I know everyone in our complex at least by name, and most of them are owners, so there isn’t much turnover. I’ve been here since about six months after Ava bought it and she and Ruby moved in. Madi was only two months behind me.
This is only the third new neighbor we’ve gotten since we were the new neighbors two years ago, and our tiny yard’s location by the parking lot means we get to judge the new residents’ goods before the rest of the complex.
The movers walk past, and I call into the house to Ruby. “Next piece coming off.”
She comes to stand at the door as we watch them wrestle the headboard out next. “Black leather, king-sized.” She thinks for a few seconds. “Tall single male.”
“Sounds right.”
Over the next forty-five minutes, Ruby and I eat and watch more furniture pass and cement our guess. Dark walnut bedroom furniture, a large office desk, a flat screen TV approximately seventy-two inches, leather sectional, overstuffed and dark brown, a recliner, stainless steel fridge, and lots of boxes.
The movers come off the truck with a Traeger smoker.
“That’s it. Single guy,” I declare. “For sure.”
As best we can tell, the neighbor himself hasn’t made an appearance. We’ve guessed anywhere from mid-thirties and never married to a fifty-something divorced guy, but there’s no way to be sure.
“Where’s Jessica Fletcher when you need her?” Ruby asks. Jessica Fletcher is the heroine of an old TV series calledMurder, She Wrote.It ran in the eighties, but it’s Ruby’s comfort watch on Netflix. I think Ruby Ramos would love to be the lead in her own series of cozy mysteries. If we have a murder in the Grove, Ruby will solve it way before the police do, using a slightly parted curtain and the wrong brand of cat food in the kitty dish as her only clues.
By the time the movers finish, nothing else has sailed past us to contradict our conclusions. The neighbor on our other side, a retiree named Mrs. Lipsky, appears on her balcony and stares down at us with a quirked brow, and we give her the lowdown.
“Single guy,” Ruby calls up. She lays out her evidence, ending with, “It looks like he bought everything on a furniture showroom floor that looked like dude stuff.”
Mrs. Lipsky nods and disappears.
Once the truck pulls away, we settle into our Saturday routines. Ruby works at the library some weekends, but she’s off today, and she leaves around noon to do something with her boyfriend, Niles. She doesn’t say what, but if I had to guess, it’s probably something like listening to a timeshare presentation to get a steak dinner. Niles is very big on freebies and bargains.
I wait until she’s gone before I text my bandmates. None of my roommates know I’m in a band because . . . I don’t know why. Because they’d insist on coming to my shows, and I’m not ready for that. This music is totally different from the singer-songwriter stuff I did in college. I don’t know how to explain the drastic shift.
Meet at Wingnut’s?I press send.
I’m sure it wakes up half of them even at noon, but the “K” responses roll in over the next five minutes. Satisfied, I head out to my car to fetch the gym bag holding my alter ego clothes so I can swap them out for a different stage outfit. Am I the only one in the condo lying about where I’m going all the time? Probably. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Madi turned out to be an undercover agent or something wild—she’s so vague about so much of her life—but somehow, I think I’m the only one living a secret rock star life.
Wannabe rock star, anyway. Tonight is another show in a small venue on the way to world domination. Or at least steady gigs.
I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get the dirt on any new neighbor sightings, but I’ve decided: the top-of-the-line smoker and huge TV scream recently divorced middle-aged man.
I’m sure he’s nice, but I doubt I’m missing much.
Chapter Two
Josh
Iendthecallfrom the moving company informing me that all my belongings have been moved into my new place. I’m now the proud owner of the first real estate I’ve purchased with my own money, a two-bedroom condo in the Clarksville area of Austin.
I push back from my desk in the overly somber law offices at Brower and Moore. Even though it’s a Saturday—New Year’s Eve, no less—I’m by no means the only attorney working. At least a dozen other associates occupy their offices. The grind is real.
I never want to be the first person to leave, but I’ve already put in four billable hours this morning and checking out my new place is a good enough reason to split early on a Saturday.
I pull the new key I acquired this week from my work bag. It still has a paper tag on it with the unit number, as if I’ll forget. I make the drive in fifteen minutes—a big reason I bought it—and I turn into the numbered parking space for my unit. It’s right in front of my patio, which is completely empty except for my smoker. I’ll have to ask Reagan to look for patio furniture for me. My sister loves doing that kind of stuff, and I couldn’t care less about it.
The patio next to mine is full of wicker furniture with bright cushions and lots of plants. It borders another yard with a tiny terrier-type dog, yapping loudly. Its face looks very intent, but it’s like having a Muppet bark at me. “You aren’t scary,” I tell him when I climb from my car. “Sorry, bro. Keep trying.”
I could enter through my back patio, but I want to go through the front door for the “Welcome Home” experience, so I take the breezeway on the other side of the yappy dog’s yard. It opens into the courtyard and the pool hiding beneath a cover. Not only do Austin winters get cold, it’s a humid cold that knifes at every bit of exposed skin on bad days. Those days mean chapped lips and skin, forcing me to google crap like “face lotion for dudes.” This type of lotion is calledmoisturizer, which sounds inappropriate on a work browser.
At the door labeled “22,” I pull out my key. It’s satisfying, hearing that jiggle of a knob I’ve paid for. I open it and pause on the threshold to take in Reagan’s handiwork. The last time I saw this place, it was empty. Austin property is hot enough that real estate agents don’t even have to stage a place to get top dollar. That’s why—even though I don’t have any school loans—I had to work for three years to save up enough for a down payment that left me with a mortgage I can afford.
It had been in turnkey condition, which was a major selling point for me because I don’t have time to oversee a remodel. It’ll be my first time not having a roommate, so I had to furnish the whole place too. Reagan chose my furniture to work with the light gray walls, and now a leather sectional goes with the only two pieces of original furniture I contributed: my TV and my recliner.
