To say that I’m disappointed about him is an understatement. I’m disappointed about so many people at this point. Speaking about my neighbor, he is back in his house. To this day, I don’t know when or why he left. I came back ten days ago, and he wasn’t at home. There hasn’t been any movement around his apartment—until today. I’m tempted to knock on his door, but instead of just showing up and saying, “Hey,” I’m baking him cookies.
He complains that I bake too much, but he’s always eating what I give him. When he does, he has that smile he hides from everyone. Only a few of us are lucky to see it.
Nyx: I got a letter from your neighbor. He’d like you to edit the podcasts where you recorded his voice. He never gave you written authorization to record him.
Persy: For fuck’s sake. Make him an offer so we can keep it, and tell him his name will never be released.
Nyx: On it. How much are you going to offer?
Persy: I’m about to give him some cookies. Hopefully, I can talk to him about this absurd request. The man has a lot of money.
Nyx: True. I’ll keep you posted, and save me cookies.
Once the cookies are ready, I set them on a platter and knock on the forbidden door. There’s no answer.
“I know you are there.”
He doesn’t answer. I walk to the terrace and lean over to see if I can see anything. However, there’s no movement. I swear I just heard him. Instead of begging him to open the door, I go outside my door, ring his doorbell and wait. Nothing.
I set the cookies on the welcome mat, knock on the door and say. “There’s a batch of cookies out here. Welcome back, and thank you for fixing the kitchen.”
No response. I shrug and go back to my place. I work on my blog, then create some graphics that I post on my social media. I go outside to check on the cookies. They are gone. I smile. At least he is eating my cookies.
Knowing that he can hear me because he is always complaining about how loud and noisy I am, I set up a bunch of cushions on the floor, close to the side of his wall, and bring my computer with me.
“I can’t believe you disappeared without leaving me a note,” I begin my monologue. “For all I know, you died in a hole and nobody told me. I was tempted to ask Sheila, but since I know you two aren’t close, I abstained. You missed a lot while you were gone. I finally went to the nursery. Have you seen the terrace? I brought some plants for you, too. They are cat safe. I’ve been meaning to ask if you have plants at home.”
He doesn’t answer, but I continue talking. One of us is going to get tired, and it’s not going to be me.
“Well, if you do have plants, make sure they are cat safe. Simon likes to chew on them. Not catnip. He’s not that kind of cat. In any case, whenever you are ready to talk to me, I’ll set the pots on your balcony. I think they’ll bring some joy. And by ‘joy,’ I don’t mean me, but you know happiness.”
“You think so highly of yourself that you think you are the definition of joy?”
I grin. Finally he is talking to me. “No, that’s my middle name. One of them. My parents thought I’d be their last baby and… Let’s not talk about my name, okay? That reminds me you never told me your name. For all I know your name is Phobus Chadwick.
“Phobus is not a name,” he complains.
“Actually, it is, and it means fear,” I correct him.
“Well, it’s not Phobus,” he confirms.
“Valdis Chadwick?”
“Where do you get these names?” he asks, in appalled voice.
“Google?” I answer and chuckle. “Did you like the cookies?”
“I don’t have time to chat with you. I’m busy.”
“God, why are you so difficult?”
“I’m not God or a god,” he argues.
“We made progress with you,” I say, ignoring his nonsense, “And now you are back to being a grump again. That reminds me, are you serious about not letting me use your voice?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Well, I hope it’s a joke because that’s like asking me to delete three … maybe four shows. You used a lot of airtime, and how am I supposed to edit them now? I might as well re-record them, which adds a lot of work.”
He doesn’t answer, and maybe he is no longer close by, but I adjust my volume to make sure that he listens to me.
“We can try to come to an agreement. I’ll pay you for the airtime. It’s not like I own much, but I can promise you my next royalty check. Nyx is going to send you a proposal. The cookies were just a thank you for the kitchen. They have nothing to do with that letter.”
Silence is all I hear, and I’m left with a hollow sensation. I go on with my day, and at night, I do the same thing I’ve been doing every night.
Joy: Goodnight!
I should stop. His message is pretty clear. It was fun, but it’s over. Not that we had anything real. It takes me longer than usual to fall asleep. I pray that the bad dreams are gone. But I’m there, in the living room. The flames are licking the walls, and I can’t find Simon. He doesn’t answer me. I’m desperately searching for him.
This time is different, though. Chad is calling me. “Persephone, open the door.”
I ignore him because Simon isn’t with me. There’s a lot of banging. I think it comes from the forbidden door, but it’s too far.
“Get out,” I tell him. “Get out before it traps you, too.”
“Persephone, wake up!”
It’s a ringing tone that wakes me up, though. I grab my phone. It’s Lang’s number, but why is he dialing my number and not the other phone. I’m pretty confused, but I don’t care I answer.
“Lang?” I say, but there’s just deep breathing, before the silence sucks in my hope.
“Are you okay?” I hear Chad’s voice on the other side of the wall. I nod. There’s another bang on the door. “Persephone, answer me, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I answer, trying to quiet my sobs.
