Forbidden Neighbor: A Contemporary Romance Boxset (Forbidden Saga Book 2)

by Summer Brooks

  The doctor keeps assuring me that there’s only one growing in there. But I’m pretty sure there are about twenty. It looks like there are about twenty in there.

  “You’re small,” the doctor keeps saying, “so the baby has nowhere to go but out.” And that’s wonderful, except I’d like to see my feet again. I’m told I still have feet, but I see no evidence of it myself.

  I haven’t been able to put shoes on at all for the past two weeks. So my brother had to help me with that until I got slip-on shoes, because that was getting embarrassing. And now, if I want to wear anything but my slip-on shoes, which I probably don’t, because everything else is ridiculously uncomfortable on my swollen feet, my brother is absolutely of no use to me, because he’s leaving town.

  I’m waddling after him right now trying to get more information from him.

  “Where are you going?” I ask. “I mean, it’s not like you to just vanish like this.”

  “I know, I know,” he says, packing his things up. “We just got an urgent call for this case that’s happening and I’m not sure - I don’t even know the details to be honest. But I know that I’m going to be gone for… about a week.”

  I bite my lower lip. I’m nervous about him leaving. I mean, Chris left before, and he didn’t come back. Am I really supposed to think that Dan is just going to come back as well?

  “Even if you knew, would you actually tell me?” I ask. I sound a bit whinier than I want to. I can’t help it. I’m worried. I’m worried and I’m scared and I’m heavily pregnant, and I can’t bend down and touch my feet… I’m just tired. I need this baby born now, and I need to feel secure in my life again. Right now, I don’t.

  Dan stops what he’s doing and stands in front of me. He places his hands on my shoulders.

  “Look,” he says. “I don’t know what this is about, but I tell you that I’m going to be safe, okay? And I’m going to come back.”

  I nod, but I can feel the tears welling in my eyes. Now that is new as well. I blame it on the hormones.

  Everything seems a lot more dramatic than it used to be. I mean, sure, I’ve always been a little bit emotional, maybe a little bit dramatic… it adds flair to my fiction, I say. But, lately? It’s just getting out of hand.

  That’s okay though. I’m told that it will get better once I have the baby. But maybe… I’ve read everything about post-partum depression, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m heading straight for it.

  Dan grabs his suitcase and heads to the door. “I promise I’ll be back,” he says. “In the meantime, you and Amanda try not to trash my place.” He gives me a wry grin. I can’t smile though. Not right now, even though he’s trying really hard.

  “Just be safe,” I say. He nods, and closes the door. I hear it lock behind him. I don’t know where he’s going. I don’t know what he’s about to face. All that I know is that this is the same set-up that Chris had walked into, and he never came back. I can only hope that I’m not about to lose my brother as well.

  “I can’t believe you ate all the ice cream,” Amanda huffs, rifling through the freezer. “I mean, I bought like twenty of those things a week ago. What do you do, just eat ice cream?”

  I shrug, “I eat only what the baby demands, Amanda. It’s the least an expectant mother can do for the welfare of her child.”

  Amanda snorts from deep within the freezer, “Oh yeah, that kid is going to be born on a sugar high. He’s going to be vibrating by the time he pops out.”

  “Or she,” I answer. “Are you intending to take up residence in the freezer, because you are really going up in there.”

  “I am on an exploratory journey...Ah hah!” she exclaims, popping back up triumphantly holding one final carton of ice cream.

  “Great job, explorer,” I respond and grab two spoons. We head to the couch. It’s been three days since Dan left. True to his word, he hasn’t tried to contact me at all. I doubt that he can. Well, I know that he can’t because he’s left his cell phone here, per the orders he received. Wherever he is, I hope he’s safe. I try not to think about him too much.

  Amanda is keeping me busy, as is my day job at the bookstore. And then, there are movies. So many great movies. I feel like I’m catching up on all the mystery movies I’ve missed over the years. Classics, all of them, with fedora hats and trench coats and damsels in distress - although that’s not necessarily my favorite part.

