by Mazzy King
“Happy one month,” she whispers. “Daddy.”
I almost knock the entire picnic table over as I leap up to pull her into my arms.
“Finally,” Grandma exclaims, but she’s grinning, and happy tears slip down her cheeks. “I was getting so tired of keeping that secret!”
Summer and I shuffle over to her and share a big, three-way hug.
“I can’t wait to meet my beautiful great-grandchild,” Grandma says, gently placing a hand on each of our cheeks. “I suppose if I want to live long enough to meet them, I better lay off the gin, huh?”
“Grandma,” Summer says, shocked.
I laugh, my arms around them both. “You know you’ll live forever, Grandma.”
I suppose I misspoke a second ago, when I said I couldn’t imagine how life could get any better.
Life is perfect.
The End
8 | BROCK
1
Brock McNair
At the end of a very long day, I trudge inside my small apartment, shut the door with my foot, and let out a long sigh.
You might not immediately think of cable installation and repair as being an exhausting job, but let me assure you, it is.
I toe off my boots by the door and lean against it for a moment, thinking about my plans for the night. I usually hit the apartment complex gym for an hour or two after work, but tonight, I’m drained. All I want is a quiet night and to rest. Maybe a beer.
As a thirty-five-year-old divorcé, I lead quite the exciting life.
Hitting the weights and running can wait until tomorrow. I head to the shower, fiddling with the knobs and waiting approximately three years for the water to get hot.
I hate this apartment. It was the only place I could find on short notice after my wife informed me she was divorcing me two years ago. I rented it with the idea it’d only be temporary until I found a better place. The option for my wife and I to reconcile was and is out of the question—even though the guy she left me for left her about a year ago.
I used to dream about that moment, the moment she realized how badly she fucked up, the moment she realized the grass was never green at all on the other side and would call to beg me to take her back. I used to take so much pleasure in the thought of lording it over her, the pain she caused me, but ultimately, because I loved her, I’d take her back and we could try to make it work.
But when it actually happened, when that phone call came out of the blue last year, I felt nothing but a deep-rooted pity for such a lost soul. “It’s not me you want,” I told her. “It’s the idea of me. We’d both be settling, and I’m done doing that.”
I wished her the best, I hung up, and then I promptly changed my phone number.
Complacency got the best of me, and instead of moving out after six months like I planned, I ended up staying because I just didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. I didn’t feel.
The past couple months have inspired a new desire to get out of here. My lease is up in a month. I’ve already found my next place—a small house in a nice, quiet neighborhood. It’s big enough for two. Maybe I’ll get a dog.
It’s almost move-in ready. It’s an older home, and I need to get a few things taken care of before I’ll call it mine. I can stick it out here until the end of the lease. It’s been twenty-three months. What’s another one?
After my shower, I head back into the living room wearing just sweatpants and pull an ice-cold Guinness from the fridge. I pop the cap, head to the couch, and fall into its soft cushions. It’s the closest thing to a hug I’ve had since my divorce.
Was that as pathetic as it sounded?
In the dim, warm light from the lamp on a table beside the couch, I breath in the silence. No TV. No music. Just silence.
I’m an eighty-five-year-old man trapped inside a thirty-five-year-old man’s body.
I lift the bottle to my lips, anticipating my first rich sip.
“No, fuck you!”
The voice is so loud I jump, and for a second I think someone’s in my apartment. But then I hear angry feet stomping down the hallway right outside my door.
“Listen, you fuckface, you can kiss my ass with that bullshit!” The voice, which belongs to a woman, is as full of venom as a voice can be. For one second, I’m sincerely grateful I’m not on the receiving end of it.
The door next to me opens and then slams with enough force to shake the building on its foundation.
Ah. So that’s my new next-door neighbor. Great.
I noticed a few days ago that someone had moved in, but I hadn’t seen them. But now, I can certainly hear them.
The shouting continues once she’s inside the apartment. This complex gives a whole new meaning to the term “paper thin.”
