The Neighbors (17 page)

“I don’t follow,” Red said. “Your mom?”

“She’s agoraphobic.”

Red shook his head, still not getting it.

“Agoraphobia is a fear of crowds,” Harlow clarified, lifting her wineglass to her lips.

“It’s worse than that,” Drew said.

“Oh?” Harlow frowned in concern.

“There’s a wheat field behind our house,” he told them. “She won’t go out there either. She doesn’t leave the house.”

The three of them went silent for a moment; Harlow drinking her wine, Red chewing on his pot roast, Drew struggling to stab another potato without incident.

“And she’s an alcoholic,” Drew added.

Harlow pressed a hand to her chest. Red peered at his plate as if dissatisfied with the quality of his meal. After a long moment, Harlow spoke with confidence.

“That’s terrible, Andy,” she said. “But I sincerely hope you know that none of that is your fault.”

Andrew nodded slowly.

“The fact that you were brave enough to leave that situation...” She shook her head, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “She couldn’t have asked for a better son, Andy. I can’t imagine what you went through.”

“That’s some sort of disorder?” Red asked.

“It’s an anxiety disorder, yeah,” Drew admitted. “After my dad left, it kind of...ate her up.”

Red frowned from across the table while Harlow gave Drew’s hand a final squeeze, releasing it and going back to her meal. She smiled warmly, apparently pleased by Drew’s opening up. Seeing that empathy in her eyes made him feel a thousand times lighter. The guilt of leaving his mother behind had been weighing heavy on his conscience, but the understanding that Harlow was radiating, the tenderness that veiled her expression, it woke the butterflies in his gut.

“If your mother is disabled, shouldn’t you still be at home?” Red asked.

Harlow choked on a bit of potato, lifting a wineglass to her lips.

“You said your father left,” Red reminded him. “So, if she can’t leave the house, and she’s alone...”

Those butterflies dropped dead, one by one.

“Red,” Harlow cut in sharply. “You’re being rude.”

“How am I being rude?” he challenged.

Andrew tensed. His stomach twisted against the food he’d just eaten, refusing to digest another bite.

“Are you meaning to suggest that Andy should be limited by someone else’s problems?” Harlow asked, her eyes flashing at her husband.

“We’re talking about his mother,” Red said. “That’s hardly ‘someone else.’”

Harlow snorted at his answer, looking away from him. “Didn’t you leave
your
family behind, Redmond?” she asked. “I recall something like that happening, don’t you?”

Red’s face went taut.

“I could have done worse,” Red shot back. “Some people do.” Harlow blanched.

“I...” Drew spoke up, desperate to save the situation. “No, Red, you’re right. I
should
be there.”

Before he could continue on his path of self-deprecation, Harlow cut in again.

“You deserved better, so you left. And good for you, honey,” she said with gusto. “You can’t let the world hold you back. You’re too smart for that. Too young.”

But Red’s interrogation had left Drew shaken. It was the last thing he had expected. Red was typically so friendly, so approachable. It was as though someone had flipped a switch. Eerily, it was reminiscent of what had happened back home. One day, everything was perfect. The next, his parents were fighting over everything—and their disagreements had started just like this: out of nowhere and nothing.

But it hadn’t been nothing; it had been a woman in a truck Andrew hadn’t seen before—his dad crawling into the passenger’s seat with that duffel bag heavy on his shoulder. It had been his mother pulling Andrew away from the window, instructing him to watch cartoons as if it was just another day. But she had known all along that it hadn’t been. It had been the first day of the rest of their fractured lives.

Perhaps this was like that. Red knew. He had caught Andrew looking at his wife, and maybe he had noticed the way Harlow smiled when Drew was around. The invitations to come over were growing by the day. Tonight it was dinner. Tomorrow? He could only guess.

Drew swallowed against the tension, his eyes cast downward, his guilt having returned tenfold.

What kind of a son turned his back on his mother in her worst moment? What kind of a neighbor coveted his neighbor’s wife?

“I’m a bad person,” he admitted. As he heard it out in the open, his entire body tingled with the confession.

Those four little words made Harlow want to cry. They made her want to tear at her hair and wail. Because Drew’s confession was her own, one that had been tormenting her for most of her life—from the first night her father had slipped into her bedroom and slid into bed next to her, making her promise she’d never tell her mom; from the night she had left Danny Wilson dead in his apartment. Hearing Andrew declare his own feelings of inferiority turned her inside out like nothing she had ever felt. Sitting at that dining room table, she wanted to reach out to him, wanted to pull him close and press him to her so fiercely that the strength of her embrace would make him disappear. She wanted to absorb him, to make him a part of her that could never be lost or taken away.

Her heart thudded in her ears as she stared at him—nothing but an ordinary boy who turned out to be extraordinary. His guilt made him beautiful. His vulnerability made her buzz with desire. Suddenly, she found herself reevaluating her plan. Andrew Morrison wasn’t just another passer-through.

Andrew Morrison was
the one
.

Harlow’s gaze drifted across the table to her husband. Red had his head down, chewing his food with a vexed look across his face. And suddenly she hated him with all her being, hated him for making Andrew feel guilty, hated him for trying to scare her darling away.

