by Amie Knight
I looked at the clock on our wooden nightstand. “It’s only seven in the morning, Lori. Momma ain’t even up yet. Try to go back to sleep.” I laid my head back down and closed my eyes, hoping she would get the message.
She didn’t. “I can’t. I’m too excited.” She sat up on her knees in the bed and begged me with her big, brown puppy-dog eyes.
She almost always won me over that way. I was a complete sucker for those eyes.
I sat up too and ruffled her hair. “I’ll see what I can do. Let’s get some breakfast first though.” I had to admit I was pretty excited too.
We spent breakfast begging Momma to let us go swimming with the new neighbor, and after much convincing, she finally agreed. After we’d eaten, I made sure to put on my favorite pink swimsuit with the white polka dots. I took my time and brushed my thick curls into a high ponytail. I wanted to look good for the pool. It had nothing to do with the beautiful boy next door. Nothing at all.
We showed up at Adrian’s house at nine a.m. on the dot. It had taken a lot to hold Lori off that long. I stood on the porch of his bright, white house and nervously tapped my foot, working up the courage to lift the shiny, gold knocker on the front door. But I didn’t have to worry about it because Lori shot around me, rang the doorbell, and then ducked behind my back. She wasn’t as outgoing as I was. New people sometimes made her nervous, and I couldn’t help but be scared for her too. It took her a long time to warm up to someone.
Adrian swung the door open. He rubbed his eyes while grumbling under his breath. Great. We’d woken him up. I might have felt bad about it if I hadn’t been so excited. I could see he was taking us in—me in my polka dot suit and Lori, who was peeking around me, in her purple suit with pink sailboats, both of us gripping our pink towels in our hands.
“We’re here to uh…swim,” I said nervously, giving him a look-over. I smiled because he was still in his pajamas.
He saw my smile and grinned back at me. “Well, all right, then.” He leaned back behind the door and yelled, “Dad, the neighbors are here and we’re going swimming!”
His dad called back, “I’ll be down in a sec. Do not even think of getting in that pool without an adult present.”
Adrian motioned us in, and we all walked through a nice living room with a loveseat and a sofa. There were piles of packing boxes everywhere, some full and some empty. Where there weren’t boxes, there were piles of clothes, towels, sheets, and, well, everything. All of this everything was sprinkled with packing peanuts. It was a mess. We then headed through another doorway to a dining room and a kitchen. The back door was off the kitchen, and I could see the pool through the glass. I was staring that way when Adrian spoke.
“So, who is that hiding behind you there, Ainsley?”
Lori pushed her forehead into my back and tried to disappear.
I grabbed Lori from behind me and brought her to stand directly in front of me. “This is Loralie. She’s a little nervous to meet strangers.”
Adrian studied her for a minute. Then he leaned forward and touched his pointer finger to Lori’s little button nose. “Well, you don’t look like a stranger to me, Loralie. You look like my little sister, Maggie. She’s in heaven now with my momma, but she was the prettiest girl in the whole world. She had big, brown eyes and pretty, brown hair—just like you.”
I felt Lori gasp a little, but she moved forward and stood right in front of Adrian.
“Why did they go to heaven?” she asked.
I almost grabbed Lori and ran for the door. This whole conversation felt intrusive and awkward.
But, before I could bolt, Adrian replied, “They were driving home from the store a couple of months ago and someone hit their car.” He turned away from us and stared out at the pool.
His admission rocked me. Kids weren’t supposed to lose their parents. I was just about to tell Lori that it might not be the best day to swim. That we should head home and give Adrian some space. But, before I could even get a word out, Lori walked right up to him and threw her arms around his middle. She laid her head on his back and squeezed tight. Adrian froze for a moment, and they stayed like that for a while. I stayed quiet and unsure. But, eventually, he turned and wrapped his arms around her too. I felt incredibly sad for both of them, having lost their mothers at such a young age. Their circumstances were different, but the outcome was, no less, the same.
