Creekside had a total of five grocery stores, so after the
disaster at Thriftway, he visited the rest of them, minus
the Kroger he used to work at less than a week before. He
filled out three applications despite two of the managers
telling him they weren't hiring, and scored another
interview only to be told that they'd call him later. Drew
tried to be optimistic, but that "later" felt like a "never."
His frustration started to mount.
He dropped into a couple of video game stores, a bike shop,
three coffee places, and a Dairy Queen. Everyone shook their
heads. Everyone gave him an apologetic smile, a shrug of the
shoulders. It appeared that Creekside was far from immune
from the Capitol disease. The economy had gone to shit, even
in the heartland.
Despite the work he'd put into Mickey's house, he didn't
want to go back there yet, didn't want to face the bitter
reality that he was living in a dilapidated house—a
blight on an otherwise perfect neighborhood. So he decided
to get something to eat instead. But the urgency of his
situation hit him full-on while sitting in line at a Burger
King drive-through. After numerous fast-food runs, his funds
were in the double-digits. The seven dollars he handed to
the guy at the window suddenly seemed an extravagant amount
for a burger and some fries. He tried to enjoy his sandwich,
but was hindered by his inability to stop thinking about
how, if he kept going out to eat, he wouldn't last longer
than a week.
Parked in front of the house, the aftertaste of french fries
still on his tongue, Drew sat in his truck for a long while,
staring blankly at the steering wheel. Suddenly overwhelmed
by frustration, he grabbed the wheel, clenched his teeth,
and tried to shake the damn thing free of the dash. It
didn't budge, and eventually Drew simply slumped in his
seat, his forehead pressed to the wheel. He had expected
this to be easy. His current disillusionment only served as
proof that he was an idiot. Because nothing was ever easy.
Especially not this.
Throwing his door open, he paced the cracked sidewalk in
front of the house, his fingers shoved through his hair. The
locusts hummed in the trees, their incessant buzz somehow
making the summer heat more brutal. Back and forth along
that pavement, he tried to figure out what the hell he was
going to do, somehow convinced that remaining outside would
help him think. Turning his attention to Mick's house, he
couldn't help but wonder if this was honestly better than
living at home. Both places were suddenly neck-and-neck on
Andrew's scale of disgust. If home was where the heart was,
home was neither here nor there. If home was where you
wanted to be, Drew's home was next door beneath the
shade of a front porch; it was behind a white picket fence,
not in front of a patchy, sunburned lawn.
His hands fell to his sides, leaving his hair in
stressed-out disarray. He exhaled a sigh and stalked across
the crunchy lawn.
Halfway to the house, he heard his name.
"Andy?"
He glanced over his shoulder at the pride of Magnolia Lane.
Harlow stood in the front yard, her wide-brimmed sun hat and
Jackie O glasses obscuring her face. One arm loaded with cut
roses, the other extended over her head in a wave, she
looked like a Hollywood starlet—the kind you'd see in
a fancy spread about the next big actress: Harlow Ward, home
from the studio, pruning her rosebushes and hiring local
boys to move heavy furniture.
"You all right, honey?" Her voice chimed in the breeze like
a songbird's chirp.
He didn't answer. How hadn't he seen her when he parked? She
was damn near impossible to miss. It seemed as though she'd
appeared out of thin air, but he hardly cared. She was
exactly what he needed—a reminder that he had made the
right decision, that moving here wasn't a mistake.
"You look upset," she said. "Is there something wrong?
He determined then and there that Harlow wasn't real. She
was a figment of his imagination; the personification of the
perfect woman circa 1959. Most neighbors didn't bother to
speak to each other anymore, but Harlow—he wouldn't
have been surprised if she had been standing there with a
sheet of her freshly baked cookies, those gardening gloves
replaced by oven mitts. It was nice to know that someone
cared enough to ask if he was okay; it was even nicer to
know that the person doing the caring was Harlow, and he was
the object of her affection.
"Everything's fine," he said.
"Oh good." She crouched down, tucked her flowers into an
oversize basket, and straightened her hat before speaking
again. "Come have lunch."
Drew cracked a smile. She was relentless. "I just ate," he
confessed.
"Oh?" She slid her sunglasses down her nose, giving him a
look. "Let me guess, McDonald's?"
He gave her a guilty look, then exhaled a helpless laugh
when she shook her head at him with a sly grin of her own.
"Fine," she said. "Some other time, then."
She turned away only to pause a moment later, glancing back
to him before stepping back to the picket fence between
them. She plucked a rose from her basket and laid it across
the length of the top rail. And then she turned again,
disappearing inside without a word.