“Oh my God!”

Near the porch steps, where the manicured shrubs began, was Kiera sipping a can of lemonade, chatting with the second man on the Handy Lawn Care Company crew. This landscaper was in an army-green shirt, soaked dark with sweat. An oversized pair of shears was tucked under his arm as he enjoyed a lemonade as well. It had to be the best damned lemonade on earth the way the two of them were cheesing between chugs.

I mumbled the words. “No. Not Jack Jake.”

Jameer said, “Who?”

“Mason. Miles.”

Their conversation stretched, she fanned the collar of her blouse like it was hot—it wasn’t—then casually tugged the rubber band off her ponytail, shaking her hair out in a way that made my knees weak from equal parts desire and jealousy.

She was flirting. Flirting! With Mason f’ing Miles.

“You said it was all about timing.” I lowered the binoculars. “That’s what you told me.”

This was supposed to be my time. He didn’t bother to say what we both knew.

My time had run out.

Raising the binoculars again, I strongly wished that I could read lips. Since that wasn’t one of my actual skills, I superimposed my own dialogue over Kiera’s and Mason’s magnified image. My words matching their lips as closely as the English in those badly dubbed kung fu movies Dad watched sometimes.

Him: So, hey, look at my abs.

Her: I can’t see them with your shirt on, silly.

Him: We’ll have to do something about that.

Her: Oh yes we will.

“Argggh!” I tossed Jameer’s binoculars on his bed, my fury nearing the point of eruption.

“Del, listen.” He raised his hands to chest level, palms out, like he was going to hold me in place, but stopped an inch shy of actually touching me. A wise decision. “This isn’t necessarily an endgame for us. You need to relax.”

“Relax?” I saw myself storming out, slamming the door so hard it shook the foundation.

Except there was no door.

Like, at all.

There was the rectangular frame that we walked through. There were three evenly spaced impressions along the door frame where hinges had once been. No. Actual. Door.

Who didn’t have doors?

This detail, oddly, was the thing that got my mind off the nuclear assault on my dating life taking place on the Westings’ lawn.

Slowly, I spun in place, taking in my surroundings undistracted. Plain walls. No door. Not even a mirror—how the hell did he tie his ties? “What’s up with your room, Jameer?”

His gaze bounced about the odd space. His shoulders slumped; I wondered if he preferred me yelling at him about Kiera. Shamefaced, he said, “I told you my parents can be strict.”

My emotions shifted. I was in danger of feeling sympathy for the dude who’d failed me, so I looked out the window again. I didn’t need binoculars to reignite my rage. “I can’t with you right now. I’m gone.”

“Del, wait.” Jameer chased me down the stairs, my feet sinking into the thick carpet runner.