“Open the door.”
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“Please.”
And it’s that word. Those six letters that always convince me to do things. I go to the door and open it.
“It wasn’t locked,” he says.
I shrug.
“What happened?”
“Bad dream,” I say, and then the guy who I was kind of falling for called, but he hung up on me.
“You were yelling.”
“Sorry. I’ll try… I can’t promise it won’t happen again.” I snort, and a few tears fall because, fuck.
I know there’s that rule that he can kick me out if I make any noise after ten. I wipe my tears with so much anger at myself, at him, at my mother because, for five fucking minutes, I don’t want to be the understanding, accepting daughter, and I want to blame her for the nightmares. Because I swear after that stupid fire, my mind is a fucking chaotic mess.
“You know what? I don’t give a fuck,” I yell and start crying.
I’m weeping, not because I’m scared, but because I’m angry about everything. My oldest friend has been stealing from me. No one sees me for who I am, and this guy… I’m just done, and tonight, I’m allowing myself to be irrational.
“Give me a month to find a new place.”
“Persephone, can you tell me what’s going on?” he asks, there’s no anger, just worry. “You’re not okay.”
He walks close to me and takes me into his arms, and I cry harder. He hugs me tighter. I’ve never had a breakdown like this before. Never in my life, but tonight, I unravel. I can’t hold my shit together any longer. I sob for a long time, and Chad helps me walk to my bed, where he sits down and pulls me to him. Even when I can’t stop crying, I feel safe.
Twenty-Seven
Him
Friday, July 31st
I’ve been scared in my life a total of three times. The first happened when I crashed Dad’s motorcycle against the neighbor’s garage door. I was eleven, and I thought he was going to kill me. The second time was when
we were sixteen, and Nate was in a car accident. He didn’t wake up for a month. I thought I was going to lose him.
The third time was last night when I heard Persephone scream desperately. She was calling Simon and asking for help. I called her and called her, but she wouldn’t acknowledge me. I was tempted to kick down the door, but instead, I dialed her number. I sighed with relief when she answered, but panicked when she said, “Lang.”
I’m so fucking confused and upset because just when I was starting to trust that there wasn’t any foul play, she called me Lang. Does she know I’m Langford Chadwick?
The confusion isn’t only about her knowing who I am, but also about my reaction toward her. It broke my heart to watch her crying. She lost her shit last night, and all I could do was hold her until she fell asleep. Now, seven hours later, I’m still holding her, and she’s still sleeping. This is the first time in my life that I stayed in bed with a woman and we didn’t have sex.
My firsts with her are just fucking weird, and oddly enough, I’m fine with it. It’s around nine in the morning when her body begins to stir, and her eyes finally open.
“Chad?” she gasps.
“Ford,” I correct her. “I prefer that name.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I never asked, did I?”
She did, but I didn’t respond to her question at that time.
“What’s happening?” I ask, not wanting to rehash the whole name thing.
“I lost my shit last night,” she answers, closing her eyes for a moment. “I’ve been under too much stress… I don’t know. Two weeks ago, my house was on fire. My cat was trapped. They didn’t let me come upstairs to get him. Then, I was in the middle of an anxiety attack, and you yelled at me—which I get it. Your building was at risk because—”
“It was an accident,” I tell her, and I kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry for overreacting. We have a state-of-the-art system in place that tells me where the fire is happening, and it actually contains it within each apartment. When I figured out it was your place, I came to get you and Simon. He was safe… My reaction…”
I sigh. “Sorry for being an asshole,” I apologize because I can’t get into the texts explanation just yet. “Is this your first nightmare?”
She shakes her head.
“I’m not an expert, but you might want to find a therapist.”
She huffs.
“What else has been happening?”
“I guess everything finally caught up to me,” she answers. “The audit came back and Sheila … she’s been taking more than she should have for the past couple of years.”
“I’m sorry,” I say calmly, keeping the anger inside, because I fucking knew it, and I want them to pay.
“She was one of the few people I trusted. Do you have any idea what it’s like to not be able to trust people?”
“Some,” I answer vaguely.
“Then, there was this guy…”
“You had a guy?”
“Not exactly. I trusted him, you know. Not fully, because he doesn’t know I’m me. It was easy to talk to him. He’s gone and … I miss him. It sounds stupid. How can you miss someone you never met?”
“You have no idea who he is?”
“None. I…” She closes her eyes and laughs. When she opens them, she gives me a mischievous smile. “I drunk texted him thinking he was Ian. You don’t have the right to judge me. It was… I wanted to know why we broke up, and this guy, he was nice, and you know what the best part about him was?”
“He didn’t know who you were,” I answer, and she nods.
And that’s the best part about this woman and about exchanging texts with Joy. She has no fucking idea who I am, and she puts me in my place when I piss her off, and fuck. I just realized that last night wasn’t the third time I’ve been scared. It was the fourth, because the third was when I thought she was trapped in the apartment, while it was on fire.
