Three days later, the heatwave broke. A light breeze pushed through Brook Hollow, and the sound of a vintage engine purred from down the street.
Kindall stood beside her car, hood popped, brow furrowed. She’d tried to start it twice. Nothing but sputter and smoke.
“Trouble?” came a voice. Rick. He strolled over in a plain white tee and faded jeans, wiping his hands on a rag already streaked with grease. His red ’67 Mustang gleamed in the sun behind him.
Kindall smiled. “Are you good with cars?”
Rick chuckled. “I could fix a transmission in my sleep.”
She stepped aside. “Then you’re the expert I need.”
He leaned in under the hood, forearms flexing, eyes scanning the engine like a man solving a puzzle.
Joe, unloading an azalea bush from his truck, spotted them instantly.
He saw the way Kindall laughed at something Rick said. The way she tilted her head, curious and charmed. Rick's hand brushed hers once, reaching for a wrench.
Joe’s jaw tensed. First Steven. Now Rick. He had never harbored resentment toward either of them—until Kindall moved in. Now every glance, every careless brush of her hand with theirs, fed a hunger he could barely leash. Watching her flirt so openly, so recklessly in front of him, made his body clench with a need that was equal parts desire and fury.
. . . . . .
Kindall never thought watching someone change a fuel pump could make her feel… this. But there Rick was—half beneath her car, wrench in hand, the steady clank of tools echoing across the driveway. His shirt clung to his back in patches of sweat, and every time he reached upward, the muscles in his arms tensed in a way she couldn’t ignore. Muscles wrapped in a dusting of coarse hair that somehow made her heart beat faster.
“You always this handy?" she teased, twirling her hair around her finger. Even from several houses away, Joe swore he saw her fidgeting with her bra, making subtle little adjustments to lift her breasts higher, fuller, for Rick’s eyes.
Well, at least Rick was getting a better display. He, on the other hand, was starting to get blue balls.
Rick slid out from under the car, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist, streaking it with grease.
"I grew up fixing things that broke more than they worked."
"Well it served you well. I’m super impressed by your skills," she said, handing him a cold bottle of water.
His eyebrows lifted at the complement. And Kindall watched as his Adam's apple raised and lowered, quenching his thirst with every last drop of the water. After a few moments, he sat the bottle down and said, "Well, this baby will be as good as new in no time."
After a few more hours of easy conversation, she’d learned that Rick was a retired Navy Seabee of thirty years, twice married and divorced, with three grown kids—none of whom had given him grandkids yet, much to his disappointment. By the time dusk began to settle, he shut the hood with a satisfying thunk and turned to her.
“You’re good to go. Fuel line was nearly shot.”
"How much do I owe you?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. Not a penny."
"Rick—"
"I'm not taking your money, Kindall. Besides, I didn’t have anything better to do."
She opened her mouth to protest again, but closed it. The gesture hit somewhere deep and warm inside her. She wasn't used to people giving without an angle.
That warmth didn’t last long. Minutes later, Joe showed up, hands in his pockets and a too-wide smile stretched across his face. “You guys need any help?”
"Actually I think she’s all sorted out.”
Kindall nodded. "Yeah, he did me a huge favor."
Joe turned to Rick, clapping him on the shoulder a little too hard. "Man, always knew you were good with your hands.”
Rick’s jaw tightened just slightly, and he nodded. "Glad I could help."
The silence that followed wasn’t long, but Kindall felt it press against her chest. Joe’s smile didn't reach his eyes. And when he looked back at her, there was a flicker—something twitchy, like a mask slipping for just a second.
. . . . . .
After Joe and Rick had left, Kindall felt a strong desire to wash away the afternoon heat off her, soaking in a bubble bath. She reflected on the day, how nice it was of Rick to lend her a hand like that. And the fact he wanted nothing in return. There really are some good people in the world, she thought. She felt lucky that she had moved to Brook Hollow. Good neighbors are important. She felt blessed and appreciative. She wasn’t sure just yet how she would repay Rick, but in time, she’d think of something.
Meanwhile, dinner at the Joneses was roast chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and that buttery squash casserole Joe always asked for when they got their first squash harvest from the garden.
Joe had taken two bites. Maybe three.
Across the table, his wife watched him over her wineglass. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Everything okay?”
Joe looked up. “Yeah. Just a long day.”
She didn’t push, but he could tell she was holding back. The way her fork hovered mid-air. The way she glanced at his plate—still mostly full. She’d spent all afternoon cooking, he was sure. He felt bad, in theory. But in truth, the food might as well have been sawdust. He had no appetite.
He chewed slowly, mechanically. He couldn’t stop picturing Kindall standing there with Rick—laughing, beaming at him like he’d just invented fire. Covered in sweat and engine grease. Acting like it was some heroic act to fix a car.
Joe had offered to help with it a few days ago. She said she’d call a shop. And that just didn’t sit well with him. Did she not think he had mechanic skills? In all honesty, he couldn’t do much under the hood of a car, but that wasn’t the point. What made her think that?
. . . . . .
Later that night, he stood by the kitchen counter under the soft buzz of the fridge, staring at a blank yellow Post-it.
He should let it go. It was a lawn tool. Just an edger. Rick had borrowed it months ago, and Joe had told him, “Keep it as long as you need, man.” That was back when things felt normal. Before Kindall started looking at him like Mr. Fixit.
Joe grabbed a pen and wrote in tight, neat letters:
“Hey, need the edger back when you get a chance. – J”
He stuck it on Rick’s door just after 7pm. No knock. He was glad Rick didn't notice him. He was too annoyed. And maybe a little afraid of what might come out if he saw Rick’s face. Better not to say anything at all. Better to be polite. Measured. They were neighbors, after all. And that means they had to live with each other.