Page 16 of Yes No Maybe

Living on the North Carolina coast makes hurricanes a frequent problem. He shows how the tree will fall—directly between our houses, surely damaging both.

“It’s mostly on your property, making ityourproblem, but I’m offering you the same deal I had with Margot and Ben before… well, before. I’m willing to pay half. I’ve already gotten estimates.”

“How much?”

His broad shoulders bounce in a careless shrug. “Fifteen hundred.”

Everything sinks—my jaw, my shoulders, the nervous knot in my throat.

“It’s not only a safety concern. It’s a nuisance, dumping needles in the pool and housing squirrel nests, which means more yard fleas.”

I think of my itchy ankle the night I spied him swimming. But still—$1,500?

“Your yard needs work,” he continues. “Your grass is high. Trimming the overgrown shrubs and cleaning the garden beds will prevent mosquitoes, fleas, and other pests from infiltratingmyyard. It’s a common courtesy for your neighbors on both sides. I can recommend a lawn service if you’re too busy.”

My hand goes up, stopping him. “I’m not hiring a lawn service, and the tree will have to wait.”

“We’re already in hurricane season. Sooner is better.”

I don’t doubt he’s right about the tree. It seems unhealthy, though, at first glance, I never would’ve noticed its dingy gray bark flaking away in odd splotches or its needles losing their luscious green color. As a lifelong renter, things like tree health aren’t on my radar. So, this information is useful.

But this man irks me. As a teacher, I’ve encountered many off-putting personalities—rich, entitled kids, cocky athletes, and all sorts with angry chips on their shoulders. Even so, I’ve never truly disliked a student or failed to find a way to work together.

Jack Graham seems like a bad combination of the worst qualities—rich, entitled, cocky,andangry. Besides, it’s hard to get along with a guy who clearly doesn’t want me living next door to him.

“I’ll add the tree to my long list of to-dos.” I force a smile. “Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

“You’re brushing me off?” His head cocks as he scrutinizes me.

“Yes, for now. I want to think about it.”And do research. And get my own estimates. Is it normal for homeowners to have a “tree guy?” I’ll have to ask Mira.

Jack looks insulted. He folds his muscular, tatted arms and chews on his inner lip. He needs a haircut. And a shave. Whenever I see him, he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow and dark, wispy hair that constantly falls into his daring brown eyes, as if he prefers the messy look. Or refuses to be bothered with such mundane things—not when there’s partying to do. Finally, his hand goes out like he’s about to handle something delicate.

“What’s there to think about? I have the estimates inside if you want to see them and the report from my tree guy. All you have to do is agree. I’ll set it up. I’ll even front the money, and you can pay me back.” His eyes narrow. “In installments if need be.”

I don’t want to owe this man anything.“Since youmusthave an answer this minute, it’s no. I’ll take care of the tree myself, but thanks for not being condescending or pushy about it. Oh, and here.” I push the whiskey into his stomach. “I don’t need yourheartfeltwelcome gift.”

An audible grunt emerges as he presses his lips together, and it’s satisfying—not giving in to his demands. I turn to storm off properly. But the desired effect doesn’t happen with flip-flops on grass.

“Rowan, what the hell?” He stops me between the windowed side of what looks like a library and the neatly trimmed hedge. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound condescending. I’m trying to be helpful. That’s all.”

I seek some sincerity in him, but it’s like panning for gold in a sandbox. Meanwhile, I carefully edge around him, determined not to be penned in—a move that amuses him. I imagine him thinking,“What’s this? A woman who doesn’t want to run her tongue over my chest muscles? It can’t be.”

My throat clears. “Helpful, huh? If that’s true, I appreciate it. But I’ll handle the tree on my own. Like you said, it’smyproblem.”

He takes me in like a puzzling grammar mistake—he knows I’m wrong but can’t figure out why. “What about the yard, Miss Independent? Ben and Margot loved their yard. They took good care of it.”

My head cocks as I scrutinize him. Ireallydon’t like this man.

“So will I. In my own time, not yours. Not getting your way must be so hard for you.Unfortunately, I can’t help but bepretty fucking annoying, right?”

My words emerge slowly and with surprising confidence, which sticks even when he looks confused. I don’t wait for a response but twist on my flip-flops and beeline toward my driveway as Mira’s SUV pulls in.

Six

Jack

Shit.Pretty fucking annoying?The words jingle a vague bell—did I say that? Aloud? To her?The stress of not writing has turned me into someone I don’t even like, and, for some reason, my new neighbor gets the brunt of it.

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