7. Macy

Chapter 7

Macy

I stand in the short driveway of my grandparent's home and lock my rental car. The air smells of salt, and the waves sing their calming song against the beach behind the house, but everything feels different. It's almost as if I'm looking through dirty glasses. The once bright home is now faded, like I turned down the saturation of a picture.

I've never visited Sanibel in the fall. I always came for summer vacation. The shiny silver Volvo that I rented shouldn't be parked in the spot my grandfather's truck belongs.

Unlocking the front door with tears in my eyes, the hinges squeak as I prepare myself for what's on the other side. I shut my eyes, but humidity slams into my face like a rough day at sea. It smells musty, like the air hasn't circulated the house in years. If I focus, I can smell the lingering hint of my grandma's flowery perfume. I can almost hear her contagious laugh echoing off these walls.

I slowly open my eyes but try not to look around as I remove my shoes and leave them by the door. The cold terrazzo floors feel nostalgic under my bare feet. I crank open the dozens of small jalousie windows. They squeak and groan like they have since I was a little girl.

My grandparents never bothered to grease them, even when my mom complained about the muscle strain it caused to open them. The worn-out silver trim is covered in a layer of dust.

The outside breeze blows through the narrow house, creating a sound you can only hear when you bring a seashell up to your ear. The home was built so you wouldn't need an air conditioning unit, at least that's what my grandparents always said. I go outback, sliding the glass door open so more wind can cool the house.

The ocean sparkles and shines, not a single cloud in the sky, contrasting my cold and cloudy days in Idaho. The sun rays tingle my skin.

I tuck my legs into myself on the porch swing, closing my eyes to listen to the waves. The wind chime I helped my grandma make is what sends the dominos flying to my emotions, and I lose it. I cry for the little girl who misses her grandparents, who never got to say goodbye. For the twenty-three-year-old, trapped in a life she's wanted to escape since she can remember. For lost dreams.

I breathe the salty air and let myself pretend, just this once, that this is where I live. That my grandma is just inside, cooking some fresh sea food that my grandpa caught. I drift off into a peaceful sleep and wake sometime later face to face with a pelican. It's standing only three feet away on the porch railing. "Shoo," I tell him, using my hands to scare the creature off, but he stares at me, waiting for a treat like I'm another tourist to feed him.

I lift my eyebrows. "I'm not feeding you."

It cocks its head, as though calling my bluff.

I cross my arms over my chest and go inside. The pelican stares at me through the glass door like it has a much higher IQ than I do. I scoff at the bird and click the lock into place.

The living room, dining room, and kitchen are all visible from where I stand. They aren't sectioned off by walls. A breeze drifts in as though I were still outside, blowing delicate strands of my hair. Without a single light on, the walls glow orange from the setting sun.

There are dozens of dead bugs on the floor. I don't know how I didn't notice right away. I dig around the utility closet for a vacuum, but my grandparents—bless their old-fashioned hearts—never owned one. Instead, I find a small handheld broom and dustpan.

The cool floors are hard beneath my hands and knees as I get to work, sweeping up small spiders, moths, even a few palmetto bugs shriveled up on their backs.

With no air conditioning or circulation for years, the heat created the perfect home for these insects. After only a few minutes of cleaning, my shirt is soaked through and the flyaway hairs that always get in my face are slicked back by my own sweat. Once the floors are bug free, my stomach twists and lets out an angry sound.

I don't know why I bother checking, but the fridge is empty, save for an old bottle of ketchup and a loaf of bread; I nearly gag while carrying to the trash can on the side of the house. I should've stopped by a grocery store on my way in from the airport.

I drag my suitcase into my bedroom. My grandma took me to a furniture store when I was fifteen, old enough that my taste was somewhat mature, so I wouldn't grow tired of what I picked out.

Her logic still proves true. My heart sings at the sight of my bamboo bed. My nightstand and dresser are made of the same color wood as my bedframe. Pastel orange flowers swirl along the accent wall.

I chose the wallpaper because I wanted a permanent sunset in my bedroom. I believed it to be the most magical time of day, because each night a different painting lights up the sky. Sometimes it looks like the clouds caught fire, and other times it's a gentle pink that fades into purple. But no matter what happens in life, the sun is always promised to set.

It's one of the few things you can ever truly count on.

I open the closet to find my light blue bedding in a vacuum sealed bag. There are a few shriveled up bugs on the mattress, giving me the heebie-jeebies. Thankfully, there is a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, which I use to pick up the insects.

After cleaning the mattress, I spread the sheets onto the twin bed, putting covers on the pillows and finally fluffing out the comforter.

