Good Bones by Kim Fielding

clear.
    “You got a problem here?”
    Dylan’s head snapped to the side, and Andy almost lost his footing again as he spun in surprise. Chris was standing a few feet away, wearing honest-to-god overalls with his tool belt low on his hips like a gunslinger. He had a wide stance and a confident gaze, and it occurred to Dylan that this was a guy who’d probably been in a few fights. Unlike Dylan, whose last scrap was a playground brawl in third grade that ended with scraped knees and a trip to the principal’s office.
    For a moment, nobody moved. Then Dylan took a deep breath. “Hi, Chris. Andy’s just leaving.”
    Chris nodded pleasantly enough, and Andy responded with a low growl, but then his shoulders slumped. He might just as well have rolled over and bared his belly, Dylan thought.
    “Dylan, I didn’t come here to fight,” Andy began. “I don’t know who this guy is—”
    “Chris Nock. Neighborhood watch,” Chris said with a grin.
    “—but we need to talk.”
    Dylan shook his head. “No, we really don’t. I’m done with you.”
    Andy actually winced, and Dylan almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Blood was running down Andy’s neck and pooling around his collar. His clothes were smeared with mud. “Dylan,” he began.
    “Just go home, Andy. Go home, and don’t come back. Ever.”
    For long, tense seconds Dylan wasn’t sure how Andy would react. But finally his former lover hung his head and walked back around the side of the house, giving Chris a very wide berth and a hard glare. Dylan and Chris just stood there until they heard a motorcycle gun to life and speed away. Then they looked at one another. Dylan braced himself for harsh words, but all Chris said was, “Need some help in the kitchen today?”
    They didn’t get to work right away. First Dylan found a couple of towels so they could dry off, and watching Chris move the fabric over his body was pretty damn distracting. Evidently the little melodrama in the backyard hadn’t cooled his libido much. There was more coffee—Chris liked his with milk, which Dylan didn’t have, so he shrugged and took it black—and some discussion about the day’s plans, and finally Chris helped demolish the rest of the wall and dump the pieces outside. They didn’t discuss the morning’s altercation or their disagreements from two days earlier, but Chris had a relaxed demeanor and a ready smile, and Dylan had the strange idea that his neighbor had reached some sort of decision.
    By lunchtime they were both covered liberally in plaster dust, and they’d exchanged only a few dozen words. “Want a sandwich?” Dylan asked.
    “Sure. Thanks.”
    Dylan washed his hands in the half bath, and then they both moved into the office-to-be for easy access to the little fridge. Chris watched silently while Dylan slapped aioli on stone-ground bread, added a pile of sliced prosciutto, and topped it off with Havarti. He handed one of the sandwiches to Chris. He noticed that, while Chris had scrubbed his hands pretty well, grease stains remained in the creases, and his fingernails were black.
    “Getting your new cabinets and flooring and shit delivered’s gonna be a bitch,” Chris said with his mouth full. “Nobody likes to deliver out here, and they don’t like taking their trucks down our road.”
    That thought had already occurred to Dylan. “Yeah. I guess I’m gonna have to rent a truck or something.”
    “Don’t think you can cram a kitchen in your little toy car?”
    “I can hardly cram myself in there. I think I need to buy a pickup.”
    Chris nodded. “Yep. Get an F-250, not one of them sissy trucks.”
    Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Sissy trucks?”
    “Yep. Shiny things for weekend warriors to drive to REI. What you need is somethin’ that can take a real load and haul a heavy trailer. And get one used, ’cause you’re gonna end up with scratches and dents on it anyway.”
    “Thanks for the advice.”
    “Anytime. I won’t even charge you for it.”