The Boy Next Door

by Ella James

  When I was at his apartment, I poked around. I wouldn’t call it full-on snooping…but I looked. At night in bed, when I’m staring at the ceiling, it’s his place I’m thinking of—and what I saw. How it fits with Dash the man; what might be left of Dash the boy.

  He cooks enough to have the right kind of oven mitt: one of the super-insulated, silicon ones. He doesn’t just have one; he has one that has heat marks.

  Over his big, plush, dark brown leather couch, framed in thick mahogany, is a color print I’m pretty sure is from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. It features a blonde with long, slightly curling hair, looking demure in a lilac gown-with-shawl, standing in a forest face-to-facing it with a brown owl.

  On his end table, a stack of Miyazaki coasters.

  I remembered so many little things about him that day he had the migraine. The way Dash swore off regular black pepper in favor of peppercorn when he was twelve; he’s still got peppercorn in the cabinet. His love of flavored soda. His size thirteen shoes.

  I found a hand-written checking account ledger with a balance of $57,000. A still-full bottle of Zoloft in the bathroom cabinet, the prescription dated March 2015. I’m ashamed to say I counted them; it seems he just took two.

  Why?

  Is it weird I want to know? What happened in March 2015? What happened in March 2014, 2013, 2012…?

  What happened to Dash?

  He’s got a telescope in the kitchen, by the two-seater table. The magnets on his fridge are Star Wars themed.

  What happened to the boy who used to sit out on the roof with me?

  It’s so strange that I know how he tastes and how he feels in my hands, but I know next to nothing about his head and heart.

  He’s really good at hugs.

  His hands are big but gentle.

  Is that enough for me?

  Is this enough—even for right now?

  Sometimes I feel like I’ll go crazy and I tell myself I have to stop. Then, like any addict, I go back. Just one more kiss.

  Is this what love is like for everyone: the feeling that it’s dangerous but irresistible? Fear mingled with lust.

  Or is it just us?

  Is the price of Dash this clawing, wanting feeling—this feeling that I’ll never get enough?

  And is it worth it?

  My lips curve in a would-be laugh as I fade into sleep. None of this matters…because I just can’t stop.

  Seventeen

  Dash

  It’s Thursday after work, and I’m sitting on my balcony smoking a cigar and looking at the city as dusk descends like fuzzy pixels over everything. I was supposed to go out tonight, but I wasn’t feeling it.

  Tomorrow’s Friday, our meeting with Imagine’s marketing team, where we’ll get the formal green-light on production of Dove. And then she’s gone. For a whole week, we take off. It’s a summer thing: Imagine does it every year. Nobody works. (They have to kick people out of the building, because a lot of us freaks hate time off).

  I know Amelia’s going to Southampton. It’s a long tradition for her and her friends from high school.

  I’ll be here—fucking my hand.

  I tell myself there’s shit that I can do. I’ve got some private projects I could work on, a woman from our hometown who wants a painting—anything I want to paint—and is willing to pay $10,000 for it.

  I’ve got friends here. Could do something with the crew from Dove. But I know I won’t. I’ll probably sit out on this balcony the whole damn time and watch the traffic crawl between high-rises.

  I’m well aware that Ammy’s doing something she feels bad about. Mostly because there’s no way she could possibly feel good. Not with what happened. Not considering she won’t hear my apology. Not considering I don’t have one to give her.

  What really happened—she can never know.

  It’s mine. Other than the few people who know already, no one else is finding out. This shit going to my grave with me. That’s what I deserve. When everything is said and done, that’s why this will never last with Am. I can’t tell her what she needs to hear. I can’t make it right, what I did. Lexie says it was so long ago, maybe Ammy’s over it, but I can see she’s not. I can see her looking at me when she thinks I’m absorbed in something else. The way her eyes dig into softer pieces of me, searching for her answers.

