by A. Marie
Once I caught sight of her today in the pool, I couldn’t focus on the shit coming from Beck’s mouth any longer. Hell, I couldn’t remember where I even was let alone the details of his story about some turtle he saved from crossing the road. His words were muted the second my gaze fell on her in that temptation she thinks passes as a bikini. That little number had me wound up. Tight. I even managed to miss Beck climbing down the balcony to join her.
Bastard.
I head straight for my room to drop off my clean clothes on my way for another cold shower. I’ve needed a lot of those lately. Too many. Ever since a certain dark-haired beauty moved in next door actually. And I’m not talking about Gary. I mean the dude is cool but he’s just not my type. First, and this is a big one, I’m into girls. Second, I’m pretty sure Gary hasn’t come out of his apartment for over a year other than to do the occasional load of laundry. The guy orders online like a champ though. His door step is always chock-full of packages. Of…things that further prove why he just isn’t for me. In any manner.
Beck’s annoying laughter follows me down the hall as I pass Marc’s open door. It’s usually closed and locked so he must be inside but forgot to close it all the way. I decide against saying anything. Dude is private but will open up bits at a time when the mood strikes. Not that it strikes often, but once in a while he’ll let us in. He used to disappear for a week at a time without a word until Beck had the brilliant idea to follow him one day. When we confronted him at the airport, his response was a simple shrug along with an invite to Key West. Hell yeah, we went. With just the clothes on our backs and the cash in our pockets and it was one of the best trips I’ve ever been on. Dude does that shit on the regular. He’ll blindly pick a destination and go. Just go. The guy is crazy but we love him.
“What happened to you, bro? You’re gone for a while, then come storming in. You run into our fine ass neighbor girl out there?”
Ignoring him, I move for the bathroom which only spurs him on further.
“Another shower?”
Yeah, okay. Everyone is aware of my increased showering lately. Can you blame me though? I got two doors separating me from a girl I can’t get out of my head, or line of vision. A girl with a name—finally. An extra shower, or two, is the least of my worries right now.
“Her name’s Angela,” I say just to be a dick, slamming the door shut.
“What?” I hear Beck roar seconds before something hits the door from the other side making me grin as I start the water.
He’d really lose his shit if he knew I found out where she works, too, although I think I’ll keep that little tidbit to myself for a while longer. I might have some fun with that knowledge. I still can’t believe we never noticed her work shirts before now. It just goes to show that with the girl next door, there’s so much more than just checking out her tits. I’m no saint, I looked, but that’s not what I’m about. I could name five characteristics of Angela’s that have nothing to do with her looks and I’ve only had one, albeit difficult, semi-conversation with the girl.
And even though Beck may think Angela looks good, he doesn’t feel it like I do. I saw something in her that first day even through my helmet visor. Something bigger than even Beck’s gigantic ass was at play and has been every day since. I had an overwhelming urge, this need to go to her. To help her, to be there for her, in any way possible.
The way she held herself so strong and determined, yet still looked about like pain was lurking around every corner. I want to know why. How. I want to know who could hurt someone that much to leave a person suspicious of their own shadow. I want to be the one to show her she doesn’t have to be. That there are people worth letting in. People worth trusting. The problem is getting there. Angela isn’t having it. At. All. Her and her slippery evasion tactics are proving more challenging than I’d anticipated. Whatever has her constantly checking over her shoulder is keeping her from seeing what’s right in front of her. And that just won’t work. Not when I’m the one standing there, waiting to be taken seriously.
The spicy body wash fills my palm and my nostrils as I think over the few words Angela spoke downstairs. She did say she’d remember me if she saw me before. Maybe that means she sees me now. And maybe, just maybe, she likes what she sees. That idea has me cranking the water to cold real quick.
I am so fucked.
* * *
A couple days later a call comes in on my way home from work. Noticing it’s my mom, I pull off into a near-dead shopping center to answer. New businesses have a hard time staying open long-term around the area. People love the novelty in green stores making them an instant success, then move onto the next fresh idea leaving the juvenile companies to crumble. Quickly. Sadly, this entire plaza was no exception.
“Hey, Mom. What’s going on?”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
I’m just sitting in a pan of hot asphalt frying like a piece of bacon from this insane early summer heat without so much as a puff of wind in sight.
“Perfect timing. What’s up?”
I spend the next few minutes listening to her ramble on about the exciting events in her life such as the local grocery store now carrying both types of cherries instead of just the early batches of Rainiers, and which neighbor got their mailbox knocked down by some wily teenagers this week.
“That’s unbelievable,” I finally chime in, unable to hold back my cynicism any longer.
“Well, Janice two blocks over, the one that has that gaudy flag pole in her yard, swears she saw a car full of teeny-boppers speeding off while she was letting her dog out. I’m just glad it wasn’t ours.”
“No, I can’t believe kids are still doing that. Don’t they have Netflix or something?” Social media? Anything? I’m glad I found something early on that kept me out of trouble. Mostly. Riding dirt bikes may not be the safest sport but it occupied me enough that I never did stupid shit like terrorize unsuspecting mailboxes. That’s pretty damn lame, even for this boring town.
