Bristle Wave was boring for the most part. My daily routine was to ride my bike through the neighborhood park, come back home and read a book, and then wake up for school. During summer, it was worse.

My parents were hardly ever home—Dad most likely working or playing golf and Mom running her new art studio—so I stayed in the house reading young adult novels by Judy Blume and J.K. Rowling. I thought surely I’d be trapped in Primrose with no friends, no life, and no entertainment until I was off to college—that is, until the day the Blacks moved in.

They happened to move right into the home across the street from me. Mr. Clark lived there only months ago but was sent to a retirement home after falling down the stairs and breaking his hip.

The rumble of a motorcycle caught my ear, and I climbed off my bed, forgetting about the needless algebra homework as I stole a peek out the window. A moving truck parked along the curb, and a black Tahoe pulled into the driveway, parking in front of the garage door.

A woman and a girl climbed out of the Tahoe, the woman fanning the humidity away. The girl looked to be around my age, her nose stuck in a book, hooked on whatever story she was devouring. Ahh, I thought. She likes to read, just like me. Check one.

They entered the house, and a few moments later, the woman came back out, telling the movers where to carry the items as she pointed towards the ash-brick house, shading her eyes with the other hand above her brow.

The men carried a large, brown sofa across the lawn, a few carrying small things like dining and patio chairs and even a small red recliner that the woman made sure was handled properly.

Everyone seemed to be busy—everyone except the man sitting on the loud motorcycle he rode in on. It was rare hearing the growl of a motorcycle in Primrose. Everyone in the neighborhood drove classy cars—Mercedes, BMWs, and fancy Infiniti or Cadillac SUVs. I knew Mrs. Rhodes, their next-door neighbor, wouldn’t be too pleased about that. She hated loud noises, yet she had a small Yorkie that yapped all day long until she came home.

The man sat on his motorcycle, wiping off his helmet with a brown cloth. He wore a fitted black T-shirt and dark wash jeans. His hair was a dark, beautiful, chaotic mess, a few tendrils hanging on his forehead, most likely from taking his helmet off. The haircut suited him. Long in the front, short on the sides and in the back, parted on one side to uphold a classic yet modern appeal.

It was never like me to take full notice of anyone, but there was just something about this man that had me curious. He didn’t seem to match the woman I assumed was his wife. She ran around like a chicken with her head cut off, telling the movers right from wrong. He seemed too laid back for her, but by the way he looked at her—watched as she swished her hips to get to the door in her snazzy high heels, I could tell he loved her.

Completely.

Utterly.

From this angle, he looked tall, with a chiseled face, high cheekbones, and a bone-straight smile that he revealed when his wife walked out the door. She sighed as she walked towards him and stepped between his legs, wrapping her arms around his neck. She held him close, sighed some more as she gazed into his eyes, and I could understand why. That man was absolutely breathtaking. From head to toe, he was perfection.

I continued watching the little family, curious as to where the girl went. I assumed she was in her unfurnished bedroom, nose still buried deep in her novel. I instantly wanted to meet her. I wanted to know what she was reading. I hoped it was Judy Blume.

Collecting my house key and sliding into my favorite pair of Sperry’s, I hurried down the stairs where my mother stood in the foyer, chatting on her cellphone while she peered out of the window. I wasn’t the only one being nosey.

When she heard me coming down, she turned and asked, “Where are you going, sweetie?”

“I’m going to meet the new neighbors.”

“Oh. Tell me how they are,” she whisper-hissed as I swung the door open. I nodded and shut it behind me, standing on the porch. The family was no longer in sight. The movers were bringing in some more of their larger belongings.

I was being impatient. I wanted to meet the girl across the street first before any of the other prissy girls in Primrose got to her. Not that I needed a friend, but I wanted one. I wanted someone that had similar interests and reading was a huge one for me. So, I walked across the street, up their driveway, and courageously knocked on the front door.

It opened right away, and to my surprise, it was the man from the motorcycle and the girl’s father, I presumed. “Well,” he said, slowly revealing a full smile. “Who do we have here?”

“Uh… hey.” My cheeks turned rosy red, my chest going hot. I wasn’t expecting him to answer the door. “I—I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Chloe Knight. I live right across the street”—I looked back and pointed to my house—“and I was wondering if I could meet the girl that went inside?”

The man raised a brow. “The girl? You mean my little Isabelle?”

“That’s her name?”

“Mmm-hmm.” One of the movers walked past him and me. The man looked down, gesturing back. “Come inside. I’ll go get her.”

My throat became thick, so I didn’t say anything. I just bobbed my head and followed the man inside. The house felt full and they hadn’t even set up yet. Boxes were stacked in every corner, furniture piled high in the den and living room.

“Sorry about the mess,” he teased, raising his brows. “Just moved in and all.” He held his hands out, giving me a shit happens kind of shrug. I forced a smile, unsure of how to respond, and he noticed, stopping in his tracks before walking up the stairs. “I guess I should have told you who we are, huh?” He scratched the top of his head. “I’m Theo Black. My wife’s name is Janet, and I’ve already told you my daughter’s.”

“Cool.”

He pressed his lips to smile, and after informing me that he’d tell Isabelle I was downstairs, he was taking the steps by twos, calling for his daughter. I took the time to look around the home. A few tables were in place, and next to one of them was an open box of photo albums.

Glancing back briefly before focusing on it again, I reached forward and opened the album. The first few photos were of Mr. and Mrs. Black, but as I flipped through some more, there were baby photos of the girl. She wore a lot of pink and yellow. She had rosy, chubby cheeks. She looked like a happy baby.

I noticed then that Mr. and Mrs. Black were very young when they had Isabelle. They looked to be in their late teens, early twenties. It was strange because they seemed so happy and content. While her parents seemed hip, cool, and lively, mine were nearing fifty, bitter towards each other, and mostly miserable. Hell, they hardly spoke to one another. And don’t get me started on our awkward, scheduled dinners.

My parents decided to have a child once they’d established careers and traveled the world. By the time they were ready to settle, they were thirty-six. It was a decent age but, unfortunately, Mom was considered high-risk when she carried me. I figured it was the reason she never had more children.

For a while, I thought that was the key to happiness—living your life first with the one you love and then creating a tiny being that you will love unconditionally for the rest of your life. Apparently, I had the wrong mindset because as I studied the Black’s pictures, I realized I didn’t even have any of my own to compare them to. If I did, I had no clue where they were other than the few small frames on top of the fireplace and beside the sofa. All for show, of course. But through all their photos, they seemed genuinely happy.

“She’ll be down in a minute.” Mr. Black’s deep voice startled me, and I snatched my hands away from the photo album, cheeks tinged red. “Sorry,” I whispered quickly.