The Neighbors (23 page)

Harlow made the best pancakes Drew had ever tasted—even better than his mom’s. He burned through half a dozen before stopping to take a gulp of milk.

“They’re your favorite,” she told him, pleased with herself.

With a mouth full of breakfast, he was struck by her claim—as if she
knew
they would be his favorite even though it was the first time he’d eaten them. And yet they were so delicious he could hardly argue, so he nodded instead.

“They’re amazing,” he confessed. “The best.”

The way Harlow’s eyes lit up when he proclaimed his love for her cooking, Drew couldn’t help but smile at her joy. At that very moment, he saw her not as a woman more than twice his age, but a girl, young and vibrant and heartbreakingly beautiful. He bet the entire world had been crazy for her when she was sixteen. The way she smiled at him just then, Drew understood why Red had fallen in love with her. Hell, he was halfway falling for her now.

“Where’s Red?” he asked, taking another drink of milk. Drew had seen him come back home an hour after Harlow had waved him off her front porch steps. Waiting at the window, he had listened for signs of a struggle, ready to bolt across Mickey’s crunchy lawn and leap over Harlow’s picket fence to save the day. Red didn’t seem like the violent type, but Drew didn’t trust him anymore. With Red’s swing from being Andrew’s pal to being something altogether different, Drew wouldn’t be surprised if the guy flipped a switch and went from being a perfect husband to being an abusive prick.

Harlow lifted a single shoulder in a dismissive shrug. She looked like she couldn’t have cared less where her husband had run off to, and Drew suspected she wouldn’t have cared if he didn’t come back either. But rather than a simple “I don’t know”
or an understandable “Let’s not talk about him,” Harlow smiled and said, “We’re alone.”

Her answer roused a flurry of butterflies in Drew’s stomach. Those two words made his skin tingle. It was the wrong answer, dizzying with its allure. His heart hitched inside his chest as she turned away from the sink, glancing over her shoulder at him with a ghost of a smile, her skirt swaying just below her knees.

“I know what I want to do,” she said, and her face lit up as soon as the idea crossed her mind.

Drew forked another bite of pancakes into his mouth, trying to eat his nerves.

Her high heels went silent as she crossed the threshold into the living room, and within a matter of moments that silence was replaced by music—a song that Andrew recognized, a song that his Gamma used to love. Harlow stepped back into the kitchen, her expression almost as dreamy as Nat King Cole’s voice.

“Dance with me?” she asked, an arm extended toward him.

Swallowing the wad of pancakes in his mouth, he shook his head in protest.

“Don’t say you don’t know how,” she told him, plucking his hand up off the table, pulling him to his feet. “You know how,” she said, stepping close.

“I don’t,” he said softly, but he let her position his hands anyway, his right hand holding her left, his left hand pressed to the small of her back. She rested her head on his shoulder as they swayed, back and forth, left and right. Taking a step backward, he led her into a twirl. She laughed as she spun beneath his arm, crashing into him with a wide smile.

“Don’t know how?” she asked.

“Maybe a little.” He grinned. His grandmother had been a hopeless romantic. As soon as Andrew had taken his first steps, she had him dancing to the likes of Ella Fitzgerald and Glenn Miller, twirling him around the living room like a top. His favorite
had been Elvis. The King was Drew’s introduction to a lifelong love of rock and roll.

They swayed until the song ended, Nat’s final croon making way for a brassier number: Peggy Lee.
Chicks were born to give you fever, be it Fahrenheit or centigrade.
Harlow’s mouth twitched up in a tempting smile. Drew took a step back as she swung her hips, her eyes fluttering shut. She danced for him, her hands drawing up her sides, sliding across her waist. Andrew’s heart crawled up his esophagus, lodging itself in his throat. He blinked as she twirled around, shooting him a look over her shoulder. His head spun, unable to accurately assess the situation. Was she
trying
to turn him on, or were the thoughts he’d been trying to erase creeping back into his skull?

Harlow turned to face him, her smile giving her away. Drew felt about ready to fall over as she approached him, exhaling a sigh as she rested her cheek against Drew’s shoulder again, her hand pressed to his chest. He was sure she could feel his heart thudding like a drum beneath her palm, sure that she understood why he was practically frozen where he stood, terrified to move or speak or breathe.