Acting like I didn’t even speak, she says, “Anyway, what’s new with you?”
I try to fill her in on the bits of my life that have changed but nothing really surfaces as interesting making her cheerful enthusiasm seem that much more newsworthy. Maybe I’ll check our neighborhood store after this to see if everyone else got the highly coveted fruit yet. If I really wanted to, I could ask Marc to pick some up from his family’s farm but that’s always a risky chance to take. I don’t wish that stress on anybody.
“We got a new neighbor.”
“Did Gary finally pass?”
“What? No.” I sit up straighter, stretching my back. “He’s not that old.” I don’t think. “Directly across the hall from us.”
“In that tiny little box they try to pass off as an apartment?”
I nod even though she can’t see. “That’s the one.”
“I can only imagine what kind of person would willingly pay to live in that crack in the wall.”
Oh, I can imagine her just fine. It’s actually one of my new favorite hobbies. Picturing Angela walking around, possibly barefoot, hot from the windows we’ve noticed she keeps open, snacking while watching her favorite series, laughing. I’d give anything to hear her real laugh. So far, the only noises we’ve heard from next door have been the songs she listens to on repeat. Loudly. It’s downright comical considering the first time we met was because she was upset about our music. I’ll crank that shit every night if it gets her to come over again. Wearing her sleep clothes. Ready to hand me my own ass.
My smile spreads. Tonight can’t come soon enough.
“She’s actually nice.” Nice? Is she nice? Okay, so that’s yet to be determined but a little hopeful thinking never hurt anyone.
“She? Well, she must be young then. Is she a student? Maybe your father knows her.”
All the good energy swirling around, warming my insides to match my overheated outsides, stops. Dead cold. Twisting into a tight knot stationed at the b
ottom of my stomach.
“He doesn’t,” I snarl more aggressively than I’d intended. Beck said she went next door which is a high school. Not a university. With professors that…
“Coty, really,” she huffs. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just know a lot of his students are struggling artists and that pit is just the place a broke writer could find some inspiration in. Poets need to suffer and all that.” I can hear her eye roll.
“Is that what he tells them?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I scoff, folding one arm under the other. “You know exactly what I mean. Dad is a-”
“He’s a wonderful teacher that is held in high regard. Now that’s enough. I wouldn’t want anything to tarnish the reputation he’s worked so hard to achieve.”
What a joke. His reputation’s been formed by his own hands all right. And then some.
“Whatever.” Same conversation, different day. Same denial, different approach. Usually she leaves her head in the sand a little longer. Lets the truth circle her like the starving vulture she knows it is. Once it finally reaches her, it’ll only find an empty shell of deprivation though. She knows. She’s always known. It’s just a ruse she uses to keep her life together. Precariously, but together nonetheless. I’ve never been married so I can’t begin to understand what goes through her mind but I am a man. A decent man with a moral compass that points straighter than my father’s, if he even has one at all anymore. Maybe he never did.
In neutral, I give a couple quick wrist flicks, filling the strained silence with a sound that always soothes my nerves. “I gotta go, Mom.”
“Wait, I want to hear more about this girl that’s got you in a tizzy.”
I almost laugh. I wish Angela had me in a tizzy. Then I might be able to get something done other than constantly wonder what the girl only steps away from my front door is doing.
“There’s not much to tell.” Yet. “She’s…just our neighbor girl.” Although true, the words still taste like a shot of Jägermeister at the end of a long night—a fusion of remorse and sorrow followed by a repulsion so strong you want to claw your own tongue out. “I’ll talk to you later. Watch out for those crazy kids. Let me know if they do anything to your house. I’d be happy to deal with them.” I bet I could even enlist the guys to help. It’s been too long since we’ve had to put someone back in line and fucking with a group of young delinquents sounds fun.
We hang up with a promise to talk again soon, sooner if those little shits strike again, then I leave the deserted parking lot, ready to be home already. My parents’ house was always that: a house. A house full of tension and misery. Confusion and rejection. Deception. Not in the typical upfront way other dysfunctional families might showcase their troubles, but in the unnerving silence where reality hid its ugly face. My parents chose their life, together; I chose mine, separately.
Living with my boys, that’s home. That’s where I can be who I know I was meant to be. Not the inconspicuous bystander my parents treated me as, but the driver of my own journey. The person navigating what routes to take, or better yet the ones to avoid, through life. I may not know where I’ll ultimately end up yet, but I do know my path will never lead back there. Back to that stifling environment where you grin and nod while turning the other cheek.
No, I prefer sharing a three-bedroom apartment with my best friends. For now, at least. Although the prospect of staying there that much longer just got a whole lot more appealing with the addition of a certain stunningly stubborn girl next door.
With that thought, I race toward Creekwood. Halfway there, I decide against stopping off for cherries. A confrontation with Angela will be more rewarding and a hell of a lot cheaper. Seriously, why the fuck are cherries so expensive all of a sudden? If you grow up in the Northwest, you eat cherries. But lately, they’re making it harder and harder. Winning over the girl next door, however, harder, will only make the reward that much sweeter.
