Page 6 of Her Alien Neighbor

I shout, “What!” the same time Willa yells, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Turning to look at Willa, I say, “You want the house? The car? Take them. I certainly don’t want them.”

She slaps her hands on the arms of her chair. “You live in a shitty apartment. How could you not want your own house?”

“Because I have no interest in livinghere,” I instantly reply. Then the guilt hits me as Willa jerks back slightly. “No offense. It’s just not where I want to settle.”

She twists her body toward me, her knees bumping against the side of my chair. “So you’d rather struggle to pay your rent in a place that, while beautiful, you’ll never be able to afford without a million-dollar paycheck?”

I insulted her by saying I didn’t want to live here. That much is obvious. While I feel bad, it’s the truth, so I don’t take it back. This place has too many memories. I square my shoulders and face her. “That’s an extreme exaggeration and you know it.” I huff a breath.

“Oh, so you think you’ll buy a house out there?” she asks, knowing that the housing market in Los Angeles is insane, and that no, I probably won’t.

“Why do I have to buy a house? I can just keep renting,” I bite back. “Besides, maybe I’m happier out there than I ever was here.”

Her face softens, and she tilts her head slightly. “You are?”

I sit there, saying nothing as Willa’s piercing gaze sizes me up, making me remember how I lost that part to the other plus-size woman and the previous roles I lost for not having the “right” kind of body.

I bite my lip to hold back the tears while I think of a clever retort. Something that will make it clear to Willa that I’m doing justfineout there, but Mr. Dennings interrupts.

“Pardon me, ladies. I can see there are some family issues to be worked out here, but I have other appointments after yours, so if you could take this,” he waves his hands in a shooing gesture, “elsewhere, I would appreciate it.”

Really? This is the guy Aunt Franny trusted with handling her estate? I’m sure the majority of appointments he has are unpleasant, as family members of the recently deceased attempt to process their grief in the divvying up of riches, but still. You’d think he’d be so used to it that he’d have some manners. Although, that might be why Aunt Franny chose him. She appreciated directness, which he certainly has.

I lean forward, propping an elbow on the edge of his desk. “May I ask what your relationship was to Aunt Franny?”

He stops fiddling with the stack of papers in his hands, and his face falls. He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “She was a dear friend. That’s why she asked me to be the executor of her estate. Eccentric woman. Misunderstood, I think.” Mr. Dennings chuckles softly, gazing at something off in the distance. “Lovely, though. Damn shame she’s gone.”

They were friends. I wasn’t expecting that. I didn’t think Aunt Franny had any friends. She’d email me once a month, updating me on which stores went out of business and which restaurants were moving into town. She never went to said restaurants, but I think she found the infrequent changes to the town thrilling to share with me.

Mostly, her emails were written in a rambling, stream-of-consciousness format, and covered the latest gossip on neighbors and other townspeople she didn’t like but ran into at church, how the weather was awful no matter what time of year it was, and which trees surrounding her house needed to be cut down.

I didn’t devote enough attention to them at the time, and right now, I hate myself for that. I will never again receive one of Aunt Franny’s emails, and I’d give my left arm to hear her complain about those damn trees again.

She would also slip in a mention of the “beefcake brothers” who moved into the big house next door to her, how she thought they were around my age, and how I needed to visit her immediately so I could make one of them my husband. I thanked her, of course, but declined the setup.

If these brothers were anything like the guys I grew up with, it’s likely they had a limited vocabulary, owned pickup trucks they cared way too much about, found racist jokes funny, and considered thick work pants tucked into steel-toed boots proper date attire. That’s not the kind of man I’m interested in. I had my fill of them in high school, and they left a rancid taste in my mouth.

Mr. Dennings hands Willa and me manila folders with copies of Aunt Franny’s will, and other things I don’t bother to read at the moment. He stands, a clear signal for us to leave. “Oh, Willa,” he says, rubbing the white scruff on his chin, “the hats and ornaments are in the basement of her house. The boxes should be labeled with your name on them. Vanessa can show you.” Then he presents me with a set of five keys dangling from a yellow keychain that says, “Gave my last fuck in a previous life.”

I bark out a laugh, and the two of them give me a strange look. Running my fingers over each key, I determine their uses. The silver key with the Toyota logo is obvious, and I assume one of the four bronze keys goes to the front door of Aunt Franny’s house. But what are the other three for? “Excuse me,” I ask Mr. Dennings as Willa reaches for the door to his office to leave, “do you know what these keys go to?”

He gestures to the folder tucked inside my arm. “It’s all in there.”

Clearly, he doesn’t wish to waste any more of his precious time on us, so I nod good-bye and follow Willa out the door. It takes ten minutes to drive to Aunt Franny’s house, and when we pull into the driveway, I suck in a breath at the sight before me.

“What the fuck happened to the view?” I shout.

Aunt Franny’s house has never been the nicest on the block. It felt outdated and shabby the moment she bought it, with a strange layout no one but her could appreciate. But the view of the sprawling hillside leading from her property and far-off cornfields surrounded by towering trees that turn rich shades of yellow and orange in fall, with a river cutting through the middle, has remained the prime selling point.

Now, though, there’s a wooden shed blocking that view. What is it doing there? When did it get there? Why would Aunt Franny allow this eyesore to be constructed? I throw my hands up, the weight of responsibility I’ve been handed suddenly wearing me down. “How am I going to sell this place now?”

Willa’s chin dips as she shakes her head. “You can’t sell this place, Vanessa. She wanted you to have it.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, frustrated that I’ve been put in this position. “Wil, I don’t live here. This isn’t my home anymore. What do you want me to do? Just abandon my life in L.A. and move back here?” She turns her head forward, facing the view that’s now practically non-existent. “What would I do for work in Sudbury? I can’t imagine there’s a dire need for actors.”

Willa sighs, tipping her head back until it hits the headrest. “I don’t know. Just don’t rush to sell it, okay? Promise me that.”

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