given a final day on Earth, would probably spend it in the kitchen. Well, until recently. These days she’d probably opt for twenty-four hours of gazing into Noah’s adoring eyes. “He actually suggested I bring him pie, funnily enough.”

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“He answered my initial note with a note that said, ‘I think you meant to bring me pie instead of this bullshit’… or something to that effect.”

“Eww. Who does that? Pie is an extremely generous gesture. That’s what makes it such a nice surprise. If someone expects pie, it takes all the fun out of it.”

I was glad she understood that it was way too late to bring him pie. Granted, I could see that perhaps I should’ve played it that way, but it was too late. I’d fudged it. “When was this?”

“About a week ago.”

“Did you answer his note?”

I paused before nodding reluctantly.

Her expression shifted like she feared the worst. “What did you say?”

“I said he was barking up the wrong tree.”

She bit back an embarrassed smile.

“And he wrote back that he doesn’t bark, he bites. And that when he does, he leaves marks.”

She stopped blinking all together. “That’s not normal.”

“I know. I’ve obviously engaged a psychopath in a game of note-passing, and I feel like it’s time I told you in case I go missing.”

“Missing? Why? What else are you not telling me?”

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