She looked at me for a long moment. Then she picked up her purse, smoothed her skirt, and walked out without another word. She left the succulent on my table.
I threw it away.
That evening, I told Irvin everything. Every word she’d said, exactly as she’d said it.
I watched his face change. First confusion, then disbelief, then something harder.
“She actually said that?”
“Every word.”
He set down his fork. “Then I’m done helping her.”
And he meant it. The next time she called about a strange noise in her garage, he told her to contact pest control. When she texted about a door that was sticking, he sent her the number of a local handyman and nothing else.
But Vanessa didn’t stop.
She simply stopped pretending.
She leaned over the fence whenever Irvin was mowing the lawn or washing the car. She showed up with plates of homemade cookies and said she’d “accidentally made too many.” She found reasons to touch his arm during conversations at the mailbox, and every time she did, I watched him take a step back.
