Page 50 of Dear John

“Yeah, I got it!” I bit out, sucking in a deep breath as I took another step up.

“Cuz I can do this on my own.”

“I’m fine!”

I really wasn’t fine. My calves were killing me, but I was not a sucker. I could handle this. One more step and I was on the porch. My arms were burning and sweat was pouring from my pits. I definitely needed a shower before I let him anywhere near me.

He set his end down and leaned on the dresser, staring at me with a smirk on his face. “You know, I could have called the guys over to help.”

“I’m perfectly capable of helping you.”

“You were willing to let us move you in when you first got here. Why are you so adamant about this?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Maybe because someone said it was too much work for me.”

He burst out laughing. “I was just teasing you.” He strode forward and pulled me into his sweaty arms, rubbing my face all over his wet shirt.

“Eww!”

“Come on, you know you love it!”

“I love you sweaty in bed. Not smelly sweaty!” I finally squirmed out of his arms and wiped his sweat from my face. “Gross.”

“There’s no difference. Sweat is sweat.”

“Uh, that’s not even remotely true.” My jaw dropped in disbelief. “You’re crazy. There is absolutely a difference. Sex sweat is sexy. Work sweat smells like ass.”

“I thought all you ladies liked to see a man sweat.”

“Yes, from a distance. A very far distance where we can admire the gleam, but not have to smell it.”

“If you had let me invite the guys over to help, you could have been watching all of us sweat from a distance,” he jeered. But his eyes quickly averted to the road where a kid rode his bike down the sidewalk, watching us intently. Suddenly, Kavanaugh was marching down the steps toward the kid, shouting at him. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Kavanaugh!” I shouted, racing after him.

“You can’t be here!”

“You suck, mister!”

“I suck?” Kavanaugh scoffed. “You suck.”

“I bet you still suck your momma’s titties,” the kid said mockingly.

Kavanaugh jabbed a finger at him, “Hey, don’t talk about my momma that way.”

“Momma’s boy! Momma’s boy?—”

Kavanaugh took off after him, and I chased Kavanaugh, begging him to stop taunting the kid.

“If I see you on this street again, I’ll make you wish you were never born!” Kavanaugh shouted as the kid pedaled down the street, sticking up his middle finger.

I finally caught up and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him back toward the house. “What are you doing?”

“That’s the third time I’ve seen that kid on this street.”

“Yeah, well, he lives at the end of the block.”

Kavanaugh’s eyes narrowed as he continued to watch the kid. “And that gives him a right to bike down here?”