Tripping on a Halo: A Romantic Comedy

by Alessandra Torre

  I sat in the middle of my living room, legs spread wide, latex gloves and fuzzy socks on, and picked through Declan Moss’s trash. It was pretty good trash, much better than last week’s. He recycled, which allowed me to skip the gross kitchen stuff and stick with the recycling bin, which yielded his receipts, mail, boxes, and a lot of odds and ends.

  I didn’t think you’re supposed to recycle Q-Tips, but he did. And he used A LOT of Q-Tips. Thank God his ears are clean. I’m not sure I could take gunky yellow tips without gagging up my dinner.

  I flipped another Q-Tip toward the trash and flipped through his mail. He wasn’t a coupon cutter, which was a win for me, because he missed out on a 40% off Panera coupon. I set it to the side, along with a BOGO deal from a crafts store that carried my scrapbooking paper. Reaching over to scratch Mr. Oinks’ stomach, I scanned over a Home Depot receipt, a cable bill, a letter from his homeowners association (dues are going up) and a credit card offer. Finishing, I leaned back on my hands and stared at the mess before me.

  I waited.

  Sometimes, when I watched Declan, or when I thought of him, everything went bonkers in my head. There were times when it was painful and obvious, like when that dump truck was careening toward him. Other times, it was just a faint dizziness and some dots at the edge of my vision. But best I could tell, it’s how my sixth sense alerted me that something was wrong in Declanville.

  I closed my eyes. Inhaled deeply. Tried to feel any sense of impending doom.

  Nothing. For once, my head was clear, headache and pain-free.

  I let out a puff of air, then picked up his credit card statement and reviewed the charges. I was halfway down the list, taking special note of his Taco Bell addiction, when my phone rang.

  I scooted across the floor on my butt and grabbed it off the table just in time. “Yo.”

  “Please don’t answer the phone like that.”

  “Yo, Sexy Bitches Anonymous. How can I help you?”

  My sister sighed. “He’s home.”

  I perked up, half-rising enough to see the clock. 8:42. “That seems early.” Beside me, stretched out between a row of Declan’s beer cans and a pyramid of empty toilet paper rolls, Mr. Oinks bellowed out a sigh of agreement.

  “Yes, I thought so, too.”

  I grinned at the interested tone in my sister’s voice. “Admit it, you like doing my dirty work.”

  She snorted, and I heard water start to run in the background. “I’m not doing your dirty work. I’m washing dishes and happened to see him drive by. I’m just trying to save you a trip all the way out here.”

  “Ahh….” I pulled a shoebox apart at the seams, flattening it down so it would take up less space in the bag. “That was kind of you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do if we ever move. Or if he moves. Or if I find something better to do than stare out my kitchen window at the guy across the street.”

  “At least he’s nice to look at.” I picked up a television manual, still in the plastic wrap, surprised that he threw it away. What if his remote needed reprogramming? Or he couldn’t figure out the different presets? I set it to the side.

  “Yeah,” Ansley said grudgingly. “If you like the whole six-pack and strapping-build sort of look.”

  “Which you don’t.”

  “God, no. Have you seen Roger’s stomach? It’s perfect for a pillow. I couldn’t lay my head on a washboard and be comfortable. No one would want that.”

  “Right.” I spotted a loose thread on my fuzzy sock and pulled on it. It grew longer and I paused, patting it back into place with a hope that it would magically retract. It didn’t. I frowned.

  “Who comes home from a date at eight-thirty?” The sound of water stopped as I imagined Ansley reaching for the dish towel next to the sink and drying her hands. “She must have been a dud.”

  “I should have gone,” I said sadly, looking at the wasted evening, stretched out in neatly organized stacks of light cardboard, bottles and Q-Tips. “Maybe something exciting happened.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ansley said sarcastically. “You could have sat next to them. Joined in the conversation. That would have gone well.”

  “I could have been discreet.”

  “You know what you really should have done?” Her voice rose in a manner that foreshadowed exactly what she was about to say.