  “Give me that,” I say to Amanda and pop open the ice cream, scooping some into my mouth. I’m not just craving ice cream lately. I’m craving a very specific type of ice cream. I want peanut butter, chocolate chip, mocha ice cream, and I love to eat it with pickles on the side. It’s not for everyone. It probably won’t be for non-pregnant me either. But right now? It hits the spot.

  I lean back, fully satisfied as the movie begins, and I’m engrossed in it. The plot is so very velvet rich and lined with new characters and new mysteries and different types of clues. I’m analyzing all of it, and loving every minute until it’s done. When it’s over, I look over at Amanda. She’s staring at me with a little grin on her lips.

  “What?” I ask. “Weren’t you watching the movie, or were you just admiring my beauty from afar?”

  “Not that far,” she says. “And no, I was watching the movie, but I was also watching you, and also, I ate most of the ice cream, you know.”

  “Oh,” I answer, a little bit sad. “I suppose the ice cream wouldn’t have lasted two hours anyways.”

  “You were really into that, weren’t you?” she says.

  “I was,” I grow excited, my voice gaining more speed. “I mean, the way that they interwove the character arcs with the distribution of clues, and that betrayal at the end was mind-blowing. I can’t wait to just analyze it and tear it to shreds, and see how I can rebuild-”

  My voice drops off as she has a look of triumph on her face.

  “Now what?” I ask, popping a pickle in my mouth. They had survived the two-hour ordeal. They’re not as good without ice cream, though.

  “Well, you’re just so excited about your writing. So why aren’t you writing?”

  Ouch. A direct question from my best friend. Fair enough. I shrug.

  “I’ve got a lot on the go right now. I mean, with hormones alone, it’s a miracle I make it through the day without either breaking down crying or hitting someone. And I work in a bookstore. There’s a lot of stupid people who walk through those doors, Amanda.”

  “That’s true,” Amanda says, “and someday, the universe will recognize your bravery during these times. But, you seem to really want to write, like it calls to you, and you don’t. Why don’t you?”

  Another shrug. “I suppose the muse has deserted me,” I say dramatically.

  She rolls her eyes, “Aren’t you the one who always told me the muse was just some bullshit excuse for writers who couldn’t get the words down?”

  “Well, yes, I did say that,” I answer, “but that’s before I lost my muse.”

  She snorts, “Ah. Experience, the great teacher. Okay.” She presses on. “So tell me then, why aren’t you writing, really? Why has your muse deserted you, as you so dramatically say?”

  “It’s not dramatic, it’s completely factual,” I answer. “I tell you, it’s just this pregnancy. I mean, I’m hugely pregnant, Amanda. I can’t even see my feet anymore. How am I supposed to develop a whole other world, when my world has shrunk to a giant belly and lots of ice cream and pickles?”

  “I get that,” Amanda says kindly. “And I don’t want to minimize that one bit. But you haven’t really been able to write… since Chris. I mean, since he left. After you two hooked up, you had a few days of awesome writing. And then? You just stopped.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to write,” I answer. “I just… how can I? I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to put it down into words. I- I can’t focus on character arcs and red herrings and plot lines when I don’t understand what my own life is doing.”

  “Li
fe is messy,” Amanda says, “not like the stories.”

  “I know that,” I answer. “It’s just that - I feel like I’m living two lives. That there’s one life that I’m living solely in my heart - the life that I was meant to live with Chris and our child and a home with a lot of laughter and happiness. And then there’s… there’s this.”

  I look at her apologetically, because I’ve included her in the life that I obviously see as less desirable. She nods.

  “And writing fiction is making it hard for you? Is that why you’re not really reading any more either?”

  I really needed to get a less perceptive best friend.

