At 52, I thought I’d seen every trick in the book when it came to husband-stealing drama queens. Boy, was I wrong. My new neighbor, a freshly divorced, young yoga Barbie, tried turning my husband into her next accessory. So I taught her why flirting with a married man is always a bad idea.
Three months ago, a moving truck pulled up next door, and out stepped trouble in stilettos. Her name was Amber. She was 25, blonde, and fresh off a divorce that left her with a house she didn’t pay for and an attitude that screamed, “your husband’s next.”
The whole street knew her story: she’d married 73-year-old lonely Mr. Patterson, then walked away with half his assets when he couldn’t keep up with her “needs.”
I watched her through my kitchen window, directing movers in shorts that belonged in a gym, not on a front lawn at eight in the morning.
“Andy, come look at our new neighbor!” I called my husband.
He wandered over, coffee mug in hand, and nearly choked. “Well, she’s… young.”
“She’s trouble.” I crossed my arms. “Mark my words.”
Andy chuckled and kissed my cheek. “Debbie, not everyone’s out to get us. Maybe she just wants to fit in.”
“Oh, she wants to fit in alright… right between you and our marriage vows.”
“Deb..?!”
“Just kidding!”
Being the good neighbor I was raised to be, I baked blueberry muffins and marched over to Amber’s house the next morning. She answered the door in a silk robe that barely covered what God gave her.
“Oh my gosh, how sweet!” She clutched the muffin basket like it was made of gold. “You must be Debbie! Andy told me all about you.”
My smile tightened. “Oh, did he? When exactly did you two have time to chat?”
“Yesterday evening when I was getting my mail. He was watering your roses.” She leaned against the doorframe. “Such a gentleman. You’re so lucky to have a man who takes care of things.”
The way she said “things” made my skin crawl.
“Yes, he takes very good care of what’s HIS!” I replied, emphasizing the last word.
She giggled like I’d told the world’s funniest joke. “Well, if you ever need anything… anything at all… I’m right here!”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Within a week, Amber’s “innocent” behavior escalated faster than a teenager’s texting bill. Every morning, she’d appear at her fence just as Andy left for work, waving like she was flagging down a rescue helicopter.
“Morning, Andy! Love that shirt on you!”
“Your lawn looks amazing! You must work out!”
“Could you help me with this heavy box sometime? I’m just so weak!”
I watched this circus from behind my curtains, steam practically shooting from my ears.
Thursday morning, I’d had enough. I marched outside just as Amber was doing her daily performance.
“Morning, Amber! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
She straightened up, clearly annoyed by my interruption. “Oh, hi Debbie. Yes, it’s gorgeous.”
“Andy, honey, don’t forget we have dinner with my mother tonight,” I announced loudly, sliding my arm through his.
“Actually, I was hoping Andy might help me move my couch this weekend,” Amber interjected, batting her eyelashes. “It’s so heavy, and I don’t know any other strong men around here.”
“I’m sure the moving company has a number you can call,” I replied sweetly. “They specialize in heavy lifting.”
Andy cleared his throat. “I, uh, better get to work. See you later, honey.” He kissed my forehead and practically sprinted to his car.
Amber’s smile faltered as she watched him drive away. “You’re so protective of him.”
“Thirty years of marriage will do that to a woman!”
***
The following week brought new levels of audacity. Amber started jogging past our house every evening, always when Andy was working in the yard. Her running outfits left nothing to the imagination, and her “accidental” stops for water breaks were choreographed like a Broadway show.
“This heat is just killing me!” she panted, fanning herself dramatically. “Andy, you wouldn’t happen to have a cold bottle of water, would you?”
Andy, bless his oblivious heart, handed her his own water bottle. “Here, take mine.”
She pressed it to her chest like he’d given her diamonds. “You’re such a lifesaver. Literally!”
I appeared on the porch with a garden hose. “Amber, honey, if you’re that hot, I’d be happy to cool you down!”
She jumped back like I was holding a snake. “Oh, that’s okay! I should get back to my run.”
Two weeks later, Amber played her ace card. It was Friday night, and Andy and I were settling in to watch a movie when someone pounded on our door like the house was on fire.
Andy jumped up. “Who could that be at this hour?”
Through the peephole, I saw Amber in a bathrobe, hair disheveled, looking panicked.
“Andy! Thank God you’re home!” she gasped when he opened the door. “I think a pipe burst in my bathroom! There’s water everywhere! I don’t know what to do! Could you be a sweetheart and help me?”
My husband’s protective instincts kicked in immediately. “Of course, let me grab my toolbox.”
“I’ll come too,” I said, grabbing my jacket without looking at him.
“No, honey, you don’t need to—”
But before Andy could finish, Amber let out another breathless “Oh my God! My bathroom is flooding! Hurry, Andy… hurry!”
Andy was already halfway across the lawn with his toolbox in hand like some suburban superhero.
I followed them like a hungry cat chasing a rat.
Amber opened the door in a robe that hung off one shoulder like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to fall or cling. Andy stepped inside without a second thought as she shut the door behind him.
I moved fast. I didn’t ring or knock… just turned the knob and let myself in through the crack she didn’t bother closing all the way.
I followed the soft sound of her voice echoing down the hallway. “It’s back here in the master bathroom,” she purred.
Andy followed, toolbox still in hand.
I reached the hallway just in time to see her push the door open and gesture like she was unveiling a magic trick.
And I froze.
There was not a leak in sight. Just candlelight. Rose petals. Soft jazz floating from somewhere I couldn’t see. And Amber was standing in the doorway to her bathroom… wearing nothing but lace lingerie, high heels, and desperation.
Andy’s feet stopped moving. So did his brain.
“AMBER?? What the hell is this?” He yelped.
Amber smiled, like this was cute. “Surprise!”
Andy blinked and stepped back. “Are you out of your mind? I’m a married man.”
She reached for his arm. “Andy, wait—”
“Don’t!” He pulled away like she burned him. “This is insane.”
I turned and walked out in silence, blinking back tears… half from relief and half from sheer pride. My Andy had passed the idiot test with flying colors. He was loyal… clueless as ever, but loyal.
And as for Amber? Oh, she was about to get a full crash course in boundaries.
Back in our kitchen, Andy set the toolbox down like it weighed a hundred pounds. His hands were still shaking when he told me what had happened back in Amber’s house.
“Debbie,” he said, barely meeting my eyes. “I swear… I had no idea she would do this.”
“I know.” I pulled him into a hug. “But now you understand what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
His hands trembled as he held me. “She’s been planning this the whole time.”
“Welcome to my world, honey!”
The next week, I put my plan into motion. A few days earlier, I’d casually asked our elderly neighbor Lisa if she still had Amber’s number… said I wanted to check in on her after “that whole pipe fiasco.” Lisa, sweet as ever, sent it over without blinking.
While Andy was in the shower one morning, I borrowed the second phone he usually leaves at home and typed out a message that would make Amber’s evening very… interesting.
Andy: “Hey beautiful. It’s Andy. My wife’s out with her book club tonight. Wanna come over around eight? Bring that smile I can’t stop thinking about.😉”
It took her exactly two minutes to reply.
Amber: “Ooooh… naughty 😘 I thought you’d never ask. I’ll be there. Should I wear that little thing you saw me wearing last time? 😉”
Andy: “Anything you wish!”
Amber: “Alrightyyyy!! 😘 😘 😘”
