'Bronzed thighs as thick as oiled tree-trunks' may not sound like a sexy simile, but it's the best way to describe Luke Mezaretti as he lumbers out from the woods behind my house.

In nothing but his boxer briefs.

Again.

They're charcoal gray today and seem painted on rather than an actual piece of clothing. They hang low on his hips, showing off that coveted 'v' that has speared a hundred girls' hearts at our highschool. Luke glistens, but not in a slippery, soaked eel sort of way. More in a way that serves to heighten every sculpted line of mouth-watering muscle.

I have to admit, Luke's got gull being so daringly half-naked around the time my parents are usually up - Mom works long shifts at the hospital as a nurse, so she's typically getting home by now and Dad's been getting up before dawn ever since his lawn care hobby ballooned into full-blown obsession.

But despite risking my parents stumbling across him as he takes his nude stroll through our backyard, Luke doesn't care.

And I'm not stupid enough to not not look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it swaggers in front of me every other day in a different pair of underwear.

Besides, Luke really leans in to his whole 'bad boy' persona - smoking cartons of cigs, guzzling vodka, welcoming a different girl into his bed every night. He does all the quintessential, bad boy cliches times ten, and has, every day since I'd known him.

He's got the whole spiel down to a 't'. Or should I say 'v', because those dangerous lines of muscle are still peeking out from the band of his underwear and though I'm trying to look anywhere but, who am I kidding? It's all I can focus on.

Anyway, Luke's smoking again, you know, typical bad boy behavior. A cigarette balances between his perfect, pouty lips as a limp—which is a word I never thought to use in Luke's orbit—coil of smoke spreads skyward.

Where the hell did it come from?

As previously discussed, he's not wearing pants nor do his briefs come equipped with pockets - far as I know, cargo boxer briefs aren't a thing. So where had he gotten it? There's no convenience store between here and wherever he's come from tucked away in the woods. Even if there was, Luke didn't have money on him, because, again, no pockets. I guess he could've weaponized those dimples of his and done some choice persuading to get a clerk to accept a verbal IOU in exchange for a pack, but...really, the whole thing's baffling.

Tack yet another mystery onto the walking, smirking, smoldering enigma that is Luke Mezaretti.

Speaking of which, he's wobbling past Dad's withering vegetable garden and toward the hedgerow separating our properties. Gold and glistening and most definitely hung over. But still he wears the under eye bags, day-old stubble and disheveled hair like a rock star. I'm impressed. Genuinely.

Finally, Luke stumbles to the hedgerow where, leaning on an old oak tree, that's so old I'm surprised it hasn't sprouted a beard and started doling out sage advice, he pulls out a plastic bag stuffed between branches of the dwarf holly bushes.

From the bag, he procures a pair of dark denim jeans, ripped of course because, well, bad boy. Sweat cascades down his forehead and over the sharp angles of his cheeks and square jawline—highlighting his geometric perfection—as he struggles with the jeans.

I'd never wish harm on anyone, but in Luke's case, I kinda want to see him take a spill in the dirt. Face plant and come up with mud on his face and grass stuck between his teeth. Something so unlike him, something so imperfect and beyond his control, it'd remind the world that Luke wasn't just that trademarked bad boy, but that he was human. Like the rest of us.

But that doesn't happen, it never does.

With both legs now shoved into what I believe are girl's jeans, because how else could they be so tight, he's finally decent, though because of how tight those pants are it might be more accurate to say he's more clothed than he was seconds ago and leave it at that.

In one graceful bounding leap—guess Luke wasn't just a bad boy but an Olympic hurdler—he clears the hedgerow and heads toward his home, a red brick ranch identical to ours, minus the dying vegetable garden, flower beds and lawn gnomes.

The Mezaretti's didn't much care for appearances, and their yard reflected that. Can't fault their zero-fucks given attitude though, not while I'm trying to muster up that similar take on life. Though, with parents like mine, who have a calendar tacked to the fridge, chockful of activity-hells for every day of the week and who plan every waking moment of their lives, and subsequently mine, down to the millisecond, it's damn near impossible.

It's odd that two polar opposite families can live next to one another in relative peace. Odder still that I can be best friends with Luke's younger brother, Braxton.

Truth be told, I've probably spent more time with Brax at his house than I've spent at my own. It shouldn't be all that unsurprising, considering he's got the better TV, junkier snacks and the newest gaming tech which always makes my mouth salivate from jealousy.

All my house boasts of are overprotective parents who like to remind me of the importance of protection - yep, that kind - and who bludgeon me over the head with facts about grass seed. The Mezaretti home didn't have a high bar to jump in order to be better, but damn, their downstairs den alone blows my house out of the water.

"Addie!"

Ah. Glancing at my phone, I realize it's 6:30 and the parents are up. They don't seem to have noticed Luke's journey through our yard. Oblivious, as always.

"Adelaide Jenkins!"

I sigh as Mom's voice continues to float up from downstairs.

"What is it?" I call back, glancing one last time out my window for any sign of Luke. He's long since gone back to the darkness of his own home, a home where both parents and kids got up at a normal, after-dawn hour.

"Your father and I are leaving," she says.

My temple throbs, remembering the big blow up I'd had with her last night. Mom's sister, Aunt Margie was getting married this weekend. Her third wedding in less than five years and Mom's optimistic it'll work out this time. Dad doesn't want to rock the boat, so he shares the same sentiment as mom and I, well, I have this bad habit of speaking my mind and thus, an argument ensued over last night's dinner of spaghetti and slightly burned garlic toast.