Lori pulled out of Adrian’s arms and peered up at him. I could tell that she already liked him. She felt a kinship with him she didn’t feel with me. I had a momma. A good one.
“So, are we going swimming or what, Blue?” she asked.
Adrian quirked an eyebrow. “Blue?”
“Yep,” she said. “Just like your eyes.”
And that was that. The three of us were fast friends. We spent the rest of that day swimming in the pool, lying on our towels on the deck, and yapping while Adrian’s dad watched us from the porch while reading the newspaper and drinking his coffee. Adrian informed us that he was eight years old, just like me. They had only moved in a few days ago and were still working on getting everything unpacked.
Adrian did cannonballs and Lori giggled loudly. He picked her up on his shoulders and threw her halfway across the pool.
Each time, she’d yell, “Again!”
I swam, did handstands and somersaults, and floated on my back. I was deliriously happy because I was so blessedly cool in the middle of an awful Southern heat wave.
Much of our summer was spent that very same way. Swimming, running between the cotton fields a block over from our homes, or playing on the swing set in the backyard. We were wild and free. We fed Adrian our salty tomatoes right off the vine. We taught him to catch tadpoles in the creek behind our house. We caught fireflies in the evening and kept them in small mason jars. We lay on the damp grass underneath the stars at night in our backyards, hand in hand in hand. Our duo had all of a sudden become a trio. Lori could hardly wake without running over to get our black-haired, blue-eyed boy. My heart was so full with those two that it felt like it might burst. Adrian made our lives feel complete and happy. He was the Ken to our Barbies. The ringmaster to our aerial act.
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See Through Heart
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I made lists. Not your simple run-of-the-mill grocery lists. I’m not even talking about lists of errands or appointments. Those are for novice list makers. I mean real lists. The kind of lists that would go on and on and I could add to even two years after I’d started them. Lists that talked about food I loved. Food I hated. Where I wanted to visit. A list of names of people who were kind to me. A list of people who weren’t. A list of quotes from my favorite authors. Infinite lists. Those lists kept me sane and stable when I sometimes felt the world was too chaotic. I kept them everywhere. My notorious lists were strewn about my editing desk on tiny Post-it notes, my handwriting rushed and hardly legible. From gorgeous journals and spiral-bound notebooks to my bathroom mirror written in Ruby Red Mac Lipstick, my lists were all over my home.
I was only eleven when I’d made my very first list. My mom had come home from work after a twelve-hour shift in one of the very worst moods ever. I tried to stay out of her way those days. Well, most days really. She was an overworked, underpaid, single mother and made sure I knew that every chance she got. She wasn’t physically abusive, but some days I’d felt like maybe that would have been better than the insults she hurled my way. But that day, it’d been particularly bad. She’d lost her job and come in the house enraged, spoiling for a fight, and unfortunately, I’d been the only one there. She’d nitpicked every chore in the house that I should have done. She’d called me lazy, fat, and stupid. I’d run to my room and locked the door, my small legs shaking in fear. I’d lain in my bed in a tiny ball of terror under the covers until I saw the lights turn out in the living room from under my bedroom door. I’d crawled out of bed and across the floor to my rickety hand-m
e-down wooden desk in the corner and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. I’d sat at that desk, staring at the blank paper in front of me. Wishing my mom wasn’t so darn mean. Praying that tomorrow she would be in a better mood. Hoping someone would come and save me from that place. Anyone.
And then I’d thought of who would come. Who would be my savior. And I knew exactly what he’d be like. After all, I’d read about him a million times. He lived in the piles and piles of romance novels my mom kept hidden under her bed. What? A girl had to keep entertained while her mom worked all hours of the day and night. And as soon as my pen hit the paper, peace and calm coursed through my body. I wrote the title My One. I started with his hair and eyes. He’d be dark-haired with even darker eyes. They’d be haunted because all good book boyfriends’ eyes were. He’d be tall and strong because I’d need protecting. And of course, he’d be over-the-top good-looking. He’d be secure and sure of himself, but never cocky or vain. He’d hold doors open for me. He’d call me all the time. He’d cuddle with me whenever I wanted. He’d take me fishing and dancing. He’d think I was adorable even when everyone else thought I was crazy. He’d only make peanut butter sandwiches with honey, and never jelly, because that was just gross. He’d lock down the house at night right after sending me to bed. He’d have a sweet nickname for me that only he called me. Sweetheart was a good one. I really liked that one. He’d love me fiercely. And I’d know it because he’d tell me every single day. The list went on and on. It still did.
