Page 84 of The Write Stuff

“Aren’t you worried about the other drivers?”

“Here, the other drivers are almost always in golf carts. It’s fine.” Bree parked the cart on Huxley’s lawn — I had no idea if it was the sort of thing that would frustrate him — and unfastened Brontë from her car seat. With the sort of effortless cool I admired, she lodged the baby on her hip before coming over to join my perusal of Gertrude.

“Magnificent, isn’t she?”

I didn’t know if laughing would be considered rude. There was no stopping me, though. “She seems … nice,” was all I could manage after several seconds.

“She’s tacky as hell,” Bree replied. “She drives the members of the HOA crazy, though. I don’t care how tacky she is. She’s family now.” She inclined her head toward the swing that was under a huge Weeping Willow. “Come on. If I’m moving, Brontë won’t put up as much of a fuss.”

I followed her, frowning when I got closer to the swing and saw the carvings. “Are those … ?” I didn’t finish the question.

“Twigs and berries?” she prodded. “Why, yes, they are.”

“I wasn’t going to say twigs and berries.” I gave her another once-over. “Does Huxley know there are carvings of penises and scrotums on his swing?”

“Scrotums.” She laughed at my word choice. “Who says scrotum?”

“What would you call it?” I raised a hand before she could answer. “Actually, I don’t want to know what you would call it.”

She smirked as I sat next to her. “Let him figure it out himself. It will be funny.”

“I’m not sure Huxley will find it funny.”

“I would have agreed with you a few weeks ago.” She pushed off with a foot to start an easy swinging motion. “He’s lightened up quite a bit since I first met him, though.”

“Do you think?”

She bobbed her head. “Yup, and I know why.”

“Why?” I honestly wanted to hear her answer.

She looked at me sideways. “Do you not know?”

“Know what? Is he taking edibles? They might be a good relaxant for him.”

She laughed, then shook her head. “He’s unwinding because of you.”

Of all the things she could have said, that was the one thing I wasn’t expecting. “No. That’s not right.”

“Oh, it is.” She was adamant. “You’re making him relax.”

“How am I doing that?”

Now she looked frustrated as she regarded me. “Can you seriously not know the answer to that?”

I didn’t respond. I just waited her out.

“Wow,” she managed after a few seconds. “Bella said you had no self-awareness. I didn’t believe her. She was right, though. I guess I owe her 50 bucks.”

That brought up multiple questions. I went with the most worrisome one first. “Bella was talking about me?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Bree chided. “It wasn’t gossipy like high schoolers or anything.” She seemed to reconsider. “Or maybe it was. It wasn’t bad, though. I was telling her how pretty you were one day, and she said that you didn’t realize you were pretty. I assumed she was joking, but she said that you have zero self-awareness when it comes to your looks … or how cool you are.”

I was oddly bad at taking compliments. “Oh, um … hmm.”

She laughed again. “You don’t have to twist yourself in knots. It’s okay to look at yourself and say, ‘I’m hot,’ because you’re really hot. You have one of those bodies that is naturally thin. I have to count my calories to keep from getting thick in the thighs. It’s been a struggle to lose weight since Brontë came on the scene. You, however, are one of those people who will never get heavy no matter what you eat.”

This conversation was definitely making me uncomfortable. “I was awkward when I was younger,” I explained. “I had braces. I didn’t get breasts until I was almost 18, I swear.”