New Neighbors

Brynne Dawson had been in Marlowe Heights for exactly forty-three minutes when her daughter said, “Mom, I think the couch is upside down.”

Brynne stopped moving.

She stood in the middle of the townhouse living room with one end of a floral couch balanced against her thigh and the other end wedged halfway through the front door.

It was a nice couch.

Or it had been nice before Brynne spent the entire morning threatening it under her breath.

“It is not upside down,” she said.

Ayla looked at the couch.

Then looked at Brynne.

“The feet are facing the ceiling.”

Brynne stared at the wooden legs in the air.

Okay. Maybe it was upside down.

“It is taking a break,” she decided.

Ayla pressed her lips together.

At twelve, her daughter had somehow become better at handling stress than Brynne was. She stood by the staircase in a lavender T-shirt and jeans, holding a clipboard with every box neatly listed by room.

Brynne had not given her a clipboard.

Ayla had brought one.

“You said we needed a plan,” Ayla said.

“I meant an emotional plan.”

“You do not have one of those.”

“Exactly why I needed it.”

Ayla smiled a little.

That smile mattered more than Brynne wanted to admit.

The move had been Brynne’s idea. Their old apartment was too small, too expensive, and too full of memories she was tired of pretending did not bother her. This townhouse gave Ayla her own room, a small patio, and a neighborhood where kids actually rode bikes outside.

It was supposed to be a fresh start.

So far, their fresh start was a couch blocking the doorway and a moving truck parked crookedly in front of the house.

Brynne wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Okay. We flip it.”

“Together?”

“Obviously together.”

“Mom, I am twelve.”

“And I am thirty, which means my back already hurts for no reason. We both have something to contribute.”

Ayla put down her clipboard and grabbed the far end of the couch.

They had barely lifted it when music started blasting from the townhouse next door.

Not just normal music.

Music with enough bass to shake the little decorative plant on Brynne’s porch.

Ayla glanced toward the wall.

“Do they know it’s daytime?”

“Apparently not.”

Brynne shifted her grip.

“On the count of three. One, two—”

A loud engine revved next door.

Then came the sound of tires squealing.

Brynne froze.

Ayla froze too.

“What was that?” Ayla asked.

“I don’t know.”

A second later, a teenage boy came tearing around the side of the neighboring townhouse on a dirt bike.

Brynne watched in horror as he hit a patch of loose gravel, tried to turn, and slid directly into the side of the moving truck.

There was a hard thump.

The bike tipped over.

The boy jumped clear at the last second and landed on the grass.

For one quiet second, nobody moved.

Then Brynne dropped her end of the couch.

It hit the floor with a heavy crash.

“Mom!” Ayla yelled.

“What?” Brynne snapped, already marching outside. “The couch was asking for it.”

The boy was on his feet by the time she reached the driveway. He was tall for his age, with dark messy hair and the kind of face that probably made teachers forgive him before he had even finished lying.

He looked at the moving truck.

Then at the small dent near the back bumper.

Then at Brynne.

“Okay,” he said. “That looks worse than it is.”

Brynne stared at him.

“You hit my moving truck.”

“It was more like a gentle introduction.”

“You drove a dirt bike into it.”

“I did not drive into it. I lost control near it.”

“You know those are the same thing, right?”

The boy opened his mouth.

Then the front door next door swung open.

A man stepped out.

Brynne’s first thought was that he had to be the boy’s father.

Her second thought was deeply unhelpful.

Because he was hot.

Not sweet, boy-next-door hot.

Annoyingly hot.

He was tall, broad through the shoulders, wearing black athletic shorts and a faded gray T-shirt. He had dark hair that looked like he had run his hands through it a few too many times and a tattoo disappearing beneath one sleeve.

He looked at the tipped bike.

The moving truck.

Brynne.

Then the boy.

“Zane,” he said.

Zane gave him a quick nod.

“Dad.”

“Why is there a dirt bike in the front lawn?”

“Technically, it is beside the front lawn.”

Brynne folded her arms.

“Your son just hit my rental truck.”

The man glanced toward the dent.

Then back at her.

“It’s barely a dent.”

Brynne laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

“Excuse me?”

“I said it’s barely a dent.”

“I heard you. I just wanted to make sure you heard yourself.”

Zane looked between them like he had just discovered free cable.

His father walked toward the bike and lifted it upright with one hand.

“Did you get hurt?” he asked Zane.

“No.”

“Then you’re fine.”

Brynne’s mouth fell open.

“That is all you have to say?”

The man looked at her again.

“What would you prefer? A public execution?”

“I would prefer you teach your son not to drive into people’s property.”

“He was not aiming for it.”

“That is not the point.”

“It feels like it is at least part of the point.”

Brynne stared at him.

Oh, he was one of those men.

The kind who said stupid things with a calm face because people usually got distracted by how good he looked doing it.

Unfortunately, Brynne was not people.

“Wow,” she said. “You are raising a future problem.”

Zane made a quiet sound behind his father.

“Damn.”

“Zane,” his dad said without looking at him.

“What? She said it.”

The man rubbed a hand over his jaw, then held out the other toward Brynne.

“Calvin Moore.”

She looked at his hand.

“I did not ask.”

