I was managing to slow the progress Ella was making with constructing the brick and mortar wall around herself. If she hadn’t turned, I wouldn’t bother looking past her to see what was going on, because all I care about is ensuring that at least a crack remains in her carefully made wall—or possibly even convince her to remove a few bricks before the structure dries and hardens.

I take a step forward when Ella’s shoulders square. It’s a natural reaction, instinctual even, and it is for Shakespeare too, because she gets back on her feet, and I note the hairs rising on her back as her tail stills. I don’t know this woman, and for all I care, Shakespeare can bite her in the ass so she’ll get off my property, but Ella holds her back.

The stranger stops in front of Ella and glares at her, not even seeing me. “You little homewrecker.” She sticks a finger in Ella’s face, accusation and malice lowering her tone as she glares.

I’ve had women yell at me, both in personal and professional situations, but I’ve never seen the level of hatred this woman is showing to Ella, and it makes me wish she were a guy, so I could place both hands on her chest and shove her a safe distance out of Ella’s face before I clocked her.

“You had no right talking to my son like that!” she continues before I can calm myself enough to interject.

“You need to calm down and back up,” I tell her, taking a step forward.

Her shrewd eyes snap to me, finally aware of my presence. But she doesn’t give me more than a second before she’s facing Ella again. “I already emailed the board and told them you were screaming at my son and his friends. Yelling obscenities and throwing rocks at them like the lunatic you are!”

“If you’d like to discuss what your son did, I’d be happy to. I even took pictures so you’re able to see what he did.”

The woman grabs for Ella, and for a second I think she’s going to take her own swing, making me step forward and place an arm across her chest and haul her back several steps.

“You’re the chair of the committee that handles all of the plants your son and his friends trampled. You might actually be interested in the pictures.” Ella’s tone has turned goading and cold. It’s completely unfamiliar to me, but I don’t blame her. Not in the least. Their coded words mean little to me, and the word ‘homewrecker’ is still echoing around my yard. It’s obvious this woman is trying to hurt Ella in a way that heals much slower than a wound from a punch.

“I’m going to file a restraining order against you to keep you away from my son,” the woman warns.

“You’re crazy,” Ella says. “I was taking my dog for a walk, not stalking your son. I didn’t even know he was your son.”

The woman tries to take another step forward, but I don’t allow it. I don’t know whether to allow this conversation to keep going or haul Ella into my house and wait until this woman leaves. Everything is happening so fast, and I don’t know anyone or anything well enough to know what the right decision is.

“Think anyone’s going to believe you after everything you’ve done?” The woman sneers.

My gaze sweeps to Ella. I’ve already committed to carrying her inside, just to get her out of this woman’s line of fire, and the pain in her eyes radiates deep in my gut. I step in front of the angry woman, obstructing the glare she’s set on Ella.

“You need to leave.”

She bobs to look around me, her ugly mouth already opened to spew more hateful things.

“I said get out of here!”

She faces me with a final huff, looking indignant before turning and marching back down my driveway.

“What in the hell was that all about?” I ask, looking to Ella.

She’s completely closed off, locking her jaw. The light in her blue eyes burns as she stares off, not bright and promising, but on high alert as though she’s already erected a dozen barricades. “That’s Mrs. Grant.” Her jaw flexes again.

I wait for more because telling me the woman’s name is nothing. “What happened though? Those kids, what did they do?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sure she’ll make it look like nothing.”

“Ella!” I say her name firmly, loudly, hoping to surprise her or just remind her that she can talk to me. Still, she doesn’t look at me.

“I have to go. I’m late for work,” she tells me instead.

She tugs Shakespeare’s leash and doesn’t offer another word before setting off, disappearing down the block.

Clearly something happened. Something that might still be going on. First Justin’s wife, Kristy, tells me Ella is an alcoholic, and then this strange Mrs. Grant woman calls her a homewrecker and alludes to her bad reputation.

Sighing heavily, I turn around and see Rachel’s empty house beside me and wonder if she knows and if she’d tell me. But Ella already confirmed what I knew about Rachel being interested in me, and approaching her to discuss the rumors about her best friend seems like a very slippery slope. I don’t want her thinking I have feelings for Ella.

I make my way up to my front door, pausing at the top step. I don’t like Ella. Not like that. She lives too close. She isn’t interested in me at all. I just like talking with her and hanging out with her because she’s different.

Tomorrow I have to go back to work, and my house is still a mess, so I chastise myself for a solid minute for being a woman and overthinking my feelings and trying to label my emotions, and I set to work unpacking more boxes, knowing I’ll be throwing most of the shit away.

An hour later I’m finishing unwrapping large glass steins and placing them into my dishwasher, swearing at myself because I’m still wondering what in the hell that confrontation in my driveway was all about.

I pick up my phone and text Ella.

Balancing my forearms on the now-empty box, I wait for a response, knowing Ella always replies quickly, and now I know it’s because her phone is always close due to her anxiety and concerns with Hayden.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait some more. Staring at my phone, willing her to reply.

Thirty minutes pass before I set my phone on the counter and take the box out to my garage to break it down and add it to the stack of recyclables.

She has a high-pressure job. I’m aware of this without knowing a ton of details. Ella wasn’t secretive about her role with the company, just very casual about it, glossing over the details and only giving me examples when I asked specific questions, but they quickly led me to realizing two things: one: she loves her job, and two: she spends a lot of time working. I try to convince myself she isn’t ignoring me, just busy since it’s only 10 AM.

