I Love You, My Neighbour: Chapter 2

She thinks I'm a lazy tradie

Logan

Setting down my electric saw, I retrieve my vibrating phone from my pocket and check the display before answering the incoming call.

"Hi, Mum," I say, stepping out of my house to get better reception.

"Logan, honey. How are you? How's your week been?"

Every Friday at five o'clock, without fail, my mother calls me. Even in the two years since my fiancée passed away, she hasn't missed a weekly check-in. After I moved out of home, we sometimes went weeks, or even months, without talking, but when I needed her—when I couldn't see a way through the days—she was my rock. As I've needed her less over the past two years, the frequency of her calls has decreased, but she still hasn't stopped calling on Fridays.

"The week wasn't too bad. No detentions, and I've made good progress on the house," I reply.

"How soon can I come for a visit?"

Turning around, I survey the wreckage behind me. "As soon as I'm sure the roof won't collapse on you."

She chuckles. "You always exaggerate, Logan."

"Did you see the photos I sent? It's going to take months to restore this place, even with help."

"Do you think you've taken on too much? Wouldn't it be easier to hire contractors?"

"Perhaps, but where's the fun in that? I can handle it; it just requires time."

And time is something I have an abundance of these days. This project helps me fill the void. What else would I do? Stay home, watch TV, and drown my sorrows? I've done enough of that in the past two years. If I keep drinking that much, I'll end up damaging my liver. After teaching countless high school Health classes, I have vivid images of poisoned livers etched into my brain.

"No, Cricket! Come back! Don't! Damn it, not again."

My mother continues talking, but I struggle to focus on the conversation as I watch the dog sprinting down the hill to my right. Since I started working on this house a couple of weeks ago, my neighbour’s disapproving glares have become almost as consistent as my mother's calls. Every day for the past fortnight, she has shot invisible daggers at me as she jogs down the hill and finds Cricket at my side, waiting for her.

It's not my fault that her dog seeks me out, although I'm sure my neighbour blames me in her head. It clearly upsets her that Cricket prefers my company over hers. Perhaps I should have kept my opinions to myself about her inadequate dog-handling skills. Even if she knows nothing about dogs, it wasn't my place to tell her.

People who neglect or mistreat their pets infuriate me. Izzy used to work as a vet at the local RSPCA, and she often shared stories of pet owners who didn't properly care for their animals. I was just as invested in the cause as she was. I still make regular donations to the RSPCA shelter she worked for, but it never feels like enough to honour her passion—to honour her memory.

Telling my neighbour to step up and enrol her dog in obedience classes won't compensate for anything or bring about any significant change. I'm well aware of that. But since Buster, Izzy's dog, passed away a few months after Izzy, Cricket's striking resemblance to him makes me feel like I should help the poor mutt. Somehow, I believe it's a way of doing right by both Izzy and Buster, becoming an advocate for Cricket.

Only half-listening to Mum's account of a picnic she went on with her latest boyfriend, I crouch down to pat Cricket, keeping my neighbour’s approach in my periphery. Her dark brown curly hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her grass-stained white t-shirt and grey sweatpants give away her recent jog. As always, her blue eyes flash irritation and annoyance as she approaches me. When she notices the phone in my hand and realizes I'm on a call, the stiffness in her posture dissipates. Thankfully, that means we won't have to endure our usual stilted conversation today.

"Hi," she mutters, pointing at the leash in my hand.

Reluctantly, I hand her Cricket's leash, waiting for the obligatory thank you. This time she whispers it before tugging on the leash and coaxing Cricket to move. Every day, she follows the same routine, never altering her approach, repeating the same risks. Stubborn woman. Biting my tongue, I suppress the lecture welling up inside me about how much she would miss her dog if anything happened to him. Instead, I retreat indoors to continue my phone call, where I don't have to face such unwavering obstinacy.

---

"What the hell," I mutter to myself as the circular saw in my hand abruptly sputters to a stop. Catching sight of a shadow moving behind me, I turn around and let out a sigh when I realize that the saw is not the problem—it's the power that has been shut off. My next-door neighbour has let herself into my front door and now stands before me, hands on hips, her long curly dark brown hair cascading over her shoulders. Her blue eyes are filled with rage, her cheeks flushed, and her lips moving at a million miles an hour.

I assume she's yelling at me, but with my earplugs in, I can't hear a word. For a moment, I contemplate leaving them in, but I know she won't leave without some sort of acknowledgment.

Reluctantly, I put down my power tool and remove my earplugs.

"Have you heard a word I've said?" she yells.

"Nope. What were you saying?" I reply, unfazed.

She throws her hands up in the air and rants at the ceiling before turning back to me. "I said, some people are trying to sleep around here."

"At five in the afternoon?"

"Yes, at five in the afternoon! I wake up at four in the morning. Then I go to work, and when I come home, I take a nap so I can bake all the orders for the following day. But ever since you started working here, I can't take my nap, and I end up falling asleep while baking. Then my cakes burn. And you know who buys burnt cakes? No one!"