I unpack my suitcase, neatly folding my clothes into the drawers. I pull on a pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt that says I look better bent over a book, laughing to myself as I do so. I bring my hair into a half up half down ponytail, letting a few strands in the front loose.

I step into my white tennis shoes and go out the back door. The tires of my teal bike are flat, so I pump air into them and then put my keys and phone in the basket. I ride half of a mile to The BARnacle.

The bar hidden at the dead end of the street is packed with locals. There aren't pretty surfboards lining the walls or conch shells by the door. Nothing to attract vacationers.

It's dark inside, with wood floors and cozy booths. I spent my summers eating shrimp tacos and laughing with my family here. The cushiony booths have whisked me into slumber a dozen times. My grandfather always insisted on carrying me to the car instead of waking me up to walk myself. But as soon as his hands wrapped around me, I secretly woke up. My grandmother once caught me peeking open an eye as her husband held me in his arms. She pressed her lips into a thin line and never said a word. Those little moments that I thought would fill the rest of my days are long gone.

"Little Miss Brookes, is that you?" a woman in her seventies with bright rosy cheeks calls from the bar. She makes her way to me and then squeezes me into a hug that is borderline suffocating. She smells like salt water and cigarettes. "Tammy!" I beam, squeezing her back.

The old woman worked with my grandma for over twenty years at the library. I would spend hours a day sitting on the floor, my back against the shelves, living in the pages of a story. She always picked out books for me to read, and the two of us would spend hours discussing them.

"I was just thinking about you last night, isn't that funny?" I nod and she pinches my cheek. Her eyes skim over the words on my shirt and she lets out the loudest laugh. No one looks our way, like they are accustomed to Tammy's nightly laughter. "What brings you to town?"

Other than needing to escape my fiancé, I say, "I missed it." Not a lie.

She links our arms and brings me to the bar to sit beside her. "Minerva Day." She giggles. "I changed your diaper once and now you wear shirts with dirty jokes on them. You're making me old." She sips on her iced tea. The bartender comes over, and I recognize his dirty blond hair immediately.

"Elliot!" I stand on my knees, the stool wobbles as I lean over the bar to hug Tammy's grandson, catching him by surprise.

"Um, hi…strange woman hugging me from behind the bar," he says. I pull back so he can see me. It takes him two seconds before he pulls me back into our hug.

He was never into reading or hanging out with me at the library, but Tammy had us over her house once a week for dinner in the summers. Elliot and I would play with the other kids on his block when we finished eating.

I sit back down, smiling wide at my old friend.

He grabs a wet glass from the dishwasher and dries it off before filling it with tap beer, sliding it in front of me. "It's on the house," he says.

"Thank you." I glimpse a simple black band around his ring finger and smile. "You're married."

"You remember Sarah, don't you?"

How could I not? She lived on his street, and we would play after dinner until the sun fell. He's had a crush on her since we were eight. "So, after all these years she finally started liking you back."

"It only took her eleven years and two boyfriends. But yeah, she likes me. I hope."

Tammy grins at me. "Are you still seeing that boy? The one you brought here a few summers back?"

I want to say no. It would be much easier than explaining, but I was never good at lying. Especially to Tammy. "Yeah, we're still together," I mumble.

"Is he here?" Elliot asks.

When Walter was here that one summer, he insisted we stay home while my family went to Tammy's house for dinner. It was the only time we were truly alone, and he wanted to make the most of it. It's hard to remember us like that, touching every chance we got. It lasted less than a year before it felt like a chore—like it was only for his pleasure.

"It's a solo trip." When I say it, I see a hint of realization flicker across Elliot's face.

"Let me guess. You want a grilled chicken sandwich and fries?"

I'm grateful for the change in subject. I grin. "And a side of ranch, please."

"Coming right up," he says.

I spend the rest of the evening chatting with Tammy about books, even the ones I've written. Elliot tells me how he proposed to Sarah on the beach where they had their first date.

I'm laughing so hard that tears trickle out the corners of my eyes as he re-enacts how she tackled him to the ground. He dropped the ring, and they spent thirty minutes digging in the sand for it.

I tiredly ride my bike home. Mosquitoes feed on my exposed arms and legs, and by the time I set my bike against the back porch, I'm itchy and cursing every bug that lands on me.

I soak in the bathtub; the water is cold by the time I'm done reading on my phone for the night. I towel off and wear only my underwear and a T-shirt. It's pitch black outside my bedroom window, except for the dim yellow light coming from my neighbor's window.

My family and I never got to know who moved into the house after my best friend moved out of it when I was five or six. But whoever it is, I can't help but decide I don't like them. Not when they replaced that sweet boy whose name I can't remember.

It's on the tip of my tongue, but before I can form the name, I drift off to sleep, dreaming of an annoying man I met once at the airport.

