Page 15 of Yes No Maybe

Jack snorted with derision. “Unfortunately. Wish I’d bought the damn place myself.”

“Why? She’s pretty.”

“She’s pretty fucking annoying.”

“Bet you still bed her,” another man prodded, bringing the rest into a howl of laughter.

“Hard pass,” I muttered at the same time Jack said, “Hell no.”

I sped away, leaving them in a plume of old car exhaust, which wasn’t nearly satisfying enough.

Over tea one afternoon, Rose shared that Jack’s house is where he grew up. After his first bestseller, he bought it from his parents and moved them to a swanky place on the water. He’s been renovating and tweaking it since. Contractors show up almost daily for estimates or upgrades. The house—the biggest on the block—is an ashen brick two-story colonial that looks regal (and normal) from the front while being a full-on man-cave in the back. It’s the house version of a mullet haircut.

Despite his partying, playboy, asshole persona, he’s a meticulous homeowner. He keeps no discernible life or work schedule, but I see him daily hunting for weeds in his professionally groomed flower beds, sweeping cobwebs from his front porch, or cleaning his pool. Once, I spied a long branch emerging from the top of the hedge on his side, and by the day’s end, he’d trimmed it.

And the neighborhoodadoreshim, as evident in the emoji and GIF-covered pages of theDaisy Chainback issues I peruse over coffee. “Jack’s Writing Block Holds at Five Months”… “Six”… “Ten”… “Jack Tells Reporter in Neighborhood to ‘F@#k Off’ Refuses Interviews & Appearances”… “Jack Saves Motherless Opossum” (with picture)… “Jack’s Release Party forThe Other UsPlanned for August.”

Though two months away, his upcoming black tie release party headlines every recent newsletter alongside media buzz about the book. Less exciting are the smaller articles on the neighborhood’s annual Fourth of July oyster roast. Though I like that the neighborhood celebrates together, it’s disconcerting that it’s Jack they celebrate most.

In the most recent edition, I find a small corner about me under the headline “Our Charming New Neighbor, Rowan.” The couple shares how I fell in love with the place based on the bookThe Little House, and how Margot, who now resides with her son Corey and his husband in Asheville, teared up with the story and called my new ownership, “Meant to be.”

Rose also elaborated that I’m “a proper English teacher with a snazzy wardrobe, a black cat named Edgar, andperhapsa fiancé on an acting hiatus, from which he might return at the end of summer (Rowan’s sister, Mira has doubts).” *Puzzled emoji followed by the shocked face of Kevin McAllister when he applies aftershave*

I groan.

Another email snatches my attention—Dr. Evelyn Tate requests an appointment to discuss my Inspiration Project.

I don’t know which bothers me more—my nonexistent Inspiration Project or my absent boyfriend.

I need a beach day.

It’s my favorite thing to do—spend the day at the beach with a book. I contemplate my library, wondering which classic might spark an idea for my Inspiration Project. But my brain feels dried up like a desert with tumbleweeds rolling over it—completely uninspired.

A text from Mira interrupts.Hey, free around lunch? I’ll bring over wine and subs. I have a favor to ask.

Mira would understand if I said no. But she rarely asks for favors, and whatever it is takes priority over me getting my beach on.

Sure. See you then!

So when my doorbell rings just before lunch, I expect Mira on the other side. My smile falls into surprise and, quickly, disappointment at Jack Graham shadowing my doorway.

He thrusts a bottle of whiskey toward me and says, in a dry, robotic voice, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

He glances behind him, pulling my attention to Vernon and Rose staring at us through their living room window. Quickly, they turn their heads upwards. Rose even points to an imaginary thing to look at as if she can hide their obvious nosiness.

I burst into a laugh. “They’re the absolute worst spies… I assume they put you up to this. No—wait. Don’t answer that. Another one of mykeen observations, right? Look, I’m not a nosy Miss Marple. Yes, I saw you swimming through our hedges, but that’s only because you were making a lot of noise, as youoftendo. At all hours. When something wakes me in the middle of the night or early on a Sunday morning, for that matter, I get out of bed to investigate.”

His hands go into the pockets of his khaki shorts. “Investigate. Like Miss Marple.”

I grunt, rolling my eyes. “Thanks for the whiskey.” I turn to retreat inside.

“Rowan, wait. Can I have five minutes to talk about the tree?”

I nod begrudgingly. He waves me to his property and leads me along the hedges toward the back until we reach a towering pine tree at the corner, mostly on my side. Slightly tilted toward the street, it reminds me of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

“Yes, it’s a tree.”

“It’s a dying tree.” He points to the branches with their bursting needles and drooping pinecones. “The needles should be green. Not brown. My tree guy confirmed it. It’s rotting from the inside. If we don’t have it taken down properly, the next hurricane will do it for us.”

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