My solitude destroyed, I set the beer down on the coffee table and stand. The crotchety old fogey inside me is about to come out, but I don’t care. The whole apartment must be able to hear her.
I step into some Adidas slides and yank the door open, annoyed beyond belief, and stalk down to her door. Now she’s playing loud, angry rock music. The lead singer wails like a banshee.
I cop-knock on her door.
The music cuts off, and there’s silence, like the tenant thought she heard something but isn’t sure, so I cop-knock again.
“It’s your neighbor,” I snap. “I’d like to talk to you, please.”
I’d never ask a woman to open her door all the way, so if I have to yell through the door I will.
The lock unlatches and the door cracks open, the security chain still in place.
A young woman with a heart-shaped face, smudged eye makeup, and dark blonde hair peers out at me. Her bloodshot brown eyes widen as they search my face, then drift lower. “Yeah?”
Shit. I forgot to put on a shirt.
“Look,” I say, an edge to my voice. “It sounds like you’re having a rough time, but you need to keep it down. This isn’t some downtown party loft. Have some respect.”
Her eyes narrow. “Gee, sorry, Daddy. Are you going to ground me now for being a bad girl?”
Despite the bloodshot, puffy eyes that indicate crying and her smudged makeup, I suddenly realize how gorgeous she is. And young. She’s got to be mid-twenties, max.
Maybe it’s her sassy attitude or the fact that I haven’t had sex in a long time, but the way she calls me “Daddy” and herself a “bad girl” immediately makes my cock turn over and sit up.
“Just keep it down,” I snarl, then turn and stalk back into my apartment, slamming the door as hard as she did.
Now for a cold shower.
2
Taryn Scott
I pull open the oven door. A blast of hot-ass air smacks me right in the face.
“Stand back first, dummy,” I mutter to myself, reaching in to pull out a cookie sheet. “You do this every time.”
Still, the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies quickly washes away any irritation I have at myself. Bobbing my head to the Tupac pouring out of my speakers, I set the cookies on a cooling rack and start cleaning up the kitchen.
Music is my therapy, my refuge, the only way I know how to deal with the real world around me when it gets a little too real. And lately, it’s definitely been feeling too real.
I discovered last week that Kip, my on-again, off-again boyfriend, has been cheating on me for at least six months. At least, that’s all he’d admit to, but my gut tells me it’s been a lot longer than that. At any rate, it was the final sever of the rapidly fraying tie between us. I wasn’t in love with him, even though his betrayal hurt, but I had gotten comfortable. Too comfortable. I needed to break out on my own and get the fuck away from him.
Unfortunately, he’s got me on the hook for rent and other bills he’s neglected and coming up with the money to pay all that shit off and support myself will be a challenge. It’s not right, but it’s a small price to pay to get him out of my life completely.
Luckily, I have a very well-paying job as an execu
tive assistant at the gas company downtown. So even though it means I’ll be eating instant ramen for a month, I’m going to do it.
The music switches from Tupac to J. Cole. I love all music. Rap, pop, classical, metal, jazz. You name it, I like it. However, I know not everyone agrees, which is why I’m baking cookies in the first place.
I’m only keeping a few for myself. The rest are going to my grumpy, hot next-door neighbor.
When he showed up at my door a few nights ago, all pissed off and shirtless, I responded the only way I know how—with snark and sarcasm. But in hindsight, I understand I was wrong. I was just so infuriated from my phone call with Kip that I dealt with it the only way I knew how—loud, angry music.
Maybe not the most considerate thing at eight p.m. on a weeknight.
When the kitchen is clean and the cookies are cool, I use a spatula to scoop them onto a pretty, floral paper plate—biodegradable—and carry them next door. My stomach tenses a little. I’m nervous, and not just because I don’t know how he’ll react. I’ve replayed the sight of him shirtless in just sweatpants over and over and over in my mind every night since it happened.