  “Gone on my own date?” I guessed.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what you should have done. Roger has a client who’d be perfect for you. He even believes in aliens!”

  “I’m not an alien, Ansley, I’m a guardian angel.”

  “Oh, my GAWD, you’re my little sister. You’re not a guardian angel. Trust me, I’d know.”

  “Don’t you think it’s coincidental that you live right across the street from him?” Okay, so maybe not right across the street, but three doors down and catty-corner was pretty dang close.

  “It’s not coincidental considering that that’s how you found him.”

  “He’s not a lost kitten. I didn’t find him, I…” I frowned, trying to find the right words to describe the cosmic event that happened the first time I saw Declan Moss.

  It had been so hot. The sharp, burning pain in my head … I’d thought it was the summer humidity. My vision blurred, and I’d blamed it on the tears. I’d ignored it until the moment that I couldn’t, until the moment that pain had shrieked through my head like the scream of a fire engine.

  And in that moment, Declan Moss had almost died.

  7

  The date hadn’t been that bad. Declan mused over the night as he pulled into the garage and turned off the engine. Margaret had been sweet. She’d had a dry sense of humor that had been entertaining. And once they’d discovered a mutual love of country music, conversation had flowed in a more natural rhythm. He pressed the garage opener and listened to the hum of the door closing. And Margaret was an attractive woman, with all of the things he would look for in a mate. Kinda sexy too, in her own way.

  Declan opened the truck door. So, why had he taken her straight home? And when she had hovered by the front door and invited him in, why hadn’t he accepted? Had it been Nicola?

  He got out of the car, trying to erase the memory of Nic’s eyes, that vulnerable look she had given him. Four or five months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to resist that look. He would have folded her into his arms and squeezed her tight, kissed the top of her head, and told her he was sorry.

  But… for what? She had been the one who had changed everything. The woman that he once loved … he couldn’t even find her anymore. The more surgeries, the more she disappeared. Then she had quit her job and became a Hooter’s waitress. A few weeks later, she’d had a phone full of strangers’ phone numbers and started skipping date nights in favor of hanging out with her new friends.

  Three and a half years together, and all of it for nothing. There was no reason for him to apologize to her. And nothing worth mourning over. Nothing to waste another moment thinking about.

  He stepped into the house and flipped the hall switch, the dim light illuminating the rows of baseball caps. He hung his keys on the hook and wandered into the kitchen, letting out a breath as he surveyed the quiet space. He could have brought Margaret here. She could be settling in at the island while he poured her a drink. She would have moved closer, and they would have kissed. He could have lifted her onto the counter, run his hands up her shirt, then carried her into the bedroom.

  She had wanted him. He had seen the heat in her eyes, hadn’t missed the linger of her touch when he’d hugged her goodnight. He may have been out of the dating world for some time, but he could recognize when a woman was interested. And it wasn’t like he didn’t need some sexual release. God, it had been six months since Nicola. Six months, and he hadn’t had so much as a kiss. His body was aching for a woman, yet he dropped her off with a friendly smile and drove away.

  He was an idiot. An idiot who let Nicola fuck up his game and get into his head. He grabbed a
bottle of beer from the fridge and twisted off the top. Tossing the cap in the trash, he headed for the living room.

  His new TV sucked. He stared at a sports replay, the football field more yellow than green. Picking up the remote, he struggled through the complicated menu options.

  It wasn’t just Nicola and Margaret. His life seemed to be cursed when it came to women. Take this blonde girl, screaming nonsense on the street yesterday and lurking behind corners and menus every time he seemed to turn around.

  He reached for his beer and accidentally dropped the remote, the menu changing, the words now all in Chinese. Fuck. He reached down, grabbing the slim control and tried to move through the menus and find the language dropdown. At least his stalker hadn’t shown up at dinner. As well as Margaret had handled Nic, adding a second crazy person to their date might have been too much drama for her to take.

