Page 29 of Wasted On Us

“I…” Before I can get a word out about how she has three daughters and all three of us are completely different from each other and even more importantly, nothing like her, she stands up.

Mom rolls her head along her shoulders to stretch the tension out of her neck as she glances in the direction of the García house. “I swear, it’s like you girls openly court disaster.”

For once, I’m inclined to agree.

Chapter Twelve

Mateo

I must’ve mowed my next-door neighbor Mrs. Lambert’s yard over five hundred times by now. I’ve done it without fail, every Sunday since I was a teenager, barring inclement weather or illness. It started as a way of drumming up some extra cash for myself. I had knocked on just about every door on the block, trying to get somebody to let me mow their lawn. I wanted a car, and Dad would hook me up with a deal via the local dealers’ auction, but only if I earned half the down payment myself. The neighborhood was too nice—almost everybody already had a landscaper that came by and did it for them. Why hire some kid? Mrs. Lambert was the only person who said yes.

And I’ve worshipped her ever since.

After her husband died, it became more of a favor for her than it was for me. She still paid me, but it was the going rate for a fifteen-year-old boy way back when. I never had the heart to raise it on her. And frankly, I didn’t need the money after I started working for Dad. I had offered a couple of times to stop taking payment entirely, but she wouldn’t listen. Even now, living with her daughter while the house is on the market, she drops off a handwritten check every month for two hundred and fifty dollars—fifty dollars for each mow, and an extra fifteen for watching the place while she’s gone.

And since I’m a single guy living at home with Dad and Abuelita, she also encouraged me to stay there any time I wanted. She even has food delivered so the pantry and fridge are well stocked with beer, pop, and snacks.

So far, I haven’t taken her up on using her house for a sleepover, but now that Eden’s in the picture and we’re both saddled with parental rules and judgment, it might not be a bad idea.

But if I do decide to invite her over, I’ll make sure to clear it with Mrs. Lambert first.

Regardless, mowing is good exercise, and it’s doing a good deed for a woman I adore, so I don’t complain. As I’m opening the garage to put away the mower, I see a moving truck in the driveway of the next house over, two doors down from my own. Trying to look without being obvious, I bend down to check something on the mower, using the angle to get a glimpse of the newcomers without being seen.

I’m so surprised by the sight that I stand up too fast, whacking my head on the push handle and stumbling toward the garage. I know what I saw. I’d recognize that silky black hair anywhere.

No, it can’t be. You’re just thinking about Eden so much that you conjured her up.

But when I look again, I realize it’s true. Eden is moving into the house next to Mrs. Lambert’s. I swear, it’s like I’m in a movie. This girl keeps showing up everywhere I turn. If we aren’t meant to be together, then the universe has a pretty sick sense of humor.

After locking up the garage and checking the perimeter of the house, I stroll back over to our place. Dad is sitting in the backyard, reading a newspaper and enjoying an afternoon cup of coffee. If anyone would know anything about the people down the street, it would be him. We were one of the first families to move in, and as a result, my father has made it his mission to know everything about everyone.

“Hey, Dad. Who are those people that live on the other side of the Lambert house, again?”

My father snaps his newspaper shut, bringing a hand to his temples. “Why? Did they do something? That man… that fucking man, Daniel.”

“No, there was no older man.” Having touched a nerve, I decide to tread carefully. “There were just three younger women. One tatted-up guy, who looked like he was dating one of them. An older guy with a white beard, and then a middle-aged woman who stared at me like I had two heads.”

“I believe you just described Miss Amy,” he sighs, sucking on his teeth in annoyance. The more he talks about them, the more I start to remember. A couple moved in a few years ago, and Dad was angry about it all the time. Abuelita would try and talk him down, but he never listened. I never got details out of him then—whatever it was, he and Abuelita thought it best if I wasn’t involved. Now, it seems I’m far more involved than I ever intended to be.

“Oh!” I prod, trying to sound nonchalant. “So, you know them?”

A snarl crosses his lips. He knows them alright. His reaction doesn’t bode well for me moseying on over to say hello and ask Eden if I can borrow a cup of sugar.

“You know how some people… you get to know them and you like them?”

“Yeah. Happens all the time.” Pulling out the chair next to him and taking a seat, I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe he doesn’t outright hate these people after all. Maybe enough time has passed. Maybe instead of too much water under the bridge, there’s not enough. “Someone seems to be a jerk, but ends up being a good guy instead.”

“Not this time. Seriously. I’m not exaggerating.” My father takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly through his nose before continuing. “The dad, the pharmacist? He killed your mother.”

That glimmer of hope vanishes into the air, replaced by a block of ice in my gut.

The words hit me like a sucker punch, leaving me gasping for breath. “He... what?” I can’t process it, can’t wrap my mind around what my father is telling me. The room seems to spin, a whirlwind of confusion and dread swallowing me whole.

“You heard me,” Dad clips out, each word landing like a hammer blow, shattering the reality I’ve been clinging onto. My heart thuds painfully in my chest, the blood in my veins surging like a tsunami.

I feel a wild surge of disbelief, anger, and horror. The man who had filled our prescriptions, who had smiled politely and asked after our day... he was responsible for my mother’s death? I feel sick, like I’m going to throw up.

Eden’s dad killed my mother?

---