Her overreaction to burnt cakes is rather excessive, to say the least.

"I think you need to take a breath and calm down," I suggest.

"Don't tell me to calm down! It's been weeks since I had a proper afternoon nap, and the noise from that saw is the most irritating, annoying sound in the world."

Well, at this moment, she is the most irritating and annoying person in my world.

"Sorry that you're missing out on your nap," I say, insincerely. "This is the only time I have to work on the house."

According to local government laws, I'm prohibited from using power tools after eight, which works out fine as I don't want to risk any accidents working late into the evening.

Her mouth drops open, resembling a gasping fish. "You're here all day. You should be leaving at four, or at the latest, four-thirty. Lately, you've been finishing after six, and eight hours of noise is more than enough, don't you think?"

"Eight hours? I don't even arrive until quarter to five," I retort.

It takes me about twenty minutes to commute from the high school where I teach, so I'm never here any earlier than that.

"Shouldn't you be starting earlier in the day? Isn't eight in the morning the typical time for tradespeople to start making noise? Or are you just a lazy tradie who shows up whenever it suits you?"

Her comment strikes a nerve, and I feel my temper flaring. Crossing my arms over my chest, I take a step closer to her. "Woman, I am not lazy. Some of us have day jobs, you know?"

She takes a step back, tucking her hair behind her ear. "How many jobs do you have?"

"Just one."

"Then you should take pride in your work and show up at a decent hour, and leave at a decent hour."

She mirrors my posture, crossing her arms over her chest, and tilts her nose up as if she's superior. Not only is she stubborn and prideful about her dog, but she also enjoys making snap judgments about people. A lazy tradie? With that assumption, she has made a complete fool of herself, and now it's time to set her straight.

"I do show up for work at a decent time, lady," I say, taking another step towards her, relishing the sight of her taking another step back. "And then I leave and come here to work on this place. I just bought it, and as you can see, it's a bit of a mess. But it's my house, and I'd like to move into it eventually, not that I can say much about the neighbours I've encountered so far."

I look at her pointedly, waiting for my words to sink in. Watching the gears turn in her head as the reality of the situation dawns on her is the highlight of my day, perhaps even my week. The widening of her eyes and the look of horror that washes over her face are worth the interruption to my work.

"You're moving in here?" she stammers.

"Yup."

Well, I will be once I've fixed the countless problems this place has.

Izzy's life insurance money went to her parents, which I had no issue with. In fact, I expected all her money to go to them. But the savings she had accumulated—money intended for our first home—she left to me.

For years, Izzy and I talked extensively about what our first house would look like. We discussed saving up for a spacious mansion, a house filled with children. Then we entertained the idea of purchasing a property near the city, the kind of couple that dines out every night and hires a nanny for our future kids.

We envisioned our life in various ways. The last time we seriously discussed our plans, we agreed to buy a fixer-upper like the one I currently stand in and renovate it. That was our dream, our plan. We would transform the place to suit us, and then we'd get married and have children—ideally, at least three of them. My fiancée loved kids as much as she loved animals.

After Izzy's passing, those who didn't know how to deal with my grief told me that life goes on. Unfortunately, they were right. Time doesn't heal all wounds—that part they got wrong—but life does move forward, and I need something to occupy myself. Even though buying this house and fixing it up intensifies my longing for the life I once envisioned with Izzy, it provides a small measure of comfort, knowing that I'm following through on our plans. I need this house, this project—a distraction.

So, the woman standing in my house, growing less certain of herself by the second, will simply have to deal with it.

"Check out the EPA website," I advise her. "I reviewed the noise regulations for residential areas before buying this house, and I'm not breaking any laws. I turn off all my power tools by eight. I have every right to make noise until then."

She swallows, her shoulders slumping. "This conversation was pointless."

"I wouldn't say that."

I've brought my neighbour up to speed on what's happening here, and although I dislike the idea of starting off on the wrong foot with my future next-door neighbour, her attitude leaves much to be desired. Whether I decide to keep this place or sell it once I'm done, I don't know yet. I can't envision sharing this house with anyone else or starting a new chapter here. But that's a problem for future me. Right now, I have a deadline to meet. My friends have offered to help me whip this place into shape. Hopefully, with the four of us working on weekends, we'll make significant progress before my current lease expires.

And no one—especially not my too-proud neighbour—will stand in my way.

She seems to be hugging herself now. "Is this really the only time you have to work on the house?"

"Yup. And this 'lazy tradie' needs all the time available to get this house into shape," I retort, throwing her insult right back at her. With a show of triumph, I insert my earplugs again, switch the power back on at the wall where she turned it off, and pick up my saw.

She flinches as I restart it. Then, with a defeated expression on her face, she slinks out the door, tail between her legs.

With her gone, I resume sawing through the wood and tiles I had measured and stacked against the wall earlier. And as I recall the shocked expression on my neighbour’s face when she realized that not only am I working here, but that I've actually bought the place, something I haven't done in a very long time happens.

I laugh.