“I’m leaving Red,” she whispered, and for a second he wasn’t sure he had heard her right. “I’m tired of being unhappy. I deserve better.” She lifted her head to look at him, her expression a question mark. “Don’t you think?”

He couldn’t bring himself to answer, afraid that any words that escaped him just then would be wrong. A part of him wanted to tell her that she was crazy, that she and Red were perfect for each other—everyone had their problems, they just had to give it time, sort things out. Another part of him—the part he’d been trying to suppress—whispered for him to wrap his arms around her, to pull her close and press his mouth against her ear, assure her that yes, she deserved to be happy, that he was going to give her everything she wanted, everything she deserved.

“Well?” she asked, surprised by his silence. “You think it’s a stupid idea? I should just stay with him and hate myself?”

“No,” he croaked. “Just...”

“Just that he’s a man and you’re a man and you’re going to take his side?” Her hands slid down Drew’s chest, falling to her sides in defeat.

“I’m not,” Drew told her, feeling cornered. “It’s just that...it’s a big step, don’t you think?”

“So was getting married,” she muttered, turning away from him, retaking her spot at the sink.

He chewed his bottom lip, unsure of whether to follow or remain where he stood. Her sudden shift in mood was so disorienting, he considered bolting for the door, uncertain of whether to be excited or horrified, whether to feel dirty or captivated.

“Aren’t you scared to do that?” he finally asked, forcing the words from his throat. His own voice sounded foreign, far away. He stepped toward the counter, his fingers gripping its edge, steadying him against the vertigo that was setting in.

“Leave him?”

Drew nodded, but he didn’t look at her. Sick with nerves, he wondered whether this whole thing would result in him sprinting across the kitchen to the guest bathroom, his hands held firmly over his mouth.

“Why would I be scared?”

“Because you’ll be alone,” he said, forcing himself to glance her way. It was, after all, Andrew’s worst fear. He had spent what felt like a lifetime on his own.

Harlow blinked at the boy in her kitchen, her eyes going glassy with tears.

“I see,” she whispered, turning away. “I suppose I didn’t think of it that way,” she confessed. “I suppose I just assumed.”

He didn’t get it: Assumed what? That she
wouldn’t
be alone after she sent Red packing? That Drew would keep her company?

His heart sputtered to a stop when he realized what she meant. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, shaking his head faintly, his expression pleading for her to explain it to him—to assure him that he was coming to the right conclusion.

“Was it wrong to assume?” she asked.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. Drew would have been over the moon to keep her company, to come over every afternoon, do odd jobs, eat pancakes, and wash dishes after dinner. But that wasn’t what the glimmer in her eye had been asking for. Had his own mother ever looked at him that way, he would have run out the front door screaming, unsure whether he’d ever come back.

But Harlow wasn’t his mother.

That simple fact repeated itself over and over inside his head: she wasn’t his mother, and this wasn’t wrong. He cared about her. Her marriage was falling apart. She wanted him to stay with her. They were both lonely, both looking for a reprieve from what their lives had become: Drew from the guilt of leaving his mom behind, Harlow from the perfection she had built up around her like a wall—perfection that she had openly admitted was a lie. Why was he fighting his undeniable attraction, trying to bury her appeal? She was gorgeous. Amazing. Caring. Everything he had always wanted. Everything he missed.

“I’m not crazy,” she said softly. “I know it would take time. I just thought...” Glancing over at him, she offered him an unsure smile. “Don’t we like each other?”

A tremor skated down his limbs. He was suddenly back in the halls of Creekside High, trying to be casual next to Emily’s locker while his stomach clenched and his head swam with anxiety. Staring at Harlow, he wondered how old he had to be to have a heart attack. If he denied her, she’d reject him forever. It would be all over. But if he accepted...

He felt his knees go weak.

“Andy?” She blinked, her eyes shimmering with saline, her hair shining like gold in the morning sun.

“Yes,” he whispered, his confession inaudible beneath the whoosh of his pulse.

“And you like my pancakes?”

“I do,” he said, those very pancakes rolling around inside his stomach, threatening to reappear. His grip on the counter tightened while Harlow’s smile widened.

