Dark brown. Direct. The kind of eyes that felt like they were actually looking at you rather than past you. And then she nodded. "Okay," she said. "Saturday." He almost didn't go back inside right away. He stood on his side of the fence for a moment after she'd gone in holding the broken hose coupling in his hand and felt something strange happening in his chest.
Not attraction or not only attraction, though he was a widower, not dead. And the woman next door was objectively beautiful and had looked at him with an expression that had temporarily short-circuited his entire nervous system. It was something older than that, something simpler. He had felt seen by a stranger for about 8 minutes over a home repair disaster. Marcus Carter, who had spent three years making himself invisible, had been seen, and the experience was so unfamiliar that it took him almost a full minute standing in his own backyard to identify what the feeling actually was.
He shook his head, went inside, found Ava at the kitchen table in her pajamas eating cereal and reading a book about horses, which was her current obsession at a level that Marcus privately referred to as alarming. You were outside a long time, she said without looking up. "Had a little incident with the hose that got her attention." She looked up. What kind of incident? "The kind where I accidentally watered the neighbor's house." Ava stared at him like her house.
"Her freshly painted wall?" "Yes." There was a pause. "Dad." "I know, Ava. I'm aware." She put her spoon down. "Is she mad?" Marcus thought about Olivia's face, the tilted head, the raised eyebrow, the question that was almost flirtatious. If that wasn't a completely insane reading of a woman reacting to her house getting drenched at 7:00 a.m. "She was surprisingly calm about it," he said carefully.
Ava narrowed her eyes. She had her mother's eyes that same quality of looking at you like she was reading the fine print. "Surprisingly calm," she repeated. "I'm going to repaint her wall next Saturday as an apology." "Uh-huh." Ava picked her spoon back up. "What's her name? " "Olivia." "Is she nice? " "I talked to her for eight minutes, Ava." "That's enough time to tell." Marcus poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and decided to end the conversation there because his seven-year-old daughter was already looking at him with an expression that he recognized from his own mother.
And that recognition made something in his gut tighten in a way that was half warning, half something that felt dangerously close to hope. He went back to work on the yard, but he moved differently now, less mechanical, less purely task oriented. At some point, without fully deciding to, he started making the section of the garden bed closest to the fence look particularly good. He noticed this happening. He did not stop.
The week between that Saturday and the next was the same week it always was. Long grinding full of the 10,000 small demands that came with working two jobs and raising a child alone in a city that didn't slow down for anyone. Marcus worked his day shift at the logistics company on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, managing routing operations for a fleet of 18 delivery trucks, which sounded more glamorous than it was and paid decently, but not enough. On Mondays and Fridays, he did contract IT work for three different small businesses. A dental office in Buckhead, a law firm in Midtown, and a family restaurant in East Atlanta that had been running on a point of sale system from 2009, and treated every software update as a personal attack.
He dropped Ava at school every morning at 7:45. He picked her up every afternoon at 3:15, unless the IT work ran long, in which case Mrs. Patterson from Three Doors Down, a retired school teacher who had, without being asked, appointed herself the neighborhood's unofficial child care infrastructure, would pick Ava up and sit with her until Marcus got home. He cooked dinner. He helped with homework. He signed permission slips and washed uniforms, and remembered that Ava's library books were due Wednesday, and that she had a science project due Friday that she had told him about on Thursday.
He went to bed most nights somewhere between 10:30 and 11 and lay in the dark for a while before sleep came running through the list of everything he hadn't gotten to yet. Everything that needed to happen tomorrow. Everything that was going to cost money he hadn't quite saved yet. And sometimes less often than in the first year, more often than he'd admit he thought about Denise. Not always with grief anymore.