So I spent my afternoon yanking out dead bedding plants, turning mulch into the earth so it’d be ready to give me the goodness come spring, and planting fall mums in my pots and hanging basket.

But even with this innocent activity, life demonstrated how it could suck when I was almost done with the hanging basket (which meant I’d be all done) and I felt a nasty feeling glide up the back of my neck.

I looked left and saw my dickhead neighbor standing beside his mailbox at the street, letters in his hand, tattered jeans on his legs, skintight thermal on his torso, the makings of a beer belly straining the middle, his eyes on me.

He had his head tipped to the side, and I had enough experience to know, as I bent over my stoop to plant mums in the hanging basket, his attention was on my ass.

He must have felt my gaze because his head straightened, I saw the grin hit his face, and he lifted his hand to wave.

“Yo!” he called.

Shit, fuck, shit, shit, fuck.

I nodded to him, turned from him, pressed the dirt around the new plants, then hefted up the basket, walked up the steps, and lifted it to its holder.

I set it dangling, and without looking back, I walked into my house.

I still had cleanup, discarded plastic containers to toss, tools to clean and put up for the winter.

I’d do it later when the coast was clear.

But, being me—the way I looked, what I was—I knew, even having escaped, I’d just hit dickhead radar.

* * * * *

“To your left!” Ethan shouted.

I looked left, then I shot the shit out of the enemy.

“Good one. Okay, let’s go over to that building over there,” Ethan suggested.

“Lead the way, kid,” I muttered.

We were on our couch. The remains of the frozen pizza, which had been our dinner, mingled with two tubes of Pringles and an open bag of super M&M’s (a gift from the M&M gods—three times the chocolate in every piece) littering the coffee table in front of us.

It was after dinner and my kid and I were doing what my kid and I did a lot.

Playing a video game.

I followed my son’s character around a building, we came under fire, we kicked ass, clearing the space, then I followed him through a deserted marketplace, keeping vigilant.

My vigilance took a hit when Ethan, hands clicking on his controller, eyes to the TV, asked offhandedly, “So, is Merry your boyfriend now?”

Fuck.

I still needed to have the talk with my son about his dad and Peggy. I was procrastinating, but I intended to do it before he went to bed (or, at least, I was telling myself I intended to do it before he went to bed).

However, I had hoped that he’d let the Merry thing slide.

As ever, my hopes screwed me.