It's one p.m. when I wake up and since I haven't gone shopping, I have no food. I find coffee pods tucked in the back of the pantry. Once my mug is full of the nearly black liquid, I throw away the empty pod.

I take the trashbag to the garbage can on the side of the house, even though it's hardly full. The bugs at the bottom of the bag freak me out. A delicate gust of wind blows against my damp skin, sending a chill down my spine. The side of my face tingles, like something to the right is begging for my attention. When I finally acknowledge the sensation, I see a man.

Christ, he's tall. With his back toward me, I watch him. He drags a sponge covered in white suds across the car in my neighbor's driveway. He's wearing a hat with dark wispy pieces of hair sticking out from the sides. As much as I enjoy the view of his backside, I'm dying for him to turn around.

I bite my cheeks as he walks around to the other side of the car. Once I see his sharp, angular face, all logical thoughts die, and I duck behind the garbage can.

That couldn't have been… no . There's no way I just saw Grayson washing my neighbor's car.

I yelp, slapping away a wasp that stings my arm, leaving behind searing hot pain that spreads through my muscle. I let out a colorful string of curse words, inventing a few new ones.

Tears sting my eyes as I hear the crunch of gravel beneath someone's shoes, getting closer and closer. Suddenly it's no longer shady, and when I open my eyes, I realize the garbage can was dragged away. My gaze slowly moves up his body, landing on a face I'm all too familiar with.

I use my hand to shield away the sun and his gaze. "No." I don't know what I'm disagreeing to. All I know is I'm completely not okay with this scenario. I gape up at him, my jaw permanently unhinged.

Grayson stares down at me with an amused grin I despise. "Maybe you can school me on what a ‘motherfucking cockbucket' is after you tell me why you're ransacking my neighbor's garbage can."

"What?" I shake my head. " Your neighbor?" Still on the ground, I say, "You live here?"

His pompous smile hasn't wavered for a second. "Yes."

I hoist myself up and I dig a finger into his chest. "Are you stalking me?" What the hell is happening right now?

A dark eyebrow shoots up. "Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing, seeing as I caught you watching me from behind a trash can."

I laugh without humor and pull out my phone. "Okay, I'm callin?—"

He snatches the device with graceful strength and puts it in his front pocket tucking his hands away as well, making my skin flame with annoyance. I'm not sure who I was even going to call and what I was going to say. "As much as I love being a part of the scenes you cause, I'm a little busy." He gestures to the car. Soapy water drips onto the white pebbles that make up the driveway. "Oh, and Macy?"

"What?" I growl.

"You've got some dirt—" He steps into my personal space, bringing his soapy thumb over my cheek. "Right there."

I jolt backward and lose my balance. His beautifully crafted hands still me. I'd rather him let me fall.

He smells woodsy but being this close to him I catch a hint of something else. It's almost like…strawberries? I meet his eyes and bring my hand into the front pocket of his shorts to retrieve my phone. I pay no mind to the goosebumps that erupt over my body.

He's watching me expressionless, but I swear there's a flicker of something behind his eyes that disappears too quickly. His hand shoots out, grabbing my forearm and inspecting the angry red welt as though he's just now realizing why I was cursing to begin with. "Are you allergic?" His eyes flit to mine.

"I don't think so."

"Well, I'd assume your throat would be swollen shut by now if you were. Since you haven't stopped reprimanding me for the past two minutes, I think it's safe to say you're fine." He runs the pad of his finger over the raised skin. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"You don't look like you're in pain."

"How astute of you," I say dryly. "I have a high pain threshold."

"Well, I think you'll live." He smirks. "I'll be at The BARnacle tonight around seven. I'd assume to see you there since, well, you're stalking me." He turns and walks off, hosing the suds off his car.

I scramble away, tripping over my own two feet toward the front door. I hear husky laughter coming from his driveway. I lock my door, cursing fate that Grayson, of all eight billion people, is my new neighbor.

I don't care how hot this house can get, I don't need him watching me. He peaks up when he hears the loud squeak of me shutting the first window. I don't bother waiting for his reaction as I move onto the next one, until the house is only lit by the sun coming through the sliding glass door.

I drink the warm black coffee. I can already feel a bead of sweat dripping down my forehead, so I take an ice-cold shower once I finish the mug.

Still hungry, I make a quick trip to the gas station's convenient store and get a few snacks to hold me over until I get groceries. Thankfully, Grayson is nowhere in sight.

Licking the powdered sugar off my fingers, I toss the wrapper to the mini donuts away and then prop my laptop open and begin working away at the dinner table. I edit until my stomach growls again, and when I check the time, it's a quarter after seven.

