Page 19 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Bree pulled herself up to sitting, wiping her face with the cuffs of her sweater.

After a moment’s shake, Russell jerked his head toward Bree with steely determination in his eyes.

“Give it—to him.” Chip wheezed his words while clutching his ribs. “Throw the—Slim Jim.”

Bree whipped her head toward Chip, her eyes widening when she saw the dog preparing for another round.

She started ransacking her oversized sweater for her pockets. “I don’t—” She shook her pockets out frantically, then pulled out a bit of plastic. “It’s just a wrapper!”

“Now,” Chip wheezed, making a limp reach for Russell’s collar as the dog jumped. “Throw it now!”

She flung the Slim Jim wrapper at the dog like a wallet toward thieves in a dark alley. For a moment Russell appeared ready to pummel her, but his massive paws skidded to a stop inches away from her upraised hands shielding her head.

He dropped his face from her to the wrapper, sniffed, then snatched it up.

Lifting his tail high in the air, he trotted inside.

The porch went quiet.

Chip had curled into a fetal position, rocking like a football player with a torn ACL as he tried to gain back his breath. Bree stared into his house as if waiting for any sign of the dog’s return.

A moment later, the spell broke.

She jumped up in her oversized boots. Rubbed the saliva off her face with the crook of one elbow, then the next.

Peered down at him.

With one painful motion, he turned to lie flat on his back. He looked up to those bright green eyes half hidden behind a mass of tangled hair.

Holding his ribcage with one hand, Chip lifted the other like the wounded traveler waiting for the Good Samaritan to reach down and save his life.

She tilted her head. Frowned.

Then, with one giant step over his body, Bree moved across the porch and marched down the porch steps.

Chapter 5

Bree

“I know, hate is a such a strong word. But honestly, Cass. I think I’m starting to hate him.”

Bree’s bare arms shivered as she paced on the grass outside the Barter’s rehearsal building. She felt the damp earth soaking through the thin cloth of her handmade fairy slippers.

Given how things were going of late, she could predict the consequences: back at the house, Evie would yell at her for twenty minutes about ruining theatre property, and Bree would casually pick up Evie’s new book, Minimalist Secrets to a Peaceful Life, and begin flipping through. Evie would see it. Pause. Do some sort of closed-eye meditation while her mouth parted like a surfaced trout. Then, looking like she was making a great sacrifice, Evie would silently put out her hand and Bree would surrender the slippers.

Right now, Bree didn’t care. All she wanted was a fifteen-minute chat with her busy best friend. When the best friend had six kids, you didn’t complain about poor timing when the phone rang. You just picked it up. Always. And you wore your fairy slippers outside if it was the only place you could find some peace and quiet.

Beyond the small row of cars along the gravel entrance was an aged fence and a slew of Hereford cows dotting a field. One stood close to the parking lot, sniffing the March air with its pearly white nose as though smelling the storm coming in. It was a fiercely cold day, temperatures in digits so low the schools had been shut down. Everybody was out stockpiling goods at the only Kroger in town, hoarding all the milk, eggs, bread, sweet tea, and tobacco they could get. Everyone but Bree and the cows.

“Angela, quit pulling on your tights,” Stephen shouted inside the warehouse.

“But they’re riding up,” a voice retorted.

“Then let them ride!” Stephen said. “’Cause you’re sure not going to fix them in the middle of Theseus’s wedding. Where’s Mustardseed?”

At the sound of her cast name, Bree moved past a trailer hitched to the Barter van, toward the single, nondescript door of the 7200-square-foot warehouse. Surely no one would spot her there.

“So this guy tailed your car and ran over your water pipe, and his dog knocked you over for a Slim Jim, and he may or may not have accidentally turned your housemate into a hippie.” Bree could hear Cassie’s knife chopping in the background, could practically see her standing over the row of potatoes, slicing them in perfect half-inch blocks. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I believe you ran across more terrorizing eight-year-olds every day during your last job at the aquarium. I don’t know if I’d start shooting off the H word yet.”