  He growled in frustration as the screen filled with foreign characters. Pushing to his feet, he tried to remember where he’d put the flat screen’s manual. When he’d opened the big box, it had been with Nate’s help, the two of them working together to mount the giant television on the wall. He remembered stomping on the box to flatten it, then tossing it into the back of his truck and taking it to the dumpster. But the manual… he grimaced, fairly certain he threw the thing away.

  Draining the last of his beer, he walked out the front door and headed to the trash cans at the curb. Close call. A few days later and they would have been taken. Pulling the heavy green recycle bin toward him, he opened the lid and reached in, pulling out the top bag. Setting it down on the concrete drive, he bent over and worked the tie open. He smiled, grateful for his mother’s strict rules on trash separation. Without her, this manual would have been covered in a mess of leftover Chinese takeout and soda. Now, it would be cleanly discarded alongside paper towel rolls and mail. He got the bag open and reached in, digging through the items. He paused, confused.

  Hesitatingly, he pulled out a tampon box, and then a squashed bottle of strawberry tea. This wasn’t his trash. He straightened and looked back in the recycle can, paying closer attention to the contents. Hadn’t there been more bags than this? Normally he had at least three or four, the bin almost full. Now, there was just one other bag, which he reached in and withdrew. Opening it up, he saw more unfamiliar items. Water bottles, dozens of them. Cans of energy drinks flattened by one of those tools that some people had mounted on the wall.

  It didn’t make any sense. Why would someone take his trash and leave their own? It’d be one thing if someone had tossed their trash on top of his, maybe because their own bin was full. But to exchange his trash for theirs? He dug deeper into the first bag, coming across a women’s magazine and a stack of mail. He flipped through it. It was all opened, mostly junk and all addressed to the same person. Autumn Jones. The address was on Frolicking Lane, the zip code one from the south part of town. He stared at the name. Autumn Jones.

  Was she the one who had swapped out his trash? If so, why?

  He dug deeper, finding a few crumpled receipts and then… a flattened cardboard box that spelled everything out in giant bubble letters on the glossy display.

  Novelty Inflatable Penis: Great for bachelorette parties!

  He had a brief glimpse of the blonde, her purse at her feet, swinging that giant dong around like it was a flare on a deserted island. Her shoes springing off the ground as she jumped in the air with it, the shaft extended to the sky and screamed PURPLE PEOPLE EATER at the top of her lungs.

  Dropping the box, he picked the stack of junk mail back up, his eyes focused in on what he was holding.

  The name and address of his stalker.

  “So, this is her?” Nate held up the postcard, his finger pinned to the address. “You’re sure about this?’

  “One hundred percent.” He nodded to the penis’s box as proof. “Plus, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Who else would take my trash?”

  “A better question…” Nate countered. “Who would steal your stuff and leave a dozen pieces of evidence with their name and address on it? Do you really think she’s that stupid?”

  It was a thought that had also crossed his mind, the evidence pile too incriminating, once he’d gone through it all. Receipts from Jasmine’s Café. An online order form for high-range binoculars. Even a recent ad they’d placed in a local magazine, doodles along the edge. Maybe he should be glad there wasn’t duct tape wrappers and chloroform receipts.

  He sighed and met Nate’s inquisitive glance. “I don’t know what to think. Maybe she’s framing this Autumn Jones girl. But why?”

  His best friend stood in the middle of his living room, his arms crossed, and considered the situation. “Yeah. You’re right. It makes no sense.” Nate scratched the back of his head and winced, then seemed to think better of what he was about to say. “I have to admit…”

  Silence stretched.

  “What?” Declan prompted. ‘You have to admit what?”

  “Nothing.” Nate turned abruptly, pointing to the kitchen. “You got beer?”

  Declan followed him. “What?”

  “Fine.” Nate grabbed a beer and twisted off the cap. “Bridget thinks you’re making up the stalker.”

  “I’m—what?” He reached out and shut the fridge door. “How does Bridget even know about her?”

