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CHAPTER 1

THIRTY FLIRTY AND THRIVING

THEODORE

I ’m leaving the attorney’s office after signing on the dotted line to finally close on my first house. ? * Growing up, I always thought I would be married, have a home, and have at least one kid by the age of thirty. And it seems like I’m well on my way, even though I’m not technically thirty—yet. My birthday is in a couple of months, but I swear, some days it feels as if I don’t know how I got here. Where all the time went. After your twenty-first, it seems like you blink and pass another birthday like you pass GO in Monopoly.

I try to mentally replay all of the years in my head, trying to figure out how exactly I got to this point in my life, as I make my way to the moving truck with my car in tow behind it. I had to be out of my apartment a couple of days ago to make my way down here in order to sign the closing papers in time. My apartment. My life… all the way back in Ashburn, Virginia.

States away.

Climbing into the moving truck, I punch in my new address and head the long way around. The way I needed a break from my fian?ee is indescribable. When she’s actually home and not traveling from store to store or supervising influencer trips as the marketing executive of a prestigious skincare line, she’s—how do I put this gently… Unbearable.

Bridget and I grew up as neighbors our whole lives.

And no to the first question anyone asks when they hear that sentence…

We are not high school sweethearts.

We never even dated.

Bridget and I were never super close. We got along well enough, and I never had any issues with her. I didn’t like or dislike her. My feelings for her were just… neutral. But I love and respect her parents as if they are my own. But, somehow, over the course of our adolescence, those parents, the same ones who I have nothing but the utmost respect for, raised an inconsiderate, vain, and entitled daughter. And all of those wonderful attributes seemed to be amplified by a hundred percent once she came home from college.

Both of us went off to college, graduated, and somehow returned to our hometown to live post-graduation. I was lucky to land a spot in the master’s program close to home and a paid internship at the same college to become an athletic trainer. While Bridget landed an entry-level position at the same company she’s working for now. I spent two years there, trying to become the best version of myself that I could. Meanwhile, any time I would see Mr. and Mrs. Koch with my parents they would try pushing me to go on a date with Bridget.

Eventually, I caved, and we went on one date. From that moment on it has felt as if I have had no say or recollection of anything that happened in my life. We went on another date, and another. And when I was sure she wasn’t the woman I wanted to spend my life with, without a shadow of a doubt, our parents decided we needed to go on another.

We dated for four years, if that’s what you want to call being glorified roommates, and after hearing her bitch for three of those years about needing a ring, she ended up just getting her grandmother’s from her mom. Of course, snatching the diamond out of it and getting a custom ring made herself.

When it was finished, she picked it up, put it on, and never even mentioned it to me. She just started telling people we were engaged.

All she said was, “ I’ll get a lot more respect now that people think I’m married to a rich man. ”

Did I say anything to stop what was going on?

Nope .

Because every time I garnered up the courage to flee from my seemingly unrecognizable life, the only thing I could picture was my dad saying, “It’s what we do, Son. It’s what this family has always done.”

Her dad told me a couple of days after seeing the ring on her finger, “ Marriage is just a business contract and a way to earn respect. I need you to marry her… you keep her level-headed, and it would benefit the both of you. ”

But I don’t want any of it. It’s as if I’m a passenger in my own life, except for the one thing I refuse to let anyone tamper with or get in the way of. My career.

It’s something I have poured my heart and soul into and the one thing I am most proud of in this life. From the moment I decided that it was my calling, I drowned myself in school work, internship programs, and anything else I could get my hands on in order to become the best there is, graduate with a master’s degree at the top of my class, and land a job I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams.

I’ll be damned if I let anyone or anything get in the way of that.

* * *

Taking a right onto my new street, I pass a couple of houses before I see my pale yellow one come into view. It’s a one-level, three-bed, two-bath, nothing super fancy, but the perfect starter home that I can make all mine.

Well… mine and Bridget’s, but I can't let myself think of any of that right now. She’s away on a business trip, unsurprisingly and completely uninterested in the purchase of our home, and in the meantime, this house is going to be my oasis.

I love this quiet little neighborhood and the lightly wooded area that the houses across the street butt up against. Palm trees line the front yards of each home that, despite living in suburbia, all look different. It’s an older neighborhood, so it’s clear that each house wasn’t thrown together in months like they are nowadays. No, these were crafted with care. They were slowly built and built to last. Which is ironic considering that seems to be the exact opposite of my impending marriage.

I pull into my driveway, put the moving truck in park, and lay my head back on the headrest, finally taking a deep breath and shutting my eyes after a whirlwind few days.

I’m immediately pulled out of my restful state with banging on my window.

What the fuck?

A younger guy with a mop of dark Mahogany curls on the top of his head is standing at the side of the truck. Reluctantly, I open the door. “Can I help you?”

“We saw the Virginia plates when you pulled in and figured we would offer to help,” says the other man, who’s slightly taller and leaner with a lot straighter, jet-black hair.

“I could use it. You two aren’t serial killers or anything, are you?”

“Emerson Baker.” The one that’s been doing the talking sticks his hand out to shake. “My brothers and I live across the street from ya. This fuck-stick is Dominic. Dom for short, but not in the bedroom… if ya know wha?—”

Dom cuts off Emerson by smacking him in the chest and hissing, “Stop introducing me like that! And that’s not what you were saying last night on your knees with my coc?—”

Not needing to hear anything else, I say, “Okay, okay. Let’s get this stuff inside.”

* * *

Moving with Emerson and Dom was as interesting as you could imagine. We unloaded everything in record time, and I was thoroughly entertained, listening to the two college guys bickering back and forth.

The two of them left me to my own devices a couple of hours ago, and instead of unpacking boxes like I should be, I can’t help but watch out my living room window as, who I assume is Emerson’s brother since he looks exactly like him, unloads a copious amount of groceries from his car. He’s in a worn cut-off, and his muscular, cut arms are on full display. My eyes linger as I examine each inch of them as he’s unloading each bag of groceries. As he bends to get the last of the bags deep in the trunk, I zero in on the way his fucking short-inseam shorts cling to the back of his ass. He’s a work of art.

Suddenly, I realize I never told the two of them I will be working at the school I’m ninety-nine percent certain they attend. And what’s worse, I’m not sure if that was intentional or not.

Fuck, what am I doing…

* * *

I find myself back at the front window, sipping my coffee like the true old fucking creep that I’m turning into. I have two more days of peace until Bridget flies in from her business trip, and I’m dreading her return.

Is it bad that I don’t even know what city she’s in right now?

Yeah… it is.

But I’m too busy ogling my new neighbor across the street.

Emerson and the oldest brother are outside, cutting their grass and taking care of the landscaping—no shirts on. His brother, who’s name I still don’t know, has those damn shorts on again. The sweat is already pouring off of him on this way too hot and humid Florida morning.

I sit down on my couch, watching shamelessly as they finish up their yard, make their way over to the older lady’s beside them, and start to work on hers too. Unlike me, she’s proudly sitting outside on the porch, watching the show, coffee in hand, rocking in her chair—the biggest smile lining her face.

We have a perverted old lady as a neighbor…

And I’m no better than her.

* ? Feeling Good - Nina Simone