And I could jerk off under my own damn roof.

Mind made up, I cut the run short by looping back toward my mom’s after only three miles instead of the usual five, did some cursory stretches in the back yard, then headed inside to call Moretti. He was a builder, not a real estate agent, but he owned rental properties and often bought and flipped houses on the side. I figured he would have an inside scoop on the local market.

Maybe we could even find something in the next couple weeks, and Mariah and I could move in before the holidays.

We could start the new year in a new place. Get a new lease on life. A new beginning.

I felt better already.

Moretti was hungry, so we met at the Bellamy Creek Diner for lunch.

“How was the rest of the night?” I asked after we were seated in a booth at the back.

“It was fine. I left not long after you did,” said Moretti, shrugging out of his jacket.

“Alone?” I asked, but it was a joke. Enzo Moretti rarely left a bar alone on a Saturday night.

“Actually, yes. I’m kind of into this girl, Reina—she’s a server there, but she had to work until two and then get up early for church.”

“The dark-haired one?” I unzipped my Carhartt. “I saw you talking to her, but she didn’t look familiar. Is she new there?”

“Yeah. I’d never met her until recently either, but apparently her grandmother and my grandmother are friends. They sort of set us up.”

I laughed. “She’s Italian, I take it?” Moretti’s family was like my mother times a hundred—constantly on him to find a nice girl, settle down, and have kids. Lately his father had been threatening to retire and leave the family construction business, Moretti & Sons, to his younger brother Pietro, who was already hitched and had two little kids.

“She’s at least Catholic, which is what they really care about. And she’s cool. But . . .” He cringed. “She’s a little young.”

“How young?”

“Just turned twenty.”

I laughed. “Legal, at least.”

“Legal, yes, but have you tried talking to a twenty-year-old recently? Sometimes I feel like I have no idea what she’s saying. I never thought I’d say this, but I might be too . . .”

“Old for her?” I supplied.

“Mature for her,” he stated, sitting up taller in the booth and running a hand over his dark, wavy hair. “Not old.”

“Right.”

“I mean, her big ambition is to be an Instagram influencer,” he said. “What the hell kind of job is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“She was fucking born in the year 2000,” he said, shaking his head. “I was thirteen that year, jerking off to pictures of Britney Spears in that little plaid skirt. I had a filthy mouth and an even filthier mind. And she was, like, a baby.”

“She’s not a baby now,” I said, trying to be helpful.

“No, but . . .” His dark brows furrowed. “It weirds me out. The priest was looking at me during Mass this morning, and I felt like he was judging me.” He paused. “Although that could have been because I haven’t gone to Mass in months.”

“What made you go today?”

“I need to get back on my parents’ good side before they ruin my life by giving the business to fucking Pietro. If that means going to Mass and dating an adolescent whatever-a-grammer, I gotta do it.”

I laughed. “Have you taken her out on a date?”

“We’ve had dinner a couple times. You know, you could join us next time. I could see if Reina could bring a friend or something. At least we’d have each other to talk to.”

“Are you kidding? She’s closer to Mariah’s age than mine. No, thanks.”

Moretti groaned. “I wish my dad wasn’t being such a dick about this whole ‘settling down by age thirty-five’ bullshit. It’s fucking medieval.”

“But not a surprise,” I pointed out. “You’ve always known what they expected of you.”

He frowned. “I know, but thirty-five used to seem a lot farther away than it does now.”

“Tell me about it,” I said as the waitress dropped off my coffee and Moretti’s beer.

He took a big gulp of it. “What did you want to ask me about?”

“I want to buy a house.”

His eyebrows rose. “You’re moving out of your mom’s?”

“Yes. It’s time.”

“I agree.” He frowned as he picked up his phone from the table. “Let me get some info from you. Do you have a realtor you’d like to work with?”

“You think I need one?”

He shrugged. “Not necessarily. I know the area and the comps around here pretty well. You’ll have to hire an appraiser and probably a lawyer to look over the contract, but a realtor isn’t a must.”

“Good. I’ll stick with you.”

“Any particular neighborhood?”

I thought for a moment. “I guess it would be convenient to be close enough to my mom’s that Mariah could walk or ride her bike there. But if we couldn’t find the right house near enough, I’d deal with it.”

Moretti nodded. “Three bedrooms?”

“Sounds good.”

“Number of full baths?”

“Maybe two?” I liked the idea of Mariah and I each having our own bathrooms.

“Attached garage?”

“Not necessary.”

“Square footage?”

I shrugged. “No idea. I’d say maybe like twelve to fifteen hundred?”

“Any preference for particular style, like a ranch or colonial?”

“Nah.” I thought for a moment. “I’d like a nice-sized yard though. Maybe a patio or deck. I could build one if there’s enough space.”

“Got it.” We discussed my price range, and he put his phone away. “I’ll get back to you in a day or so with some options.”

Tuesday afternoon while I was at work, Moretti left me a voicemail. “Hey, I found some listings you might be interested in. I’ll email you the links. If there are any you want to see, maybe we can get appointments this weekend, although with the holiday, I’m not sure. Anyway, let me know your work schedule. I can never remember what days you’re on or off.”

My work schedule was a little confusing since it varied every week—a rotating series of two or three days on, followed by two or three days off—but I liked it. Shifts were long, but I never worked more than three days in a row, and every other week I got three consecutive days off. I could volunteer at Mariah’s school, get household projects done, run errands . . . and if the days fell over a weekend, sometimes Mariah and I went to visit Trisha’s parents, who lived in Indiana now.

After dinner that evening, I opened my laptop at the kitchen table and looked at the listings Moretti had sent. There were ten of them, but a few I was able to dismiss right off the bat—too expensive, too far from my mom’s, too small. But three or four of them had potential, and I invited Mariah to come sit next to me and look at the photos. Thankfully, my mother was at the usual Tuesday night meeting of the Ladies Benevolent Sewing Circle, where the grandmotherly ladies of Bellamy Creek pieced together quilts for families in need while discussing all the latest rumors. They spread as much gossip as benevolence, if you asked me. I’d show her the listings too, of course, but I wasn’t really interested in her opinions just yet.