  “You know my sister.” Nate lifted the Budweiser and took a long sip. “She’s nosy. Talks her fucking head off and pulls information out of me like I’m on trial for something. I had to get her off my disastrous love life, so I told her about yours.” He flashed an unapologetic smile at Declan.

  “I wouldn’t call this psycho bitch my love life.”

  “Well, it was more exciting than the kindergarten-level of interaction you’ve had with women.” He tossed the cap toward the trash. “I swear, my dog gets more action than you do, and he’s neutered.”

  Declan raked a hand through his hair. “Let’s get back to Bridget. She thinks I made up a stalker?” He spread his arms in the air. “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Ahh….” Nate swung one leg over the arm of the couch and fell back into it. “I think she thinks you’re emotionally crippled and feeling rejected and inventing a rabid fan as a means of satisfying your inner need to feel loved and desired.”

  “You think?” Declan stared down at the man, who shrugged in response. “That’s a pretty detailed hypothesis.”

  “What can I say?” Nate grinned. “I’m a good listener.” He sat up on the couch. “Plus, you got to admit, you’re the only one who’s ever seen this girl.”

  “The lobby receptionist saw her,” Declan pointed out.

  “Tiffany has met a blonde chick who’s trying to get up to our floor.” He smirked. “Come on, bro. We both know the chances of that being for you versus me, and it is so minisculely low it’s embarrassing.”

  “So, I’m inventing her? Are you fucking kidding me?” He surveyed the bag of trash, which he’d carried inside, the contents neatly stacked along the coffee table. “And this is what—trash I stole from someone to support this ridiculous story that I’ve fabricated?”

  “Nah.” Nate shook his head. “I think someone really did steal your trash.” He gingerly picked up the cardboard box. “And apparently... the girl needs some dick in her life.”

  “How kind of you to believe me.”

  “So, hypothetically speaking, if you do have this girl who is stalking you…” He picked the card back up and looked at the address. “It’s possible this is her.”

  Declan looked to the ceiling and resisted the urge to wrap his hands around the man’s throat. “I’m not making up anything.”

  “Okay…” Nate flipped the postcard toward him, the square slicing through the space and hitting Declan on the chest. He captured it and looked down, focusing on the typed address. It didn’t seem like a psychopath’s location. It sounded like the sort of place with cute suburban homes and kids jumping around on trampolines.

&n
bsp; “So?” Nate prompted. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know.” He thumbed one corner of the steam cleaning discount offer. “That’s why I called you.”

  “Ah. The voice of reason. Thinker of brilliant thoughts. Deviser of schemes—”

  “Drinker of beers and clogger of toilets,” Declan interrupted. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. Ever since Carter got married, you’re the best friend I’ve got. The choices were slim.”

  “Ouch.” Nate winced, tilting back and finishing off his beer. “That’s harsh.” He fell silent and Declan looked back down at the piece of paper, rereading the name and address.

  Autumn Jones

  444 Frolicking Lane

  Tallahassee, Florida 32311

  “Hey.”

  Declan looked over to find Nate’s phone out, his attention on the screen.

  “Bridget says to look her up online.”

  Autumn Jones’s Facebook profile was private, and it was one of the few things they found. She wasn’t on Linkedin, and no company site listed her as an employee. She was, shockingly enough, listed in the phone book, and they found her home in the tax rolls—a two-bedroom in a nice neighborhood in the southern part of town. A records search came up empty, so she’d paid cash for the house four months ago, which was interesting. Where had that money come from? Nate speculated stripping, combined with an aggressive investment strategy. Declan thought a large ransom payout was more likely.

  Bridget had called about an hour into the search, wanting to know everything and promising donuts and coffee if they would give her the girl’s name.

  Nate had perked up at the idea of food. Declan had flatly refused, and their research had hit a dead end at the Facebook page, which offered a profile photo and nothing else.

  The profile photo was of the woman, and it was definitely her. Same long blonde hair. A sunburnt nose. She was scrunching up her face in the photo, her cheek being licked by a pig. No joke. A freaking pig was licking her face.