  “Partly, I guess. To read about other people’s happy ever after when I’ve been denied my own, it’s not exactly great, and to read mysteries that are solved when Chris’ death will never be solved, probably, or at least nobody will ever be brought to justice - I mean, real life is so messy, Amanda. I like books. They have nice, clean endings, and character arcs and plot arcs and you get some resolution, even if it’s not exactly the one that you wanted. Real life’s not like that. I just have a hard time reading about other people’s clean endings when mine is so messy.”

  “I get that,” Amanda places her hand on my arm as though encouraging me to keep talking.

  “And it’s more than just those two lives,” I continue. I don’t feel any tears in my eyes and my voice doesn’t shake. It’s like all of my emotions whenever I talk about Chris become a great hard ball in the middle of my soul, congealing together all of the memories and the hopes and dreams into one solid piece of carbon that will never go anywhere else. Worse, it all becomes one solid fossil of who I used to be and what I might have been able to give this child. But the closer I get to the date of birth, the more I feel like I’m growing colder and that’s only going to rob my child further.

  I try to express it to Amanda as best as I can, “I feel like it’s not just robbing me of the life I could have had, but it’s robbing my kid of two parents. The parent that she’ll never know, Chris. And the mom that she’ll never have, because that’s the Laura who would have been with Chris, and not me - the one who’s left behind with this hard ball of emotions calcifying in her soul as each day goes by. It’s just so unfair.”

  She squeezes my arm.“For what it’s worth, I think that you’re going to be an awesome mom,” she whispers.

  “Thanks. I don’t feel that way though. I just feel terrified. I mean, I’ve never even changed a diaper. And aren’t their heads all wobbly when they’re born? That’s what all the books say. And what if they’re allergic to linen? How do you deal with a linen allergy? That sounds tough, doesn’t it?”

  To her credit, Amanda manages not to laugh.

  “Look. As your friend and your best friend for a long time,” she says, “I really think you should write. I think it’s going to help break that calcified ball of emotions that’s forming inside of you. I think that’s where your emotions go, into your writing. And without doing that, you’re not getting rid of them. And by not getting rid of them, they are just, well, calcifying, like you said.”

  “I told you, though. I can’t write right now, it’s like the words won’t come out. I can’t focus on other people’s lives when my own is in such disarray.”

  “I’m not saying write about other people,” she continues. “I’m saying, write about Chris. Write about yourself. Write to your kid that’s growing inside of you and all of your fears and worries for your child. Write about all of that. And even if that letter goes nowhere, even if you never give it to the kid, Even if you just decide to burn it sixteen years down the road, then so be it. But if, when that child is older, you feel like they should read this letter, then give it to them, and make sure to re-read it yourself to see how far you’ve come. Because I think that once you help those emotions move onto the words on the page, I think you’ll find that the ball inside of you isn’t quite as powerful anymore. Or as hard.”

  I stare at her for a few moments, letting her words wash over me. She’s not wrong. I have always used writing to get rid of my emotions - to move them from within me into something else. Something less personal. Something less immediate. That’s what I need to do. Not focusing on fiction and on happily-ever-afters that will never be my own but, instead, focusing on my life - where I am now emotionally, where I’m afraid I’m going - all of my fears and dreams for this baby. That’s what I need to do.

  I look at Amanda, “When did you get so wise?”

  She shrugs, “It’s all the ice cream. I think it’s just lighting up all my neurons.”

  I laugh and hug her, “I think I’m going to call it a night.” But I don’t go to my room. I go to that little desk set up by the window, that my brother had put there in the hopes that I would write down the words, probably understanding the same truth about me that Amanda does. Words are power, not just for others, but for the writer as well. I’m lucky to have the friends and family that I do, even if it’s not exactly as I’d envisioned.

  I sit down, and for the first time in months, the words pour out of me.

  13

  Chris

  I sit in the waiting room by the courtroom alone. I sit, and then I stand, and then I sit again. I don’t remember ever being this nervous. It’s a rare occasion, normally. But, then again, it’s not every day that one comes back from the dead.

