Page 14 of The Deadbeat Next Door

I crossed to the stove and put the kettle on, tea was just exactly what I needed. A calming chamomile would be perfect. “I have a cell phone,” I said. “But, I prefer the landline, it seems more reliable.”

Cody watched me like he was trying to dissect me with his eyes. “Would you like to go in the living room and lay down?” I asked, grateful I’d at least managed to get a couch, after deciding I needed to update my decor and getting rid of every piece of furniture I owned.

“I think it’s better if I don’t get too comfortable,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to fall asleep if I have a concussion.”

“Oh, right.” I felt like an idiot. “Should we take you to the doctor?”

“I’m fine.” He seemed confident about his condition, but could a person with a concussion tell he had a concussion, or did he always think he was just fine until he keeled over from a traumatic brain injury? “It’s okay, Carrie. Really. Why don’t you sit down there and tell me about your bad day? Tell me why you were crying?”

His smug attitude and his teasing from earlier came back to me and reminded me of what a jerk he’d been. I took a seat across from him at the table, just to make sure he didn’t die on my watch. “I was planting onions.”

He frowned and leaned forward a bit. “I’m sorry if I came across as a jerk. I was worried about you and I didn’t want to pry, so I teased you. I was just trying to make you smile.”

“‘Cause that worked so well.”

He sighed. “It didn’t work at all, but you got riled and that was better than seeing you sad, so I pushed your buttons a bit. You’re awfully cute when you’re mad.”

I leaned back in my chair, my earlier anger at him reigniting. “I’m not cute when I’m mad, you asshole. I’m mad. And I had every right to be. You don’t just intrude on a stranger and start harassing her when she’s clearly upset.”

“You’re right,” he said, shocking me so much I nearly stopped breathing. “I behaved badly and I’m sorry. Can we try again? You look sad, what’s bothering you?”

And I realized that even if he’d led with that, I still would have gotten angry, because I hated for anyone to see me cry. I hated for anyone to see me vulnerable. I was the rock, the one other people depended on. I’d helped my parents through their sorrow over the death of my sister and I’d been the strong one for Harrison. I didn’t need help, or sympathy, or prying questions, because I was strong and could figure it all out for myself. “I’m sorry I overreacted to your teasing. Thank you for trying to cheer me up.”

He leaned back in his seat. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you aren’t allowed to be sad or get angry or act irrationally every once in a while. I’m your bonehead neighbor and you don’t care what I think of you, so tell me what’s going on. Who made you cry?”

“No one made me cry.” I wasn’t going to tell him anything. I was going to get up and get my purse and find cash for the pizza. But I didn’t. The words were out before I realized how much I needed to say them. I told him about Kayla and I told him about Harrison and I told him how sad it made me not to be able to help either of them.

“You can’t make choices for other people,” he said. “You haven’t failed them. You’re here for them if they need you, without judgment and with nothing but love, that’s the only thing you can do for them.”

I felt a bit better after talking to someone else about my troubles and I wanted to believe he was right. “But maybe I could have done more,” I said. “If I’d seen how sad Harrison really was—”

“No. You can’t do that. If Harrison didn’t tell you how sad he was, it was because he didn’t want to talk about it. You can’t force someone to be happy, you can’t make someone open up to you, and you can’t make someone make good choices. Focus on what you can control and just love them.”

“But I can be sad that they’re lost and sad,” I said, a tear slipping out of the corner of my eye.

And suddenly, Cody was there and I was in the air. He settled me on his lap and wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace. “You can be sad,” he said. “That’s what caring about someone else is, being sad when they’re sad and worrying about them, and that’s okay. That doesn’t make you weak, it makes you a good person.”

Before I could figure out how I felt about his arms around me or his words, the doorbell rang and I was in the air again. He left the kitchen and, by the time I got to the front door, he’d already paid for the pizza and shut the door on the delivery person.

“I was going to pay,” I said. “It’s the least I can do for hitting you in the head with a trowel.”

He shrugged. “I paid. You can owe me something else for hitting me in the head with a trowel.”

“That’s not okay,” I said. “It’s me who has no food in her house, you shouldn’t—”

He swayed on his feet a bit. “Can you take this? I feel woozy.” I grabbed the pizza from his hands and he sat on the couch with a thump. A big part of me suspected he was faking in order to get his way, but what if he wasn’t?

“I think we should take you to the hospital.”

“No,” he said, lifting a hand. “I feel better now. Maybe I should just avoid quick movements for a while.”

“Okay. You sit and I’ll bring you a plate and a drink out here.”

I hurried to the kitchen and plated up a couple slices of pizza and carried them out with his water glass. He rested the plate on his knee, but he didn’t eat until I was back with my own pizza. “What happened to all your furniture?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I got rid of it. Most of it was stuff I’d inherited from my parents when they moved south and it wasn’t my style. I needed a change.” A change from the 1970s.

“And your style is no furniture?”

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