I can either go to The BARnacle and feed into Grayson's delusions, or I can eat another packaged snack. The latter makes me queasy, so I set my pride aside and throw on a sundress with tiny shorts underneath so I can ride my bike without giving the whole island something to stare at.

I don't let my eyes wander when I enter The BARnacle. I head straight for Elliot, taking an empty seat at the end of the bar.

"Twice in two days, how did I get so lucky?" He smiles.

"Don't get too excited. I'm ordering to go." I give Elliot my order for shrimp tacos and shrink into the bar stool.

Two petite hands cover my eyes, and a sweet voice says, "Guess who?" My lips curve upward, and I turn around to find a girl with short brown hair. Sarah, Elliot's wife, and my lifelong friend.

She steps to my right, letting her arm rest over my shoulders like we see each other every day. No hug, no formalities, just two people picking up where they left off. She smells like coconuts. "And hello, Mr. bartender." She smirks at Elliot.

I could almost swear he blushed, but he plays it cool like he has since we were children and gives her a nonchalant wink before ambling off to take more drink orders.

I grin. "That man is so in love with you."

She shrugs. "I know." She takes a seat on the barstool beside me. "How long are you in town for?"

"I haven't decided. I'm hoping at least a month."

Her husband hands me a paper to go bag.

"You're leaving me already?" Sarah frowns.

I bring my voice to a whisper; Elliot is already on the other end of the bar making a drink. "I'm hiding."

Her eyes narrow. "From?"

I glance around but don't see him, maybe he already left. "Grayson."

"Who?"

I shrug. "Tall, really dark hair, pale blue eyes?—"

"Dracula?"

I laugh. "What?"

"The guy brooding over there at the other end of the bar." She leans back so I can see what I missed before. Grayson leans on his elbows, taking a large bite of a burger.

I nod. "That's him."

She scrunches up her nose. "Yeah, I refer to him as Dracula because…well, look at him." She shakes her head. "He gets takeout every day. This is the first time I've seen him actually sit down to eat. I don't think anyone on this island knows him." She lifts a shoulder, then calls out to her husband. "Beer, please!"

"I better go." I grab my bag and hand Sarah a twenty-dollar bill. "Give that to Elliot for me."

"Fine, but I expect a phone call soon. I want to know all about why you're hiding from Dracula and where that engagement ring of yours went…" She glances at my hand. I try not to wince at the reminder.

Backing up so I can escape without gaining anyone's attention, I whisper, "I'll call you." And then I book it to the door and sigh with relief the second I'm outside.

I put my bag of food in the basket of my bike and peddle off. The breeze against my face makes my lips curve up. I cruise for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet.

"Cute dress. It really masks what a ferocious woman you are."

I give Grayson, who is now walking right next to me, my middle finger. "Stop following me."

"I'm just going home." He shrugs, feigning innocence.

"Yeah, about that, you didn't want to tell me you lived in Sanibel? It could've saved me the trouble of an ulcer or two."

He chuckles. "That, Tato, would eliminate all the fun." I dare a glance at him and nearly roll my eyes at his outfit choice. His pale skin is like porcelain against the sheer darkness of his clothes. No wonder he earned Dracula as a nickname.

I scoff. "Of all the people who could be my neighbor, you would be my last choice."

"Pleased to hear I make the ranking at all," he says through a cocky grin. "And I'm not your neighbor. You don't live here."

I lift my chin, keeping my expression neutral despite the nerve he struck. I hate that I'm an outsider to the island I call home.

He doesn't seem to mind the silence. I wouldn't care if he did. The sun has fully set by now, everything shines cobalt from the moon. I listen to the roaring sea and the wind ruffling through palm trees, and not the sound of Graysons footsteps so close beside me. I should go faster so I can get away from him, but for reasons I can't place, I don't.

I turn right on my street. So does he. I don't say goodbye or give him the curtesy of a glance. I walk my bike through the sand to my back porch.

"Sweet dreams, neighbor." There's a grin in his voice. I hear him entering his house, so I peek over my shoulder. The dim yellow glows through the windows, as if he's flicking on each light as he walks farther in.

It's probably eighty degrees when I step inside my house. I have no choice other than to boil all night or open the windows. I choose the latter.

Once I've let Sanibel's delicate breeze whisper through the house, I take another cold shower and throw on my usual bedtime attire in the bathroom. I climb under my plush crisp comforter and open an e-book on my phone. I read one sentence when an Airdrop notification blocks the words. It's a selfie of Grayson, holding up a peace sign.

I ignore it, getting back to my book when another picture pops up of my house through his window, and captioned on the photo is "My grouchy neighbor." If I zoom in, I can see right into my bedroom.

I storm to my window, lifting the shades for him to see my two middle fingers, then slam them shut.