  As far as we know, the operation went well. The Malcons seem to have no idea that we’re still alive, that there are survivors to their bombing, and that I’m here, having prepared my court case, and the case is solid. Plus, the defense was given all the documentation back before the bombing so they can’t hold us in contempt of court for having not provided it to them.

  Several witness protection laws protect us. It helps that the assailants at the community center were definitely linked to the Malcons. If the FBI hadn’t been quick enough to down a few of them before the explosion, we wouldn’t have had the bodies for identification, but we did.

  I go through various speeches, various arguments and counter-arguments again and again. Sitting and standing, trying to keep my mind occupied, so that I don’t focus on the potential for failure. If I fail, it’s bad not just for me. In fact, it’s not that bad for me. I still have a home to go back to. I have money in the bank account. None of the paperwork for my death certificates was processed, of course, even though most of my acquaintances think I’m dead.

  But for my clients? If I fail, they have nowhere else to go. I can help them get a new start. I have enough money to do that, and I will if I need to. But, running for the rest of their lives is not making a life. It’s running from life. I want them to have a life. I want little Ruth to grow up feeling safe.

  I’m standing and pacing again when the door opens. I stop pacing as three of my colleagues filter in, Dan amongst them. I haven’t seen a close friend in eight months. He looks at me, befuddled for a few moments, as though his mind can’t process what it’s seeing. Then, his eyebrows shoot up and a wide smile breaks his face.

  “Chris!” he says and shakes my hand before grabbing me into a hug. “I thought you were dead!”

  “Surprise!” I say.

  He’s way more emotional about this than I thought he would be. I might have underestimated the impact of our friendship. To me, the world has moved on, and nobody even remembers or thinks about me anymore, but I guess I’m wrong. It’s nice to see that some people still care - at least Dan.

  My other colleagues file in, and we all shake hands and settle down to do our work. They’ve already reviewed our court materials, the only surprise they’re receiving today is that I’m still alive. I’ll take the lead prosecution role, just as the original paperwork to the court was filed. We don’t even have to start with an amendment for that. That’s going to be the first surprise the Malcons will get.

  And then, we have piles of evidence to bring out against them. Everything a collateral relation, some of them directly linked… I don’t see how we can los
e this case, but that’s the danger zone. We’re going to have to proceed with caution.

  Being cocky doesn’t usually get the job done. Not in this arena, where you have to be a strange mix of confident and competent, not to mention humble. Judges dislike lawyers that are too full of themselves.

  We take a lunch break and half the colleagues file out, under deep oath not to utter one word while they’re outside. I know they won’t. They’re good people, all of them, and I trust them implicitly.

  Dan stays behind. The door closes, and it’s just the two of us.

  “Chris, man…” he says, running his hand through his hair. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through. We really thought you were gone…”

  “I thought I was gone for a while too,” I grin at him. “It’s good to see you. It really is. I mean, I haven’t seen a friend in eight months now. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see your ugly mug. How’s life?” I ask, trying to find a way to tip-toe towards asking about Laura, even though we said we wouldn’t tell Dan about us.

  “It’s been good,” he says, then he seems to hesitate. I fill the gap in for him. I know I told Laura that we wouldn’t tell Dan, that we wouldn’t act suspiciously, but it’s been eight months. My perspective on a lot of things has changed, including on taking chances.

  Laura had gotten away from me once. Not by any choice of my own. I wasn’t about to let her get away from me again.

  “How’s Laura?” I ask, my voice going soft, more emotion tinting my words than anticipated. For months, I’ve been dreaming about her. What it would be like to see her again, to hold her… to be with her. And I know I still have to get through this court case, and we still have to win it, and that alone could take a while, but ‘a while now’ is only a matter of days, not a matter of months, maybe years, like before.

  I’m close to seeing her again, and that makes it worse.

  Dan looks me up and down, as though weighing the fabric of my soul. I stand a little bit more straight and meet his gaze.