“No,” he said. “But now you know who to blame if the truck company sends you a bill.”

Brynne did not take his hand.

“Brynne Dawson.”

“Nice to meet you, Brynne.”

“No, it isn’t.”

A slow smile appeared on Calvin’s mouth.

It made Brynne want to throw something.

Before she could decide what, one of the boxes in the open moving truck slid toward the edge.

It fell.

The bottom burst open against the driveway.

A collection of framed photos, books, and glass candle jars scattered across the pavement.

Ayla gasped from the porch.

Brynne rushed forward.

“Oh my God.”

She crouched beside the mess, heart sinking as she picked up a picture frame with cracked glass.

Calvin looked down at it.

“Was that from the impact?”

Brynne gave him a look sharp enough to cut wood.

“No. It fell because the truck is packed like garbage. But congratulations, you still managed to make this day worse.”

Calvin’s smile faded slightly.

For the first time, he looked uncomfortable.

Zane shuffled his feet.

“I can pick it up,” he said.

“You should have thought about that before you turned the driveway into a motocross track,” Brynne snapped.

Ayla came down the porch steps and knelt beside her mother.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Most of it didn’t break.”

Brynne looked at her daughter’s careful hands gathering the books.

Her anger softened.

Just a little.

Then Calvin stepped toward the truck.

“Where are the rest of your boxes?”

Brynne looked up.

“Why?”

“Because if they’re stacked like that, they’re going to keep falling.”

“I can handle my own boxes.”

“I’m sure you can,” Calvin said. “But you have a twelve-year-old helping you and a couch currently blocking your front door.”

Brynne narrowed her eyes.

“You noticed that?”

“It was hard not to. The couch is practically in the street.”

“I hate you already.”

“That feels fast.”

“You made it easy.”

Calvin looked toward Zane.

“Go get gloves from the garage.”

Zane frowned.

“Why?”

“Because you’re helping.”

“But Dad—”

“You almost ran into the truck, which means this is your problem now.”

Brynne blinked.

“So you do know he did something wrong.”

Calvin looked at her.

“I know he was being an idiot. That does not mean I need you yelling at him in my driveway.”

“I was standing in my driveway.”

“Close enough.”

Zane disappeared into the garage.

Calvin stepped into the moving truck, bracing one hand against a stack of boxes.

“You need these heavier ones closer to the front.”

“I know that.”

“Clearly.”

“You are unbelievably rude for someone volunteering to help me.”

“I am not volunteering. I am preventing Zane from making another mess.”

Brynne wanted to argue.

She really did.

But the boxes were unstable, her arms hurt, and the moving crew she had paid extra money for had apparently decided that “curbside delivery” meant tossing her life into a truck and leaving.

So she crossed her arms.

“Fine. But do not touch the box labeled Ayla’s Room.”

Calvin glanced down at the writing.

“Why?”

“Because it has her things.”

“Everything in this truck is somebody’s things.”

“Just do not touch it.”

He gave her a lazy salute.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ayla stood beside Brynne, watching Calvin climb deeper into the truck.

“He’s kind of mean,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“But he’s helping.”

“I did not ask him to.”

“Still.”

Brynne looked at her.

Ayla’s expression was thoughtful, not judgmental.

That was somehow worse.

“Do not start taking his side,” Brynne said.

“I’m not.”

“You are thinking about it.”

“I’m literally just standing here.”

Calvin lifted a heavy box like it weighed nothing.

Brynne hated the stupid flutter in her stomach.

God. This was going to be a long summer.

Over the next hour, Zane hauled boxes without complaining much, which Brynne suspected was because Calvin had given him one look that said there would be consequences later.

Ayla directed them upstairs, reading labels from her clipboard.

Zane stopped beside her at the bottom of the staircase.

“You really made a whole list?”

“Yes.”

“That is terrifying.”

“It’s organized.”

“You know you can just remember where things go.”

Ayla looked at the disaster around them.

“Can you?”

Zane thought about it.

“No.”

“Exactly.”

Brynne smiled before she could stop herself.

By the time the truck was empty, the sun had begun to drop behind the row of townhouses.

Calvin carried the last box into the kitchen and set it on the counter.

“That should be it.”

Brynne looked around the room.

The house was still a mess. There were boxes everywhere. The couch was finally upright but facing the wrong direction.

Still, it looked like a home waiting to happen.

She exhaled.

“Thank you.”

Calvin leaned against the counter.

“You’re welcome.”

His expression said he had been waiting for it.

Brynne immediately regretted being polite.

“Do not make that face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you think you did something noble.”

“I did rescue you from your terrible packing skills.”

“You rescued your son from having to do real work.”

“Same thing.”

Brynne rolled her eyes.

From the front window, she could see Zane and Ayla sitting on the porch steps. Zane was talking with his hands while Ayla listened, smiling in that small, cautious way she did when she liked someone but had not decided whether to admit it yet.

Calvin followed her gaze.

“They’ll be fine,” he said.

Brynne looked at him.

“You do not know that.”

“I know Zane.”

“That is exactly what worries me.”

For once, Calvin did not have a quick answer.

Then he shrugged.

“Zane’s a good kid.”

“He drove a dirt bike into my moving truck.”

“And he helped clean it up.”

“After you made him.”