I never expected that eleven years later my one would finally come for me. It wasn’t on my list that he’d come charging into my life, practically railroading me with his presence. Simultaneously, he’d obliterated my list and smashed it to smithereens, while snatching my heart right out of my chest and stealing it for his own, all the while keeping his hidden behind the steel fortress he’d built around it. It wasn’t on my list that he’d crush me. That he’d change my life so irrevocably. It wasn’t on my list that I’d love him so fiercely, he’d break me.
To Do
Finish Edits
Stalk The Hot Neighbor
Shower
“What are you doing today?” my friend Ainsley asked through the cell phone that was pressed to my ear with my shoulder. My hands were busy holding open a piece of the blinds so I could look out the front window.
I gave her a distracted answer. “You know, the usual. Edits and whatnot.” I tilted my head to the side to get a better view out the window and almost dropped the phone. Holy hotness.
“Why do you sound like that?”
“Like what?”
“Distracted.” Ainsley sucked in a breath. “Oh my God. It’s nine a.m. Are you neighbor stalking again?”
I snapped the blinds closed and backed away from the window. “No. Of course not. Why would I do that?”
“You told me you weren’t going to do that anymore.”
I thought we’d already established I was a liar.
I stepped back toward the window because I couldn’t help myself, obviously a glutton for freaking punishment. But this was the only time of day I saw him besides when he left in his big, black truck at three in the afternoon on the dot, and I didn’t want to miss a thing. I cradled the phone with my shoulder again, pushed the blinds apart with my hands, and pressed my face to the windowpane like the creepy stalker I was. And there he was. Every gorgeous inch of him.
He walked toward my building from across the busy downtown street like a tall glass of water on a hot day. All swagger and supreme male beauty. The kind of beauty that made a girl’s breath catch and heart pitter-patter. He pushed his dark hair off his tan forehead and the big muscles in his arms bunched.
Goose bumps broke out on my skin and I may have whispered, “Christ on a cracker.” I didn’t know his name, but I knew his schedule like the back of my hand. That wasn’t weird at all.
“You’re a terrible liar.” She giggled. “What’s he wearing today?”
I barely heard Ainsley. Every morning when I watched this man walk down the street and toward our building, it was like just he and I existed. Slow motion. Our own sexy theme music. Nameless, ridiculously hot man and Miranda. He didn’t know it, but there was a world of our own and it was the absolute best part of my day.
“Sunglasses. White, tight, sleeveless T-shirt. Black running pants with three white stripes down the sides. Black tennis shoes,” I said breathlessly into the phone. I left out all the good bits. Like the scowl he was wearing. It was perpetual. I’d never seen the man smile in the month he’d been living next door to me and for some reason that made me all the hotter for him. He owned that scowl. He freaking rocked it. His jaw was square and clean-shaven. His mouth flat. He was a giant of a man. Well over six feet. His chest was wide, his arms thick and imposing. Dog tags jangled from a silver necklace around his neck, letting me know he was military of some sort. I’d never seen his eyes, but I knew they were going to be stunning. Everything about him was. Not even the slight limp in his gait as he made his way across the street took away from his godlike beauty. I could’ve eaten him with a spoon.
“I know. You’re obsessed,” Ainsley responded.
I laughed, only a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“When are you going to bite the bullet and talk to him?”
I sighed. “Never.”
“Oh, come on, Miranda. He could probably use a friend. He’s new to the building and always alone.” She paused for a moment. “And you like him,” she finished in a singsong voice.
