Page 13 of Yes No Maybe

Under her reddish-gray curls, Rose zeroes in on me like she’s trying to read my mind. “Got any tea, love?” She loops her arm in mine.

“Um, yes,” I sputter as she steers me toward the kitchen.

As I’m escorted away, Mira says, “I’ll ask Jane who to call for the chimney. She’ll have a guy for that.”

“Make yourselves at home,” I call to the others, but they’ve already moved on to Kenan and my entertainment system.

Rose sets me in the white and sage banquette as if I don’t have a million things to do.One thing at a time.Mom’s words recycle through my thoughts, and I realize Ialwayshave a million things to do—moving-in day or not—and they’ll get done regardless of tea breaks. Rose rummages freely through my labeled boxes, finding what she wants quickly.

“Ah, ginger tea.” Rose sorts through my small collection. “Soothing and good for the tummy.” She fills the kettle from the same box and heats it over the stove. Grabbing mugs from the MUGS box, she says, “Trash and recycling day is Thursday. We do a caravan to church on Sunday and beach outings. I’ll need your email for our weekly newsletter and your number for text alerts.”

She slips me her phone. “Add yourself as a contact… And, oh, Jack’ll be by later to talk about the tree.”

Her side glance tells me this is her main tidbit of information, and it comes across like a warning. “What tree?”

She motions to the backyard through the window. Thick hedges separate our properties, flat-topped as if he keeps them at head height but wild on my side, in desperate need of trimming. In the far back corner, a large pine tree caps off the hedges like a bookend and stretches tall with billowing needle branches cresting its peak.

“It’s on both your properties, and he’s anxious to get it taken down,” Rose explains, fixing our teas with sugar and cream without asking. “If he shows up, go easy on him, love. It’s been hard on him—”

Blaring music interrupts, luring me to the backyard to uncover the culprit. “Just Don’t Give a Fuck” by Eminem blares from next door and is joined by laughter, splashing, clinking bottles, and basketball thumps against the concrete.

Mira edges between Rose and me as we peek over the shrubbery. With its extended deck, pool, mini-basketball court, bar, and outdoor kitchen, it isn’t a backyard but a party zone. Men in various states of thirty, some with the start of dad-bods and receding hairlines, drink beers and comment on the inflatable big screen airing a baseball game.

“Oh, yeah, he seems very broken up about it,” I huff sarcastically.

Rose shrugs. “We all have different ways of coping, love.”

“Holy shit, is that him?” Mira gapes through the bushes with enlarged eyes and a devious laugh.

“He’s the hottie with the tatts, dear,” Rose confirms.

I peer closer and see Jack sitting on the pool’s edge. Wild, thick-lined, colorful tattoos pull my stare into his chest and arms. The diamond cuts of his arms, shoulders, and ab muscles ripple like the water’s surface dancing around his legs. He is cologne-model attractive—like he should be shirtless next to a horse in a black-and-white photo advertising a scent calledManorMuscle. More surprisingly, he’s smiling—a crooked, playful thing that looks almost easygoing and inviting—unlike the brooder I met on proposal night.

“Rowan, send Dean a picture of that guy and say you’ve moved on,” Mira chuckles.

I scoff. “Dean doesn’t need to worry, especially not over a guy like that.”

As soon as the words fall out, I want to suck them back in, especially when Mira’s coy grin transforms into a scolding stare-down. “Whynota guy like that?”

This is an argument we have often—Mira gets upset with me for knowingfrom experiencethat men like him don’t look twice at a woman like me (not in a good way), while she argues that I’m gorgeous and shouldn’t settle or sell myself short. Then, I argue that the last semi-hot guy I dated before Dean ended up being an obsessive psycho, so looks aren’t a good indication of anything. She counters by bringing it back to Dean and our perfectly fine, but, yes,slightlyroutine sex life.Sex shouldn’t be like getting an oil change, Rowan—it should be better than maintenance.To which, I protest that regular oil changes are key to the health and longevity of a vehicle. And certainly better than never getting my oil changed at all.

We argue like this at least once a season, sometimes more if dating is a hot topic of conversation.

For now, our back and forth comes across in our stare—no words necessary.

From the outside looking in, I understand whatshe thinksshe sees. Her decade-long relationship with Jane has been a passionate one. They are the sweetest, closest couple I know, cute to the point of annoying, especially since they think everyone else should be like them. Even half of what they have is more than enough for me. And in ten years, Dean and I will undoubtedly grow into each other as they have.

But there’s no use trying to convince her what time will surely prove.

She points across the hedge. “A guy like that knows how to curl a woman’s toes—you need some toe-curling.”

Rose giggles, giving Mira’s shoulder a gentle bop. “I like you. You’re saucy.”

They share devious smiles, like they’re kindred spirits.

Turning to Rose, I wince. “Please tell me I haven’t moved beside a man-baby who parties all the time.”

Rose’s slight brow pinches. “Well, I wouldn’t say man-baby.”

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