  Anybody would be fucked up by what happened, but especially a woman. Sex is so damn different for them. It’s never only physical. Maybe with some women…but not fifteen-year-old girls.

  Christ, she could have had me hauled to jail for statutory rape. I would have deserved it. Instead she’s fucking me again. (Well, she fucked me once…and then she bolted; which is how I know she’s acting against what she views to be good sense). She’s fucking around with me again, and it’s got to be backsliding—in her mind.

  She’ll go off to Southampton and spill the beans to someone. One of her posse will tell her she’s lost her fucking mind, and she’ll see sense. And that will be the end of it.

  That’ll be the right thing.

  That’ll leave me…where I was before.

  I stub out the cigar and lean against the railing. I remember Ammy with the big, round glasses. I can still remember her the day she fell into our pool. Is it possible she’s had my heart since that day? Is that how it works? You don’t get a fucking choice? It’s one and done—and then you’re ruined for life?

  I know a lot of dudes would laugh at that idea. And I don’t give a fuck. For me, it’s true. I don’t go around shouting it from rooftops, but for me, there has only ever been Amelia. God knows I tried to fix things so it wasn’t that way. Fucked my way through half of New England. And…no dice.

  I’m lighting another cigar when I hear my doorbell.

  I put it out...walk through the apartment, check the peephole…

  Ammy.

  Well, shit.

  I get hard just looking at her through the fucking door, and have to squeeze my dick to get it to stand down.

  I pull the door open and find Am with her hair pulled up all messy on her head, wearing blue and white sky-patterned pajama pants and one of those cotton girl shirts that’s got the really skinny shoulder straps. The shirt is gray and stretches snugly over her chest. I pull my gaze away from there and notice that she’s holding a brown bag. And not wearing any shoes.

  She smiles. “Sooo, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is, I have Chinese. Bad news, I’m locked out of my apartment and maintenance says it’s going to be an hour.”

  “Oh, I see how it is.” I give her a shaming look. “You just want to use me.”

  I can see the slightest rise of color on her cheeks, and that just makes me laugh. “Amelia. What’s going on in that dirty mind of yours?”

  She shoves my chest. “Maybe I’ll just take this food and go.”

  I snatch the brown bag from her easily and hold it out of her reach, trying to smell the food while keeping it out of her grasping hands.

  “This smells good. Moo goo gai pan?”

  “Same ole same ole,” she says, wrapping her hand around my elbow. She squeezes, and I chuckle. I step inside, dragging her with me, so when I stop abruptly in the foyer, she loses her footing and stumbles into me.

  “Sorry.” I smirk.

  “You ass.” She swats me, and we head toward the kitchen.

  Ammy tries to get her food back, but I pull out a chair for her and make her watch and wait while I serve both of us. Which makes her call me an ass again. Which prompts me to throw a fortune cookie at her.

  “So how’d you get locked out?” I ask her as she eats her cookie.

  “I have no idea!” She does this thing when she’s worked up where everything is an exclamation. “I went down to the lobby to get the food. I thought I had a key and then I didn’t! I guess I must have left it on this table I have by my door.”

  “Wearing your evening best?” I tease her, as I set her bowl in front of her.

  “Oh my gosh, you gave me all
the water chestnuts!” I grin as she beams down at her bowl. “You remember.”

  “Of course.” I try to smile as I sit down across from her, but I’m not sure I pull it off. I want to add, I remember everything about you, but of course, I can’t. Or—won’t. I’ve been on the fence about how to treat Am, and I realized it’s not possible to treat her with anything less than adoration, but she probably doesn’t need to know the real depth of my feelings. What’s the point? More so than that… If she knew, she’d be confused. She’d ask more questions.

  “They’re so amazing. It’s a texture thing, but mmm.” She chews one, and this time, I have no trouble smiling at grown-up Amelia sitting, chomping water chestnuts at my table.

  “You want something to drink? I’ve got some wine.”