“I like your dancing,” she told him, breaching the distance between them, the sweet vanilla scent of her perfume elevating his nausea to a new, blinding height. “And how thoughtful you are—how you worry about your mom, how you worry about me.” She pressed her hand to his cheek. “You do worry about me, don’t you?”

“I do?” he asked, his head swimming.

“You do,” she confirmed, exhaling a laugh and wrapping her arms around him. But her expression went somber a second later.

“And if there are things about me that you don’t like?” she asked, somehow turning this whole thing into Andrew’s idea instead of her own.

“Secrets?” he asked, unable to focus.

“Everyone has them.” Her tone was bashful—a schoolgirl thinking about the dirty things she wanted to do with her favorite heartthrob. She walked her fingers up his chest, hooking them onto the collar of his T-shirt.

What seemed like an oncoming confession was cut short by the slam of a door. Drew had been deafened by the pounding of his own pulse. He hadn’t noticed the oncoming rumble of an engine, hadn’t sensed the impending doom of being caught red-handed.

Red stood in the kitchen not more than a few yards away, his eyes fixed on his wife and the boy in her arms.

Drew’s heart leapt into his throat for a second time, scrambling to leave his body forever. He reflexively retreated from
Harlow’s embrace, taking a step backward as though doing so would somehow make the situation less horrifying than it was. Harlow blinked a few times, gave Red a look, and turned away from him completely.

Red’s attention was steadfast on Andrew’s panic.

“Scared?” he asked.

Petrified was more accurate, which was why Drew failed to respond.

“Good,” Red muttered. “Because you’re fired. Now get the hell out of my house, and don’t you dare come back.”

L
ong after the sun had set that evening, angry storm clouds crawled across the sky. Mickey parked his TransAm a block down Magnolia and killed the headlights. If he came any closer, there was a chance Harlow would recognize the rumble of his engine. Mick knew that his disappearance had forfeited his employment—but, more important, had forfeited the pact that kept him safe. The past few days had given him the opportunity to call the cops and give them an anonymous tip, but he hadn’t. He should have made his move, but there he was, staring down a sleepy street, wondering what damage Harlow had done since he’d left. He assumed that Drew was still alive, but nothing was for sure.

Chewing on the pad of his thumb, he considered what he had to do: sneak along the street, hope he didn’t wake the ceaselessly barking neighborhood dog, and creep inside the house. Mickey would tell him everything, help him pack his things and leave. But the more he thought about it, the more he didn’t like the idea. If Drew was anything like the other boys, Harlow had already won him over. On top of the fact that Mickey had gone AWOL without a word, Drew had no reason to believe him; if he had
been in Andrew’s shoes, he would tell himself to go straight to hell. But there was one thing Mickey could do—something that made him shudder at the thought.

Creeping out of the car as quietly as he could, he cursed himself for being so habitually indifferent. If he had only asked for Andrew’s cell phone number, he wouldn’t be forced to pull this
Mission Impossible
move.

With the key to the house in hand, he inched along the sidewalk, his heart thudding with each step. He rushed across the lawn, pressed himself into the shadows next to the front door. His eyes were fixed on the Ward house; he waited for a light to come on, for the jig to be up. When nothing happened, he shoved the key in the lock and silently pushed the door open, sneaking into his own home.

The house was pitch black—darker than he remembered it ever being before—and the empty living room confirmed that Drew was asleep in his room. The wind pushed against the outer walls, making them snap and creak against the strain.

Tiptoeing through the house, Mickey held his breath. Every step was painfully slow. Halfway down the hall, his key ring jingled in his hand. He winced at the noise as he searched for the one that would unlock door number three, the mysterious door to that steel-walled room.

His plan was to leave it open for Drew to discover on his own. Mickey couldn’t prove that Harlow was a murderer without a body, but the room would be enough to make Andrew run.

Leaning forward in a crouch, he brought himself to eye level with the doorknob, straining to see the lock in the dark. Just as he slid the key into the knob, a sickening realization settled over him: Andrew would find the dissecting room, but he’d just pin Mickey as the psycho. Hell, Drew might turn tail and run to Harlow for help. Crouched in the dark, Mick began to reconsider his plan when he felt a breath against his neck.