I hadn't wanted to go to something that would inevitably fail. Plus, the only reasons anyone would attend a beachfront wedding would be for the catering and open bar.

With food, I could take it or leave it, but the liquor? That was an actual bright side. But, I'm legally too young to drink and Uncle Marv, the only one who's ever sneaked me sips of fermented anything, was out-of-state and wouldn't be attending. Really, there wasn't a reason for me to go.

So I told Mom this, and she got upset, which upset my father. But by the end, after mom had angrily dished out the portions of tiramisu, which resulted in me getting the meagerest slice out of spite, she agreed, begrudgingly, to my staying home.

Finally. It only took fifteen years for her to admit I could manage a weekend without supervision, or so I'd thought, until she tacked on one caveat- I had to check in daily with the Mezaretti's. I'd agreed to her terms almost immediately.

Now it seemed after a good night's rest, mom had returned to her regular, effervescent self.

Chasing the remaining sleep from my eyes, I scuttle out of my bedroom and over to the stairs where mom stands on the landing, one hand on the banister, one on her hip, synching the waist of her denim shirt dress.

She flashes a smile once she senses me watching her, one I return in kind.

"Breakfast's on the table, sweetie," she says, her voice chipper and sweet. Honeyed and absent of any venom from yesterday, thank god. "Dad left money in the envelop on the fridge for dinner. I know we're only gone for the weekend but be sure to ration it out. You can't rely on Mr. and Mrs. Mezaretti to feed you while we're away. You're not a child. You're fifteen now, and we expect you to—"

"Got it," I say, running my tongue over my finger so I could swipe the air in front of me like I'm checking off a to-do list.

Mom shakes her head, the cinnamon-colored curls we share bouncing in front of her deep blue eyes.

She's as pretty as a picture, and looks young for someone in their forties, who spent a good portion of their twenties tanning whenever the sun dared to shine. But when she looks this sweet and incandescent, I can't help but ruffle her contented feathers.

"Best get going before my party guests arrive," I say.

Her eyes cloud over immediately, her glossy lips pull straight.

I smirk and shrug. "What? They'll be here any minute and I doubt you want to see the size of the keg they're bringing," I rub my chin, "unless, you think dad'll be willing to tap it for us—"

She sighs and shakes her head. "Adelaide Elizabeth...do you have to joke so early in the morning?"

"No," I shake my head, "but I don't see a problem with it. Besides, my joking took your mind off worrying so much." I point at her forehead. "Your worry wrinkle's finally receded."

She chuckles.

"I'll be fine." I trudge down the stairs, stare my mom in her cherubic face, and give her a hug.

She buries her head in the curve of my neck. "I know you will." She's there for mere seconds before pulling away.

Smiling, which is how she spends most of her time, she reaches up, brushes aside my unruly fringe and gives me a kiss on the forehead. I feel the lip gloss she's left behind on my skin.

Great, I'll be glittering like a disco ball when I head to the Mezaretti's later this morning.

I sigh and place my hands on mom's shoulders. "You know, I've watched enough movies to know how to escape any basements I may find myself trapped in." Her smile melts back into a frown. "You slowly work the rope restraining your arms and legs while speaking to your captor in a calming, gentle manner like you would a feral cat or dog. Then, you find whatever's sharpest, and go for the jugular." I motion stabbing someone in the neck. Mom bristles.

"Can't go five minutes without that Addie-brand sarcasm," she says.

"Believe that's part of being a teenager."

She chuckles. "I love you."

I nod, shuffle my feet and mumble back, "Love you, too."

Mom moves to the side of the door, opens it wider, and, back towards me, picks up the last two suitcases that have yet to be ferried outside.

In the driveway beyond, Dad's hustling like a bee in a hive, cramming, shoving, huffing, swearing and rearranging all the luggage to get it to go into the back of their tiny car.

Sweat slicks his skin, and as he reaches up to mop his brow, he must sense me staring because he leans around the trunk lid and flashes me a huge, toothy grin. "Bye, my little Adelaide!" I cringe at him yelling loud enough for all our neighbors to overhear, "Love you bunches!" His voice is sing-song, upbeat and terribly embarrassing. "See you Monday!"

My eye twitching, I hesitantly reach up and give him a wave.

His grin widens. "Take care of my baby," by which he means the lawn, "water her twice daily!" (Since when did grass and soil get assigned gendered pronouns?) "once in the morning, I've already done it for today, and once in the—"

"—evening!" I yell back. Of course I knew when to do it. He'd hammered this information into my brain, alongside the importance of condoms two nights ago. Somehow, broaching both topics in the same conversation. Don't know how he'd done it, but Dad's special for sure.

Dad nods at me, and then my mom turns and flashes yet another blinding smile, before sauntering out the door, luggage swinging at her sides. Dad wraps his arms around her, and plants a deep, inappropriate-for-their-only-daughter-to-witness kiss on her lips before opening the passenger-side door for her.

I stay at the foyer as their car trundles down the lane. When it's out of sight, I close the door and glance around at the newly emptied house.

Home alone.

And first up on my to-do list? Head straight to the Mezaretti's, do the initial check-in, then kick Brax's butt at the new racing game he's got while cramming junk food into my face and guzzling enough fizzy soda to taint my burps citrus.

And hey, if I catch another glimpse of Luke? Maybe after he's taken a shower and every part of him is sopping wet?

Well, I'd just have to deal with the hand fate dealt me.