“God, that’s sexy,” he mutters, moving his mouth to my ear. “This Amelia, this is where you belong, in my arms. You belong wrapped around me.”
“Only you,” I say, knowing how true it is. I’ve had a few boyfriends, but I’ve never felt the level of honesty and intimacy I do with Aaron. Perhaps it’s because he’s a few years older than me. Perhaps it’s because when I talk to him, I know I have his full attention, something I never knew in my teenage boyfriends. Perhaps it’s because I trust him so implicitly. He looks at me like my dad looked at my mom. He wants me to achieve all my dreams. He’s the only man I ever want to be wrapped up in, because even though we’ve been together for a short period of time, I know he’s mine . . . mine forever.
***
Present day . . .
The street I live on is an interesting one. The houses are very well kept, a little out of date, but still nicely put together with their turf-covered porches, white awnings, and perfectly bricked walkways. The houses all look the same, but they are each unique too. It’s weird and charming.
Bringing my speed down to fifteen—I’ve been told to slow down before—I casually wave at my neighbors, surprised to see they’re out and about today. I occasionally see a few, but nothing like this. What’s going on?
I pull into my driveway and park my car, and relax. What a tiring day. When I was studying to become a counselor, we were taught to understand how draining some days would be, and my professors were right. It’s beyond draining. We were also taught how important it was to have strategies in place for self-care. When you’re giving all day, you need tactics to relax and decompress. I haven’t worked out exactly what I need yet, not in Binghamton, but decorating my little house has created a good place of solace and joy. That and I keep thining back to the small moment I had with Trey when he was up here for his interview a few days ago. That’s keeping me strong right now.
From the passenger seat, I collect my items and turn to reach for the door handle when I see my neighbors converging on me, like a pack of curly, white-haired zombies. For a brief moment, I feel nervous until I realize the percentage of them have canes. I can easily outrun them, or use their canes to trip them into a hip-breaking fall.
I emerge from my car just as they hit my driveway.
“Miss Santos,” one of them calls out, holding up her liver-spotted hand. “May we have a word?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” I close my door and set my bags on the hood of my car. “Is everything okay?”
The rest of the herd catches up, their bodies heaving slightly from the little jaunt they took down Franklin Street.
“Are you aware of the week?” the pack leader asks.
Uh . . . the week? All I know is it has been two weeks since I’ve seen Trey. It feels like a month. Confused, I say, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not.”
The zombie pack mutter under their breaths and shake their heads.
“We figured,” the leader says, a huff in her voice. “Have you not read your mail? We left a flyer in your mailbox.”
I inwardly cringe. To me, flyers are a waste of paper. I don’t bother looking at them. I put them straight into recycling.
“Uh, I’m afraid I didn’t get to read it.”
“Of course she didn’t,” a bald old man says with a lift of his cane.
“Marv, settle down. Your blood pressure,” the leader says.
“She’s making us all look bad.”
“Yeah!” everyone chimes in, lifting their arms slightly with a mob mentality in their eyes.
Okay, I’m a little frightened. They do have numbers over my agility and youth.
Trying to calm down the group, I say, “I’m sorry. I would never intend to make you look bad. I get a little recycle happy when it comes to flyers—”
“She recycled the flyer,” Marv gruffs out. “Unbelievable.”
“Why do you think fridges were invented?” another lady chimes in, this one looking more sprite than the others. “To hang flyers.”
Technically, fridges were invented to keep food cold, but I choose not to point that out.
“I really do apologize. I wasn’t aware the neighborhood put out flyers.”
“Figures,” the leader says, crossing her arms. “Mrs. Ferguson was always a lazy neighbor, and it looks like she transferred it into a lazy landlord as well.”
Man, these people are ruthless. And to think I wave at them. If I knew their intent to make me feel bad about a flyer, I would have held back my wave, although . . . seems like that would have made things worse.
“Is there a problem over here?” Aaron’s voice comes from behind, startling me. I don’t dare turn around, instead I keep my eyes fixed on the angry—old—mob in front of me, and right before my eyes, they all soften when Aaron steps up, as if he’s their hero, ready to save the world.
“Aaron, thank God you’re here. Miss Santos is the problem. She recycled the flyer without even looking at it.”
“I see.” Aaron steps up next to me and drapes his arm over my shoulder. I’m about to shrug him off but think better of it for one reason: the band of dentures might think more poorly of me if I distance myself from their hero. So instead, I step a little closer to him. Feeling me lightly snuggle against him, he raises a quick eyebrow and smirks at me. It shouldn’t feel right being held by him, especially with Trey in the back of my mind. But somehow, this feels right, too. Still looking at me, he asks the crowd, “Doesn’t she at least get points for recycling?”
The mob is quiet for a second, mulling over his statement. I should get points for recycling. Keep it clean, keep it green. That’s my motto.
The leader nods but then turns angry again. “She is the only house without decorations and trick-or-treaters are going to be here tomorrow. Children flock to our street because of our traditional décor. We are going to look like we’re losing our marbles with her negligence.”
Decorations?
Trick-or-treaters?
Is it really Halloween already?
Aaron scans my house and nods. “I see what you’re saying. The house looks like a sore thumb. I guess there isn’t much for us to do but tie her to a pole and throw eggs at her.”
“Yeah!” Marv reacts, shoving his cane in the air, murder in his eyes. That wrinkle sack is totally scary. He’s someone who “knows” people. I can feel it in the way he stares me down.
Clapping his hands together, mischief in his eyes, Aaron says, “I’ll get the rope. Mrs. Wickham, you grab the eggs. Meet back in ten minutes. We’ll teach her a lesson.”
“Sounds good.” Mrs. Wickham turns to the crowd. “We reconvene in ten minutes, take your pills, we have an egg throwing to take part in.”
“What?” I ask, looking around. They can’t possibly be serious. But before I can ask what the hell is going on, they slowly walk away, their canes padding across the asphalt. When I turn to look for Aaron, he’s gone as well.
There is no way he’s going to get rope . . . is he?
No. No, there is no way, and yet a little part of me fears that this really might be a thing.