Page 11 of Pulse
“It’s better now that you’re home. Need some help? You look like you’re about to drop all that stuff.”
Three takeout boxes fill my hands, and my gym bag dangles from the crook of my left arm.
“I don’t need help carrying anything,” I say. “But I do happen to have an extra hamburger from Hillary’s House if you’re hungry.”
His eyes light up so brightly that I can see them from my porch.
I open the front door, leaving it that way so Burt can enter behind me. I drop my bag onto a chair and carry the food containers to the kitchen. Last night’s stir-fry hangs in the air as I deposit tonight’s dinner on the counter.
The kitchen’s what sold me on this townhouse. A skylight allows so much sunshine into the space that it justfeelshappy. Whoever designed the room wasted no space, adding as much storage as possible. The refrigerator is also brand-new andalmosttoo big for the space—which I love. It houses my collection of magnets dating back to my childhood.
I shake my head and grin, returning my newest additions to their spot in the top right corner. Morgan gave them to me as a joke for my birthday two weeks ago following a conversation about sex. They’re both circles with a water gun in the center, and the wordsI squirtare printed around the edge of one magnet, andSuper Soakeris printed around the other.
Burt immediately noticed them and teased me about stories he could share if I wanted to hear them. I didn’t. Now he screws with me by moving them around my refrigerator from time to time.
“Hamburgers from Hillary’s House, huh?” Burt asks.
“And chocolate cake.”
“That’s pretty fancy for a Monday night.”
I smile at him. “We’re celebrating.”
“I’m all for a good celebration, but it helps to know the occasion. Should I have picked you some of the neighbor’sflowers? I could’ve blamed it on those boys across the street. The oldest one walked their dog this morning, and the little fucker shit in my yard.”
My giggle isn’t appreciated. “Did you make him clean it up?”
He waves a hand through the air. “Nah, I did it after he went home.”
My giggle turns into a laugh.
“But I am gonna tell him next time to bring a poop bag, or else I’m going to throw it in their yard,” he says, fighting a smile. “Now, what are we celebrating?”
“You’re looking at a girl who was able to run not four butfivemiles today after work. I thought that deserved a treat.”
“Doesn’t a burger and cake defeat the purpose of running five miles?”
“Absolutely not.”
His bushy brows tug together. “If you think about it, running five miles was a treat to your health. You don’t need a coffee or cake treat, too.”
“Sounds likeyouneed a treat,” I say, winking at him.
He rolls his eyes.
“Besides,” I say, grabbing water for me and a sugar-free soda I keep just for Burt from the fridge, “you’re being awfully judgy for someone who’s going to partake in said treat.”
We sit at the small table near the window overlooking my backyard. Burt digs into his dinner before I get situated. I can’t help but wonder if he had lunch.
Burt and I have beenbest neighbors, as he calls us, since the day I moved in. It was his seventy-fifth birthday, and he spent it, much to their dismay, supervising the college kids unloading my boxes from a big truck. He raced across our adjoining lawns when they nearly broke my headboard and kept an eye on them. I introduced myself, he did the same, and we’ve been a dynamic duo ever since.
“Heard from Freddy?” Burt asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
My stomach tightens. “Yes, actually. He texted me today. A few times.”
“What’s he texting you for?”
“He thinks I have a pair of his sunglasses, but I don’t.”