He’s got to be in his mid-thirties, with dark hair, a closely trimmed beard, and dark eyes. His hair and beard are a little silver at the edges, but his face is pretty youthful. And his body’s a work of goddamn art. Cut, chiseled, hewn from stone—however you want to describe it, he is built like hell. He’s got to be over six feet tall with shoulders that can fill the hallway.
I don’t really want a guy like that being mad at me.
I smooth the sundress I’m wearing down and tuck a lock of dark-golden hair behind my ear. I may or may not have gotten ready to present a pretty picture to Hot Grump. I have no place to go—and no money to go there even if I wanted to—so my big Saturday night plan is to watch a serial killer documentary on Netflix.
Unless Hot Grump really likes my cookies…and wants my other cookie.
Eek.
One of the things that made it easy to leave Kip was the fact that we haven’t had any kind of sexual or affectionate relationship in at least a year. Why would we? He was cheating, and I suspected as much, and after getting tested to verify he didn’t give me anything, I stayed to myself, even sleeping in the tiny second bedroom. We were more like roommates with titles, as far as I was concerned.
Thus, I’ve been in a dry spell for a year. And Hot Grump is seriously activating my thirst reflex.
I knock on his door—far more gently than he did the other night—and wait. It’s not that late, not even seven thirty. Then again, he acts like a crotchety old man, so who knows. Maybe he’s already in his striped pajamas with his nightcap.
Or bursting out of those striped pajamas…
“Behave,” I mutter to myself.
After a moment, I hear the safety chain sliding, the lock turning, and then the door opens. I’m both relieved and deeply disappointed to see he’s wearing actual clothes tonight—a snug-fitting T-shirt and jeans. He still fills it out so very well. In fact, his T-shirt sleeves strain against his biceps.
He seems surprised to see me. “Um…hi.”
“Hi,” I reply, then point to myself. “Taryn Scott. Next door.”
He slowly offers me his hand, as if still suspicious. “Hi. I’m Brock McNair.”
Brock the Brick. I draw a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize for getting off on the wrong foot with you the other night. I had what we’ll call a bad day, and I wasn’t thinking. Music is how I drown my sorrows, and through a series of very unfortunate circumstances, I no longer have my headphones anymore and haven’t had a chance to pick up new ones. Um.” I hold the plate out. “I baked these for you as an apology and a peace-offering. They’re chocolate chip.” Yeah, Tar. He has eyes.
“Thank you,” he says, sounding confused. But he reaches out to take the plate. “This is unexpected. And really thoughtful. I’m sorry for being so abrasive. I had a long day, too.”
I smile brightly. He returns it with a small, one-sided attempt. “Okay. Well, no hard feelings. I’ll do my best to keep it down. And, um…enjoy the cookies.”
It looks like a bachelor pad to me, from what I can see over his shoulder. Very simple furnishings, almost no decoration, no womanly touch anywhere. Of course, he could be dating someone he doesn’t live with.
I hope not.
He doesn’t seem to be planning to invite me in, so I step back. “Well, good night.” I turn and walk back to my apartment.
“That could have gone better, but I think it went okay,” I murmur, heading to my bedroom to change out of the dress and wedges I donned to deliver the cookies. Time for sweats.
I didn’t end up in Hot Grump’s arms, but at least I got half a smile.
3
Brock
I don’t like chocolate chip cookies. Chocolate gives me migraines.
But I eat the ones Taryn made me anyway.
And…they were damn delicious.
Several nights later, after hitting the gym and the shower and standing in the kitchen, heating up a frozen dinner, I stare hard at the last cookie that lingers on the plate. I’ve already got some Excedrin lined up so I can finish it off for dessert.
I’d like to have her for dessert.
The image of Taryn at my door, in a pretty little dress, her dark golden hair curled around her shoulders, her glossy lips in a bright smile, has featured in my dreams ever since she showed up. What the hell possessed her to bring me cookies? Granted, she was out of line the other night, but I didn’t expect someone as young as her to be mature enough to own up to her actions and apologize for them. It shamed me into apologizing for talking to her like an ass in response.