  I see her face shutter for a moment—I wonder if she’s remembering our drunken kisses at the work party—but then she nods. “Sure thing. Anything is fine. I like white and red and all the different shades.”

  “A real drunk,” I tease.

  “Oh yeah, that’s me. Total studio drunkard.”

  “You are a sorority girl.”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that.” I feel her eyes on my back as I get two glasses out and pour an off-dry Riesling. “Were you in a fraternity?” she asks.

  “Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess I should have said a ‘social’ fraternity.”

  I set her glass down.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s a German Riesling. Mosel valley.”

  She takes a sip. “That’s good.”

  I watch her as she eats. I know it’s rude, but it’s not often I’m seated right across from her. At work, I’m usually trying not to stare too openly; all the other times, I’ve got my face between her legs. Amelia hasn’t spent a lot of time one-on-one with me, and I get it. But I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts, for the whole hour.

  “So,” she says after another bite, “you have another place in California?”

  “Yep.”

  “Apartment?”

  “House.”

  “Ohhh. Fancy.”

  I wink.

  “What’s it like?”

  I shrug. “Walls and roof. It’s got a garden.”

  “Does it?”

  I nod, chewing. “I’ve got a few raised beds.”

  “Wow, so you grow food?”

  “A few things, yeah.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  “It’s relaxing,” I confide.

  “What’s it like, your job? Do you enjoy it?”

  “We work together,” I tease. “You remember that, right?”

  She sticks her tongue out. “Yes, you jerk. But I’ve never asked you if you like it.”

  “I hate it. Makes me want to die.” Something hits me on the arm. “Hey…” I pick the small, white paper off the table and unfold it. “You threw a fortune at me?”

  “Read it,” she says cryptically.

  “Your luck will take a turn. Tread cautiously. Well, that’s kind of cryptic.”

  “I know, right?”

  I nod. “What about you, Am? You liking working under me?”

  She rolls her eyes, and I snicker.

  “It’s hard to stay on top of things sometimes,” she says, smirking. “I’m still learning all the ins and outs.”

  “It can be hard to wrap your hands around the meat of this job.”

  “Oh, totally. Luckily, you’re not too rigid or anal about things.”

  “Hey, I’m rigid.” I flick the crumpled fortune back at her. Amelia bats it with her palm, and we both chuckle.

  “So, what are you doing next week?”

  I tell her about the commission from the Georgia woman. “She’s an author, actually.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I tell her the woman’s name, and Ammy says she’s read her. “Very poetic. I liked her first book. That’s the only one I’ve read.”

  “Do you ever read your mom’s books?”

  I can see the shock on her face, and immediately I feel bad for asking. I watch as she composes herself; finally, when her face is scrubbed of emotion, she nods once. “I do. I’ve read them lots of times. And it’s okay that you asked. You look like you just found out you killed a kitten.”

  “Shit.” I rub my forehead. “I should have thought before I spoke.”

  “It’s okay. I won’t break.”

  “I know.” There was a time when Ammy talked about these things with me. A time long ago. But it doesn’t feel like that long.

  “It’s weird to read them,” she says, then pauses to drink. “There are themes that repeat in each book, you know? Little things she clearly liked enough to feature more than once. Like spiral staircases and bird baths. Certain numbers, like the number five. I think writers leave behind a lot of clues about themselves. Like artists, almost.”

  “Of course.”

  “I wish I’d known her longer.” Her eyes meet mine for one warm moment before falling to the table’s surface. “I feel like I still remember the gist of her...you know? She was generous and fun. She wanted me to feel loved and included. Special. I remember her enough to know that for sure. The way she was always buying me clothes and purses just like hers and listening to my long, ridiculous, made-up stories… And you know, I used to wonder if she would have left. But now I don’t. Now I like to think she would have gone back to my dad. From what I’ve gathered over the years, they weren’t really out of love, they were just having a rough spot. Anyway,” she shakes her head, “even if she had left him, I know she wouldn’t have left me.”

