Page 5 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Guy Next Door

Great work, Trent.

Next day, Megan's trying to get a crate of supplies some asshole of a delivery driver left in the front yard up the steps to the house. Her whole body is leaning back against the weight of it.

I take it off her before I've decided to.

Her mouth pops open in surprise. “Oh. You don't have to?…”

“Where?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Where do you want it?”

“Um… by the door. Thank you.”

I put it by the door. Then I take the next one, and the one after that. When I turn, she's standing at the bottom of the steps with her arms crossed and her head tipped, studying me.

Up close she's shorter than I thought. Freckles across her nose and big brown eyes. There’s a smudge of ink along the side of her hand and another one on her jaw where she's touched her face without thinking. I'd give a year of my life to be allowed to reach out and wipe it off.

“Thanks.” She stares at me and I gaze down at her, wanting to say something, anything, to sound friendly or make her smile. Instead I give her a grim nod and go back to my porch.

An hour later, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I check the window, but she must be outside, not on her porch.

What’s your favorite pie flavor? I’m looking for inspiration.

I type back.

Peach cobbler. And you?

Strawberry shortcake.

That’s not a pie… it’s a cake.

Could you prove that in a court of law?

I shake my head, smiling. She's easy with me, not careful like she is in person. If I tell her the truth, I’ll lose that.

One more day. That's the deal I make.

Kit shows up at first light, as I’m making my coffee. His visits are more erratic in the summer, but he usually comes at least once a week.

He comes out of the treeline with his scarred side toward me, sits down at the far end of the boards, and stares out at the yard like it’s his place, and this is his view. The eye he's still got tracks a jay along the fence.

I open the window. “Morning, Kit.”

His ear turns and his good eye winks at me.

I drink my coffee standing at the window while he watches the jay. Down at the bottom of the yard the mist is coming off the grass, and I pick up my camera, same as every morning at this hour. Then I head outside and Kit runs to meet me.

As I sit down on the porch steps, the big fox bounds around me, then comes closer so I can scratch his back. His fur is thick and he smells like ferns and musk. Some don’t like the smell, but I’ve known him so long that I’m used to it.

I take a long drink of my coffee as Kit noses in my pocket.

“Okay, okay. Be polite.” I say, as he sits on his haunches in front of me.

I put down a handful of peanuts and berries, and he gobbles them up. He looks at me expectantly.

I reach into my other pocket and unwrap the chicken. Looking up, there’s a twitching curtain next door.