I glance at the box on the counter I picked up on my way home. She said she lost her headphones when she brought me the cookies. For some reason, she hasn’t replaced them.
Well…
You’re a sap and sucker, McNair, just admit it.
I wasn’t sure what kind of phone Taryn has, so I didn’t want to get the super expensive ones that only work with one brand. But I found a universal brand of wireless earbuds that come with a little charging case and has about a zillion hours of battery life when fully charged. They fit neatly in the ear and you can talk on the phone on them and everything.
Now, she can enjoy her music as loud as she wants—imagining the earsplitting volume she likes makes me cringe—and in peace.
They were still pretty spendy—a hundred bucks. But somehow, it felt like a nice purchase. And if Taryn doesn’t need them or want them, maybe she can give them to someone who does.
I eat standing up in the kitchen, staring at the box like it’s going to sprout legs. When I’m done, I brush my teeth, gather the box, and head for the door.
My hand lands on the doorknob as the first shout reaches my ear.
“…not going to pay that bill by myself,” a voice—a male voice—snaps from inside her apartment.
What’s this? I open my door and step stealthily into the hall, ears pricked.
“It’s your fucking bill!” Taryn yells. “Look, Kip, I’m already up to my ears in paying off the bullshit that tied us together for so long. I’m not going to pay off your car, too. Do you understand? I haven’t eaten a vegetable in a week because they’re too expensive! Every last dime I have is going to paying off shit. I refuse to take on any new debt, so you can just shove it up your ass!”
“You rode in and drove my car plenty,” the guy insists. “That means you’re on the hook!”
I shake my head. This must be the “bad day” she mentioned.
Taryn barks out an ugly laugh. “I can’t believe I even entertained your ‘civil discussion’ request. Seriously. How stupid am I? I should’ve told you to go fuck yourself, just like I should’ve done a year ago! Longer than that.”
“Whatever. So are you gonna pay me or what?”
“No!”
I swear that thunderous shout shook the walls.
Across t
he hall, a door opens, and my elderly neighbor Mrs. Randall pokes her head out. She spies me leaning against the wall and points at Taryn’s door. “What the hell is that?”
I shake my head. “Long story. I’ll handle it.”
Mrs. Randall keeps pointing. “That girl has disrupted this building ever since she moved in. I’ve talked to several people on this floor who’ve complained about her loud music and these arguments she keeps having. The landlord has been notified.”
I nod, holding up a hand. “Understood, Mrs. R. I’m on it.”
She bobs her head and ducks back inside.
“Then I’m going to take you to court,” the guy threatens.
“Take me! I fucking dare you!”
Yikes. Time to intervene.
I knock sharply on her door. Both of them go silent. A moment later, the door opens, and a furious-looking Taryn blinks up at me. “Brock?”
I tick my chin at the door. “Mind if I come in?”
She stares at me, confusion written all over her face, then steps back and pulls the door open wider.
I hate him immediately.
A tall, lanky guy with over-styled hair stands with his arms folded. He sneers at me. “This your new fuck-buddy, Tar?”
She whirls toward him. “Fuck you.”
I put a hand on her shoulder and look at the guy. “Look, I’m not trying to get in the middle of your business here, but you need to keep your voices down. This is an apartment where other people live.” I look at Taryn. “And you don’t want to get kicked out.”
She draws a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Tell her to pay me and I’ll leave,” Kip demands.
I step past Taryn and walk toward him with measured strides. He’s tall, but I’ve got him beat by a couple of inches. I also probably outweigh him by about thirty pounds. “I think you’ll leave right now. Without payment.”
For a second, Kip looks like he’s going to try to start some shit with me, then appears to think better of it. “Fine.” He steps around me and glares at Taryn. “See you in court.”