Again, silence. The ticking of the grandfather clock filled the spaces between their words. Harlow sat stick-straight, so tense it was a wonder she wasn’t trembling. Red dropped his fork and folded his hands together, pressing them over his mouth as if in prayer. Harlow waited for him to excuse himself from the table after his bad manners had been made so clear, but it appeared that Red was determined to keep his post. She looked back to Andrew, the boy beside her looking defeated and disturbed. Leaning toward him, she dipped a hand beneath the table, resting it on his knee.

“You’re
not
a bad person,” she whispered. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Failing to elicit a response, Harlow leaned back, her hands folded in her lap.

“Look at the work you did today,” she said, full-volume now. “You did an amazing job, Andy, better than Red could ever do. Better than any of the other boys.”

She caught herself a second too late, snapping her mouth shut. Her nerves were getting to her. She waited for him to ask
what other boys
, but he didn’t, and she exhaled the breath that had caught in her throat.
Stupid
, she thought to herself. Red was looking at her from across the table, one eyebrow raised in an arch of bitter amusement. It wasn’t like her to make such a sloppy mistake, but it was just like Red to catch it.

She had blown her cover. Red was already suspicious, but now there would be no denying that something was different this time.

Regaining her composure, she plucked up her wineglass and took a nerve-steadying drink.

After another long moment, Drew exhaled a sigh and shook his head before sitting up in his chair. “I’m sorry; I’m a lousy dinner guest. I should probably go.”

“You’ve had a long day,” Harlow agreed.

Folding his napkin into quarters, Drew placed it next to his plate and slowly slid his chair away from the table. Harlow rose as well.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Drew said, and his uneasiness broke her heart.

She reached out to him again, but Andrew stepped around the table before her fingers made contact with his arm. Watching him move across the dining room, she swallowed her nerves as Drew stopped next to Red’s chair and extended a hand.

Red remained seated.

He didn’t make eye contact with the boy standing next to him.

He didn’t take Andrew’s hand.

Drew swallowed, quietly cleared his throat, and turned away.

Just as Drew was about to step onto the front porch, Harlow stepped into the foyer and placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned, offering her a weak smile, and before she could stop herself, she pulled him into a tight embrace. “Don’t pay attention to him. You’re a good person,” Harlow whispered, rubbing his back in reassurance. “A wonderful person. The most wonderful person I’ve ever met.”

Harlow watched Drew walk down the darkened sidewalk before marching into the kitchen. Red was placing dishes in the washer.

“You moron,” she snapped at him.

He stood up straight, a dirty dish held in his right hand.

“‘Shouldn’t you be home with your mother?’” Harlow snorted. “What are you trying to do, make him cry?”

He shook his head, pulled the under-sink cabinet door open, and fished out a bottle of dish detergent.

“If he comes over here to tell us he can’t work for us anymore...”

“And why would he do that?” Red asked.

“Because he’s gone back to his mother like
you
told him to,” Harlow said. “Because he doesn’t want to work for someone who makes him feel like shit. I swear to God, Red...”

“That isn’t going to happen.”

“...I’ll wait until you’re fast asleep, and I will kill you,” Harlow said flatly. “I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear like a brand-new smile.”

“Really?” Red asked, unfazed. “Or maybe you can fall in love with him,” he said. “Maybe you can do that right in front of me. That would probably kill me too.”

Harlow stared at her husband for a long while.

“You’re crazy.
Love
.” She spit the word out, trying to make it sound as foul and ridiculous as possible. “He’s just another boy.”

Red laughed with a shake of the head, closing the dishwasher door.

“You’ve always been a good liar,” he said. “But never to me.”

He began to walk away, leaving Harlow beside the sink, but he stopped in front of the entryway, looking back to her, a look of genuine hurt dancing across his face.

“This wasn’t the deal we made,” he reminded her. “You promised this would never happen.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harlow said, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

“No?” he asked. “That’s why he’s still alive? Because of your disinterest?” He smirked. “So kill
me
,” he demanded, balling his hand up into a fist before striking himself in the chest, directly above his heart. “Give
me
some of that passion.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she asked, turning her back to him.

Once upon a time, he had been the boy who had stolen her heart. He had been her Andrew. But after so many years, Red had gotten boring. He didn’t excite her, and he wasn’t excited by anything she did. He used to worry about her getting caught, but even that had subsided. Once, Red had understood that Harlow did what she did to squelch her overwhelming sense of worthlessness. That she did what she did to mourn the loss of her innocence, to grieve the loss of her mother. He had been so sympathetic, loved her too much to be horrified, and he had stayed.

And yet, somehow, they had grown apart. Red no longer cared about what Harlow had to do to be whole. He cared only about what was for dinner. Over time, Harlow had transformed from the girl of his dreams to the happy housewife, and she hated him for that.

“Come on,” he said, motioning for her to come with him. She knew what that meant. He wanted to go upstairs, wanted to
“make up” and forget the whole thing. “Prove it to me,” he told her.

Prove that Andy didn’t mean anything. Prove that she didn’t want anyone but Red.

Harlow looked down to her feet, her toes sore from being squeezed into her shoes for so long. Placing a hand on the counter, she bent her leg, catching one of her shoes by its bright red heel. She repeated the process once more, eventually standing on the cool kitchen floor in her bare feet. Tipping her chin upward, she stared across the room at her husband, her jaw clenching as she considered her options.