CHAPTER 6
Angela
Just a little longer.
With only a few weeks left of school, the teachers are cramming in as many big projects as possible right up until the final grades are collected. That’s cutting things awfully close in my opinion. At least I know I’ll graduate on time with honor roll but what about all those stragglers? The kids on the verge of failing? When will they find out if they can graduate or not? After the caterers have set up? When they’re the only ones still waiting for their names to be called onto the stage?
My English paper needs to be typed before I can turn it in which means I’ll need to go back to the library this weekend. I’ve already written most of it on my notes app on my phone but I still need to finish it, then print the stupid thing. All my other teachers let us email our assignments—save the trees!—but for whatever reason my English teacher insists we physically hand our reports in. Typed, printed, leather bound, sealed with wax, covered in blood and whatever else medieval shit she can think of.
I don’t have the time, or patience, for any of it though. I have to open the wash both Saturday and Sunday which could end up being two full days of work. Hopefully anyway, since I need the extra tips right now while my schedule is still limited with school.
Tonight though, tonight I’m taking a bubble bath while simultaneously shoveling handfuls of popcorn in my mouth, careful not to drop any in the water. Popcorn is cheap yet filling, making it the best of all snacks, especially right before payday.
It’s Friday night so I’ll need to be up early again tomorrow. The guys across the hall have been somewhat quiet except for the other night when someone over there played music like they were trying out for America’s Next Top DJ. I ended up actually liking their song choices, so it didn’t bother me in the slightest. In fact, they did me a favor by saving me from playing my own before bed. A trick I picked up to drown out the incessant arguments between my mom and whoever her nightly opponent was. I can sleep without music playing, I just prefer not to. Music is the one thing that can make you feel while making you forget all at once. It can take you away or bring you back, depending on the song.
All three motorcycles were missing from the lot earlier, not that I’m keeping track, so I’m hoping they won’t be entertaining again tonight. Maybe they’ll be gone all night, leaving me to sleep in peace. Although the images that scenario conjures aren’t all that relaxing either. Thoughts of nighttime activities they might partake in ruin my good mood, so I dry off just as my skin begins to prune.
In a sports bra and matching shorts, I open the windows noticing the bikes are still gone then crawl into bed. The last couple weeks play through my head but my mind keeps stopping on Coty. There’s no arguing the man is attractive but it’s his eyes that tell me there’s something deeper, something warmer, something I’ve never experienced but could easily covet with greedy hands. Those mocha eyes hold a mischievous glint like Beckett yet a seriousness to rival Marc’s. The few interactions I’ve had with him somehow leave me yearning for more. More from him. More of him. Just more.
That’s the sole purpose of that deafening alarm that sounded the second he threatened my resolution. To protect against that little pang of want his company creates. More is a luxury, an extravagance I can’t afford.
“Issues” by Julia Michaels fills the small space of my studio. I hit repeat, hoping the melody will lull me into an effortless sleep.
* * *
A few hours later, the steady purr of motorcycles cutting off startles me awake. Through squinted eyelids, I watch headlights bounce across my ceiling as other cars pull in. Voices rise in unison while car doors slam shut making me groan.
What sounds like a stampede stomps up the stairs outside, reverberating through my tiny home. How many people did they bring back with them? Judging from the high-pitched giggles that keep erupting it’s too many. Great. Just fucking great.
My eyes land on my open windows. Just as I move to close them my name, or nickname anyway, has me freezin
g in place when I hear what must be Marc sneering, “Quiet, guys. We wouldn’t want to wake up the neighbor girl.”
With his callous tone and who knows what gesture, the crowd does not quiet. At all. If anything, they grow louder. And louder. How many more steps are there?
“Nah, she’s too busy getting hers to be sleeping. Don’t you hear the music? That’s making love music right there.” There’s a short pause before Beckett adds rather distastefully, “Don’t come a knockin’ when the neighbor girl goes a rockin’.”
“Shut the fuck up, B.”
Huh. I guess Coty didn’t like his buddy saying that. Well, join the club, because I don’t like any of what they’re saying. What I do, or don’t do, is none of their business. I just want to finish high school, make enough money to stay in this place, and never, ever, go back to my mom’s. Where digging for gold was my mother’s game, digging for answers is the sport of choice for the boys next door but I’m already bored with their shit. Flirty looks paired with constant questioning doesn’t work on me. I don’t want them, or anyone, to know what I’ve gone through. I don’t want my past to define me and until I can rectify the damage it’s done, that’s all they’ll see. Those things happened to me but they didn’t make me. I make myself and I’m just getting started. You don’t put a bare seed on display at the grocery store and expect people to see the mature fruit it’ll bloom into one day. You hide the growth away for safe keeping until the time is right. Until they’re ready to handle the responsibility of such delicate goods. And I can tell right now those party boys across the hall aren’t ready for fragility. Pushing my limits for kicks doesn’t wear me down, it only pisses me off.
Thankfully, all goes quiet after a door closes until a few minutes later when a series of four quick knocks on my door jolt me out of bed. I’m across the room in the next instant, yanking the door open before I can even think it through.
