Page 108 of Best Served Cold

“Oh, it definitely has a presence.”

“Was there any shampoo in the box?” Briar asks practically. “It would be nice if there was something that would make a bit of a mess.”

“Yes, and it’s that expensive stuff with biotin,” I say. “Because he’s worried about losing his hair.”

“I hope he does,” Briar says. “I hope he loses everything but a funny little rim around the sides that makes him look like a medieval monk.”

We’re still laughing as I direct Briar to park on the curb in front of his house—a little crazy, a lot mad, and strangely…happy. His car is in the drive, but all of the lights are off. The house looks different tonight. Drab. Cramped.

“I almost lived there,” I mutter.

“Huh,” Hannah says, clearly disappointed. “I was hoping it would be a real villain lair. This just looks like?—”

“Someone’s great-aunt’s house?” I ask, laughing. Because it is basically the same model as my aunt’s house, only updated and with better amenities.

“But your aunt’s house is bright and inviting,” Briar says, hugging herself. “This place has a dark aura.”

“You know what?” Hannah says. “I’m gonna agree with you on that one. Let’s get this done.”

We’ve already assigned ourselves roles. Hannah is the toilet-paperer, and I’m going to chuck the contents of my box at his house while Briar launches the contents of hers. She has fewer things, so once she finishes, she’ll help Hannah.

“Ready. Set. Destruct,” Hannah says, grinning like a banshee.

My heart in my throat, I open the box and begin yanking out its contents. I throw the sweatshirt he gave me, and it gets snagged in a tree. I open the biotin shampoo, then hurl it at his porch, and watch it bounce and spill its contents everywhere. I throw his toothbrush. His nail clippers. His special pillow.

Just a few feet from me, Briar makes quick work of emptying her box, throwing her own collection. Ticket stubs. A sweater.

When she finishes, she starts helping Hannah, who’s running around, slinging toilet paper streamers, and I feel almost gleeful. Maybe this isn’t justice. Maybe it’s juvenile. But he deserves to have to clean up a mess. He deserves to have an imprint of us on his perfect little postage-stamp yard and his well-maintained house and?—

“Who’s out there?” a man shouts from the porch of the house next door. I know him a little. Alfred is kind, a bit overweight, and overly talkative. Or at least Jonah used to say so. I always brought him cookies whenever I baked a batch, and I liked hearing about his children, because he’s such a doting parent.

“Shit,” Hannah says, dropping her latest roll of one-ply.

Panic grasps me in its claws, andnot again, not again, not againruns through my head.

I broke the rules.

He could have us arrested. He could…

He puts a hand on his hip. “Is that you, Sophie?”

“It’s me, sir,” I say, “and a few friends. We were…”

He waves me off. “You go ahead and do what you need to do, sweetheart. Don’t let me get in your way. I’m just going to come out here and enjoy a beer while I watch you finish.”

Apparently Jonah is a worse neighbor than I thought.

Tears well in my eyes at this man’s kindness, but the anxiety in my stomach doesn’t quit.

“Thank you, sir,” I say.

Then I bring what’s left of the box up to Jonah’s doorstep and stomp what’s inside of it twice for good measure as my friends unspool more toilet paper.

Once I’m done, I wave to Alfred. “Have a good night.”

“You too, honey. You tell your aunt hello from me.”

“She’s in Mallorca.”

---