“Oh my god.” I throw my hands in the air. He’s impossible. “You even argue like a freaking nerd.”
“I’d rather be a nerd than whatever the hell this is.” He grabs one of my flamingos out of the wagon and waves it around like a madman. “Who paints flamingos? These aren’t even HOA approved.”
“Duh, Nate.” I roll my eyes knowing the effect is lost behind my sunglasses. “That’s the entire point. I’m not some megalomaniac out to rule over them with all my imaginary power. Collins Carter is for homeowners’ rights.”
“Collins Carter isn’t even a homeowner,” he snips back without hesitation. “And Collins Carter shouldn’t be in the race.”
“Just admit that you know I’m going to beat you and you’re scared.” I reach for my flamingo, but his grip tightens around its neck. “Maybe then I’ll drop out.”
“Please,” he scoffs in the cocky way only he can manage. “There’s no way you’re going to beat me. If anything, you covering the neighborhood in these tacky flamingos will prove how much they need me.”
My jaw falls to the ground. I’m overwhelmed by the bloody audacity of this man. It’s one thing to come to my house and talk shit to me, but to bring my flamingos into it? Absolutely not.
“How dare you.” I pull on the flamingo he’s still holding. “Give it back.”
“No, these aren’t HOA compliant.” He tugs even harder. “You can’t keep putting them everywhere.”
I latch on to the head with both hands, using my entire body to get it back. “The fuck I can’t.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” He sneers and his knuckles turn white.
“Sure do.” The plastic neck starts to crumple beneath the pressure as I struggle to hold on. “But you’re welcome to use yours to kiss my ass!”
“Classy, Collins.”
“Please.” My palms are starting to burn as my grip loosens. “Like you have any room to talk.”
All he had to do was not. Not give me the HOA letter. Not walk his ass over here. Not be a jerk.
But instead, he had to insert himself into a situation where he wasn’t needed and cause an unnecessary scene. Now we both look out of our minds, arguing in front of giant Ben Franklin and playing tug-of-war over a flamingo painted with fireworks. Until finally, with vivid clarity I don’t often get, I realize I don’t have to do this shit.
“Fine,” I say. “Take it.”
It’s out of character for me to give up on anything . . . especially something as deliciously petty as this, and I’m not sure Nate comprehends what’s happening.
Because when I let go of the flamingo, Nate pulls harder.
And without my equal and opposite force holding on to the other side, Nate and the flamingo go flying.
It feels like everything moves in slow motion.
I watch, cemented to my spot on the sidewalk, as Nate stumbles backward, trying to catch himself, and the flamingo takes flight. Considering I’ve only seen these majestic birds at the zoo, this might be the closest I ever come to seeing one fly in real life. It soars across the yard, the painted fireworks winking beneath the bright afternoon sun and its metal spoke legs aiming straight for the heart of our founding father.
The moment of impact is not nearly as explosive as I anticipated, but the small pop and whooshing sound of escaping air blare in my ears. Poor Ben rocks back on his feet before swiveling side to side with a flamingo lodged in his chest. He shrinks in front of my eyes, going from an imposing ten feet tall to a devastating rippling puddle of nothingness in the middle of my dad’s bright green lawn.
Calm on the outside but irate inside, I slowly turn to Nate, who, to his credit, looks properly horrified.
“Are you happy?” I whisper the rhetorical question before my voice turns shrill. “You murdered Benjamin Franklin!”
“Collins—” He starts what I’m assuming is a meaningless apology that I want to hear none of.
“Save it.” I cut him off, ready to take this fight to the next level. “You’ll have a lot of explaining to do once I tell the Karens how much you hate democracy.”
His eyes widen, and pure, unadulterated fear darkens his hazel eyes, proving that not even mild-mannered real estate agents are immune to the destruction three Karens can wreak.
Chapter 12
While I’ve seen Nate out and about, being a general thorn in my side, I didn’t know exactly where he lived until Ashleigh and I arrived for the meeting.
“This is it?” I ask Ashleigh as I look at what is, begrudgingly, one of the nicest houses in the neighborhood.
Part of me—the practically homeless, constantly-feels-like-a-failure part—wants to turn tail and run home. I don’t even care about the damn HOA and I’m not sure it’s worth subjugating myself to seeing how well Nate seems to be doing for himself. But the other part of me, the bigger, pettier, more stubborn part, can’t let him win. Even if it comes at the expense of the minuscule amount of pride I have left.
“Twenty-two fifty-three Elm Street.” She reads the address off her phone one more time. “This is it.”
I should’ve known. “Of course it is.”
While I find him to be completely intolerable at best, I guess the tedious, obsessive, and controlling aspects of his personality do have their perks. His landscaping is impeccable. My dad has done an amazing job with our garden and the rosebushes in front are flourishing, but it definitely looks like it was done by my dad. Our flowers are imperfect, overgrown in some places, struggling in others. Our shutters have been painted a few times, my mom taking the time to test color swatches from Home Depot every few years before inevitably going with the same shade of gray. The house looks lived-in and loved, but not perfect. Like a house in a quaint Ohio neighborhood should look.
Nate’s house, on the other hand, looks ready to be photographed for a magazine. Like the cover house for Best of Suburban Central Ohio or something that would declare him the best of the worst.
His walkway stands out from the poured concrete the rest of the neighbors have. Bricks laid out in a gorgeous herringbone pattern lead to a front door that’s the perfect blend of modern and traditional. Symmetrical hedges sit between the shutters that he probably touches up every other week. The old light fixtures have been replaced with ones that I know from my mom showing me in design magazines cost a pretty penny. It’s clear to anyone who passes by that the person who owns this home not only cares about it, but spends more time than the average homeowner tending to it.
And it’s glaringly obvious that he chose his home as the location for this “secret” meeting not out of convenience, but to show everyone who comes tonight how much better he is than me. It’s smart. But it’s not enough.