“You can live here for as long as you want,” I tell her. “Please don’t leave.”
“What if the dreams continue?”
“You leave that forbidden door open so I can come and wake you up—though, you need therapy,” I remind her.
“Not to be ungrateful, but why are you in my bed?”
“You scared me last night,” I explain. “I’ve never seen anyone cracking up the way you did. I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” she says, and then looks toward her nightstand where her phone is.
“Is there anything wrong?”
She shakes her head. “I think he called me last night but to the wrong phone.”
“He?” I pretend ignorance.
“The guy I’ve been texting with,” she clarifies.
“You have two phones?”
She nods. “The one I made Callie buy, and the one I bought to replace my old phone.”
“Why did you keep the second line?” I ask, because I’m trying to understand what the ever-fucking hell happened that she got my phone number.
“Because I met him through that phone,” she explains. “It was easier—or safer for me. If he tried to search for the owner, he’d find Callie’s name. I wanted to keep my anonymity, but…”
This is the part where I should tell her something like, it was me. I have no fucking idea how, but you texted me. I’m Langford Chadwick, by the way, and could you please keep that between us?
I don’t, though. Instead I say, “What if you texted him from that phone by mistake?”
“You’re right. I think I gave him that number.” She smiles. “Maybe he’s back?”
“Probably.”
“So, Ford … I don’t want to kick you out, but your options are going back to your place or spending Saturday morning with me—and we are having meditations and yoga. That means your ugly face will be on Persy’s Channel.”
I kiss her nose and get out of bed. “As tempting as the invitation is, I have to go. There’s a lot I have to do, but we can meet for lunch.”
“Okay,” she says, and her eyes follow me as I walk away.
“By the way, leave my voice on those podcasts,” I say, before I leave her room.
“Is it because you slept with me?” she asks, jokingly, as she takes her phone.
“You’re going to text him?”
She shakes her head. Her eyes hold a sadness that I want to erase. “No. I texted him enough. You can’t force people to like you.”
I feel like I fucked up in so many ways. No one should blame me. I’ve been dealing with the same shit she has since I was in college. You have to keep everything private and be guarded. Clyde Daniels is okay, but his wife tried to sell me once. She hasn’t messed up with me again, but I could see her trying a few more times.
“Hey,” Nate answers my call.
“Just spoke with Persephone,” I tell him. “Sheila isn’t involved in any of this, but let’s scare her again. She’s been fucking with Persy’s earnings.”
“Talking about Persy, her lawyer is offering twenty thousand to keep your voice on those podcasts,” he announces.
“Let her keep them without charge.”
“Are you ready to accept that you like her?”
“I do,” I confirm.
“She still has to sign the NDA.”
“Give me a couple of weeks,” I request, because I fucked up as Lang, and I need to make up for not being there for her when she was having a hard time.
“Okay. Just be careful.”
Lang: Would you believe me if I tell you I was stranded in Antarctica?
Joy: Try something better.
Lang: I went to visit my brother.
Joy: Does he live in a monastery without cell phone service?
Lang: I like that excuse. Can I use it?
Joy: No, it’s mine. Get your own excuses. I’ll use it with the next guy I meet.
Lang: A personal issue came up, and I was working through it.
Joy: You have a girlfriend?
&n
bsp; Lang: It’s more complicated than that.
Joy: Wife?
Lang: Not that complicated, then. She’s a friend. Maybe more than a friend. I was working through my feelings, and I didn’t have head space for both of you.
Joy: So, you’re breaking up with me?
Lang: No. We promised to keep this, even if we met other people.
Joy: I’m just confused because you don’t believe in relationships.
Lang: I found my exception.
Joy: :smile: :sad face:
Joy: Maybe I’ll find my exception. That guy who won’t care much about who I am.
Lang: Well… there’s that one thing. She doesn’t know much about me, and I’m afraid that when I tell her, she’s not going to take it well.
Joy: Give it time. Tell her when you both are ready.
Lang: Will she forgive me for keeping that information?
Joy: If she cares for you, yes. I can guarantee it.
Lang: Look at you, giving me advice, even though I abandoned you.
Joy: We are still friends, right?
Lang: Text-friends with benefits.
Joy: You can’t be hoping to get lucky when you already have someone.
Lang: I thought you gave good … texts.
Joy: Never said that, but I actually do. I have a lot of experience in that … arena.
Lang: Maybe soon we can set something up. You, me, all the words.
Joy: I’m not sure if this is just a fun way to say goodbye.
Lang: It’s a way to say, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I just hope you accept me the way I am.
Joy: With a soon-to-be girlfriend but a flirty personality.
Joy: I think I can handle you well enough.
Joy: TTYS!
Twenty-Eight
Him
Saturday, August 1st
The first step to solve any problem is to acknowledge that there is a problem. Identifying the cause and accepting it are the next two. So, here is the thing, I came to recognize that Persephone Brassard isn’t a problem. She might be my solution—one thing I can accept is that she is my addiction, and I hope that I can get more and more of her.
Wrong Text, Right Love Page 17
