Now he’s just looking at me.

“Mike. Nice to meet you.” He puts out his hand in what is meant to be a gesture that is returned. Oh! I know! I’m supposed to shake his hand! That’s what men do. They firmly shake hands. They solidify it. Whatever it is. Maybe everything.

I grab his hand and shake it. But now I am shaking it too long. He is looking at me. I put my other hand over our hands. Like I really mean it. Like he’s really super welcome. Like I’ve never before seen another human.

Yup. Miss Awkward van Awkwardington. At your service.

He nods for an uncomfortable eternity and then takes his hand back.

Phew. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of that.

The four guys behind him continue their pantomime of looking up, shifting their weight, and looking anywhere but at me, finding interest in the flagstones of the front walkway. The moss between cobblestones. An ant on the front stairs.

“We can just go around if you want.”

“Go around?” I ask.

“Yes. Go around. The house. We can go around the house. To start work in the back.”

“Yes, yes, of course! Go around. I understand. That would be great. Please do. Be my guest. Go on . . . around.”

He nods, looks back at his guys. A subtle look. They start to move en masse toward the side of the house, the mossy pavers leading through to the back.

I stand there, not offering anything. I think I am supposed to offer something? Or maybe I’m not. I’m the boss! Why should I offer anything? No. They’re on their own. Is that how you do it? You see, I’ve never actually overseen anything. I’ve been in more of an avoid-being-overseen position for most of my life. School. Grades. Teachers. Papers. Extracurricular activities. Debate. Chorus.

But this. This is all uncharted territory. A world of mystery where people shake hands. A job!

Mike, aka the leader of the pack, gives a little wave and heads around the house. None of them say anything, but clearly that is not going to happen until I am out of earshot and then they all laugh and make fun of me. I know how this works.

On the street, down the driveway, the orange and white truck with the insignia on the side “MoniCED Company Builders.” Not the catchiest of names. That’s for sure. Sounds almost . . . medical.

It occurs to me a normal person would be happy right now, considering the nonevent that definitely didn’t take place last night. A normal person would feel safer. Ah, yes. They are here. The men are here.

But that is not the feeling washing over me. Nope. The feeling seems to be more of a widening of the circle. Like . . . there’s the nonexistent entity staring out at me from inside the house and now, in addition to that, there is a group of men staring at me from the outside.