  “I’m glad that doesn’t bother you the way it used to.”

  Ammy picks up her bowl and stands, trying to seem casual—but I can tell she’s uncomfortable she just told me all that shit and wants to put the distance back between us. She sets her bowl in the sink and lingers for a moment beside the refrigerator. I can’t see her very well from the table, so I stand, and I realize what she must be looking at.

  I come up behind her as her fingertips touch the scratched plastic frame of the little picture on the side of the refrigerator.

  “I remember this.” She rubs her finger over our faces: Am, me, and Lexie. We’re in swim suits, sitting on the pool’s side on the Fourth of July, eating slices of watermelon. The girls were ten, and I was thirteen. “We had just been fighting with those pool noodle things,” she says softly. “Lex made this little magnet in sixth grade art class, didn’t she?”

  I nod.

  “I remember I made a magnet for my dad.”

  I look at little Lexie, little Am, and younger me, and feel a coil of misery wrap around my stomach. Amelia’s eyes over the watermelon rind are wide and knowing: like she sees me in this very moment, and she knows exactly what I’ll do to her, and she is saying I can’t believe it.

  My hand rises, reaching for Amelia’s shoulder…but I don’t allow myself to touch her. I lower it and watch her from slightly behind as she notices another magnet. Fucking art projects.

  This one depicts a painting that I did in college.

  “I think I remember this.”

  “You do.” My voice sounds gruff. The painting is a brilliant, pale gray dove, on black. The art is heavy: chunky oil paint, caked on—in part because I couldn’t just be done with the piece. I kept fucking with it.

  “You sent that to me,” she says. “A picture of you with it through email your freshman year.”

  “I did.”

  “I liked it.”

  Did she? “…I still have it.”

  She turns to look at me. “It never sold? I thought almost all your pieces had sold, the ones you listed.” I know why she thinks that. Someone wrote an article about me last year, and the article made that claim. Which means Amelia was reading articles about me last year.

  “That’s true—but it wasn’t listed.”

  “Oh.” She sounds surprised.

  “It was for you.”

/>   Eighteen

  Dash

  “It was?” The clueless look on her face makes me feel ill.

  “I painted it for you, during the first few weeks that I was gone.”

  Her eyes widen slightly, as if to ask, Well? What happened? When I don’t answer, she says, “Why?” The word is sharp.

  “I missed you.”

  Her brows rise as her lips press into a thin line. Then she turns away and walks into the foyer.

  “Where is that painting now?” she asks as she reaches the door. When her hand touches the handle, she turns around to face me.

  “In Burbank.”

  “Hanging?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Then where? Where is it in your house?”

  I frown, puzzled. “It’s in my closet.”

  “Where you keep your clothes?”

  “Am I missing something here?”

  “Your closet in your room?” she presses.

  “Well…yeah.”

  “Okay.” The word is curt. She brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “Well I want it. Next time you go back to Burbank.”

  “Okay.” I nod slowly. I can do that.

  “Good.” She reaches into her purse and pulls her phone out, peering at the screen. “It’s been an hour. Thanks for letting me come over.”

  She leaves quickly. I don’t think she meets my eyes one single time.

  Half an hour later, I’m stretched out on the couch, drinking a second glass of wine and staring at my TV, which is off.

  The doorbell rings.

  I know it’s her before I reach the door this time.

  “I’m still locked out,” she says. “It’s going to be a few more hours.”

  “Would you like to come in?”

  “Well, yes. If that’s okay.”

  “It’s definitely okay.” I beckon her in, noting her white cotton t-shirt.

  Amelia

  I don’t know I’m going to do it until I step into his foyer. Then the words just tumble out. “I want to know now. Why? Why didn’t you come back that day, Dash? Scared to face me once you sobered up? Buyers’ regret? Did you have to prove it to yourself that you weren’t really obligated to me after what we did? Or did you just not give a shit?”