Going back inside my focus transitions to box after box, being sure to empty all of the contents and sort them before moving on. It keeps me focused and distracted. Two things I am desperate for.

Every box is gone by the time the sun falls out of sight, and while it feels good to have accomplished something, it hasn’t sated that itch that has kept me busy all day. I check my phone again to see if Ella has responded and am not surprised to see she hasn’t. I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s avoiding me, and while my strongest instinct is telling me that’s good and that I should ignore her too, it’s not my first instinct. No, that one is suggesting I go to her house and find out what’s going on. Be sure she’s okay. Make certain nothing bad could have happened to her by another protesting neighbor.

I grab my small wad of keys from the kitchen table and lock my front door before hopping in my truck, suddenly concerned that something may have happened to her and I was too butthurt to consider the fact earlier.

When I pull up to Ella’s, the house looks dark and empty. No porch light greets me, nor do the lights from the front room through the windows. I hop out of my truck and in a dozen quick strides reach her door, where I knock hard enough that it rattles its protests.

Several minutes pass before I bang again, louder, harder.

Still she doesn’t answer, but Shakespeare comes running, barking as she does. I wait, wondering if she had fallen asleep, but Ella doesn’t appear.

I go around her house and open the gate to her backyard. A light in her family room is on, and I follow it to the back slider door that connects to the room.

Ella is sitting on the floor, wearing the same clothes I saw her in earlier, but now her hair is pulled up. I knock on the glass door with less force since she can’t pretend she’s not home anymore.

She jumps, and something flies out of her hand and lands on the couch beside her, making me laugh, though I feel guilty for doing so. I try to open the slider, but it’s of course locked. I wouldn’t put it past her to have a wooden dowel on the track as well. I point to the door handle, reminding her she needs to let me in since she hasn’t yet moved from the floor. With great reluctance, she does, and then removes a wooden rod from the track before she pulls the door open.

“What are you doing?” she cries. “You just took ten years off my life.”

“You weren’t answering your door.”

Her eyes grow. “It was a hint.”

“I took it as one. To try harder.”

Her chin drops, failing to see the humor.

“What happened with Patrick?”

As expected, Ella’s eyes widen at my abrupt question. “Who told you?” she asks.

I shake my head, realizing what I had assumed is correct: everyone in this town knows something about her history with Patrick. Everyone but me.

Her throat moves slowly with a painful looking swallow. Slowly, she parts her lips, but it’s several seconds before she says anything. “I met him when I was in high school. Some friends and I were out bowling. Bowling,” she repeats the word with disdain, her brows heavy with the memory. “We were both there with friends, and when mine went to get food, his went to get drinks, and there we were—alone. We hit it off right away.” Ella’s focus is across the room, and I wonder if she’s seeing the memory play out as she retells it. “He was funny, charming, handsome, and so sure of himself. They say women love that, and I did. I totally fell for his confidence. The way he took charge and placed his hand on my lower back though he hadn’t earned the right to do so. The way he smiled at me like I was amusing and amazing though I hadn’t earned that either. He didn’t know me, and I didn’t know him. But I thought I did. I thought he did.” She bites the inside of her cheek, her eyes glazed with memories.

“How old were you?” I can do the math myself. I know Patrick because I’ve worked with him and his station before. Know him because I have respected the man this town has loved for years.

“Seventeen and stupid,” she tells me.

“And he was…”

“Thirty-one.”

My eyes widen. I want to be grossed out because I’m still eleven months from turning thirty-one and can’t imagine flirting with a seventeen-year-old, then I look at Ella and her full lips, the line of her jaw, the fire in her eyes, the length of her neck—and wonder if I’d seen her at seventeen if I would have even cared to ask how old she was.

“I was infatuated,” she admits. “He was cultured and successful, he knew how to flirt and he called me ‘dear’ like my grandfather did my grandma, and it just felt so right.”

“What happened?”

Her lips move to form words and then close, and her eyes finally move to mine, and I can see a myriad of thoughts forming and colliding, revealing my question was too broad. It’s evident that much has transpired. “You guys began dating?” I ask instead.

She nods once and then shrugs, confusion and embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “I thought we were. I thought we were in a relationship,” she scoffs, “back then I thought all sorts of things.

“We saw each other a few days a week and then sometimes not for a month. I thought it was because he was busy. I had only dated a couple of guys in high school, and thought it was normal.” She raises her brows that frame blue eyes containing a dizzying combination of fear, vulnerability, and anger. “I blame my parents for that. I grew up without cable.” Ella laughs, and I can tell she’s doing it to calm herself, so I work to smile too, understanding the need to punctuate the moment with something funny. “When he’d go on business trips, I’d sometimes go with him, telling my parents I was going to a friend’s house.”

“They didn’t know about him?”

She shakes her head. “They would’ve killed me.”

“And then you got pregnant.”

“And then I got pregnant,” she repeats. “They were angry at first. Livid.” Ella scoffs. “But then their anger transferred from me, to the situation, and then to Patrick. They hated him. Wanted to press charges, which in turn made me angry with them. I was in love with him and having his baby!” She pauses, biting her bottom lip. “It was legal. I mean, here in North Carolina, the age of consent is sixteen, but they knew I was too young, knew it was going to end badly. But, I took all my savings that had been intended for college and moved into a small one-bedroom apartment so I could be near him.”