I didn’t tell her that liking him was an understatement. I liked chocolate. Good beer. The beach. A fantastic romance novel. This man looked like he’d walked right out of one of the military romances I edited for a living. He was everything a girl could want; stoic, hard, possibly damaged, and sexy as sin. I was obsessed. I had spent too many nights imagining him over me. Under me. In me. With my hand between my legs, my eyes pinched tightly closed, the image of what he might look like underneath his clothes burned into the back of my eyelids.
I watched him disappear into the lower level of our building and frowned. Boo. Hiss. I heard the thunder of him making his way up the steps and opening the door across from mine. His front door. Yes, only a wall stood between me and my dream man.
I raced to my front door and pressed my eye to the peephole. Never had the name for that hole been truer. Because I was definitely peeping. I watched him unlock his front door. Sweat rolled down his neck and underneath the collar of his white tee. And, man, I wanted a taste of that sweat. Lucky shirt. He pushed the door open and inside he went. I sagged against my own front door, my hand pressed over my thundering heart.
I walked to the bathroom, the phone still to my ear, and looked in the mirror. “You’ve seen him, Ains. He’s outta my league.”
She’d spent a few mornings checking him out for herself. And even though she was engaged to my other best friend, Adrian, she’d seen nameless man in all his glory. Needless to say, she all kinds of appreciated it.
But I was me. And he was magnificent. And therein lay the problem. Don’t get me wrong. I knew I was cute, even if slightly plump. But I was nowhere near the same ballpark as that gorgeous man.
“You’re beautiful and sweet and kind. You have an amazing job and support yourself. You’re a damn catch, woman!” Ainsley yelled into the phone.
I gave myself a once-over in the mirror. I was twenty-two years old. I wore a big T-shirt that read ‘I Like Big Books And I Cannot Lie.’ It had a brownish stain near the collar. I smelled it and winced. Mustard from the sandwich I ate yesterday. I bet that beautiful man wouldn’t be caught dead wearing yucky old mustard clothes. The T-shirt covered me almost to my knees, which was good because I wasn’t wearing any pants. It was one of my policies. The no pants is the best pants policy. My dark brown-red hair was thrown into a knot on the top of my head. I was pretty sure I hadn’t brushed it since I’d had a shower almost three days ago. I know. Gross. But Miranda
-Mae’s Editing had been swamped that week. I’d been so busy the last three days I’d almost taken a stalker break. Almost.
“And chubby,” I said, patting the round cheeks attached to my face. “You forgot that part. I’m a redhead. No one wants a chubby redhead.” I laughed into the phone, but not really. He was fit as a fiddle, and I liked donuts and iced coffees and pizza. I wasn’t mad about how I looked. I liked me. I was okay with who I was, comfortable in my skin.
Ainsley sighed. “You’re not chubby. You’re curvy. Voluptuous. Juicy in all the right—”
I cut her off, laughing. “You did not just call me juicy. And I’m pretty sure every word you just used is a synonym for chubby.”
“Those words do not mean chubby.”
I smiled. “They do.”
She groaned. “They don’t.”
“Who’s the English major in this conversation?” I asked.
“Fine, but I mean it, Miranda. You’re beautiful. If you want that man, march across the hall and get him. He’d be lucky to have you.”
“And this is why you’re my best friend. Because you love me even though I’m a fluffy redhead.” I laughed.
“Okay, that’s it. I gotta go before I slap you. Take a shower sometime soon.”
I hung up the phone, making my way to the spare bedroom in my tiny apartment that functioned as a makeshift office. I moved over the bazillion Post-it notes that contained an atrocious number of lists and pieces of stationary that sat on my desk and opened the romance book I was finishing editing before I’d started my man stalking.
I wasn’t just a curvy redhead, I was also apparently a clutter bug. I didn’t have a lot growing up, so the things I loved I kept. Like my lists and books. And I had tons of each. Everywhere.
