Portia Moore - He Lived Next Door

by Unknown

“Well, I was tempted to say I was on twenty, but I thought that’d be rude,” he jokes as we reach his door.

  “That would have been really mean,” I retort, watching him pull the keys out of his back pocket.

  “I really appreciate you saving me,” he says, opening the door.

  I shrug. “You saved me. I’d probably still be on the steps if you hadn’t come along.”

  When he walks through the door to his apartment, I peek in, standing at the threshold with his box in my hands still.

  “You can set that on the counter,” he says, holding the door open with his foot.

  I press my lips together and glance behind me.

  “Or I can just grab it from you,” he says as he sets his box down.

  “Oh no, it’s fine, sorry, brain freeze.” I giggle like an idiot before making my way in, ignoring the queasy feeling I get when I do.

  “I promise I’m not a serial killer,” he says.

  “Good to know,” I laugh.

  I set the box on the island and quickly scan the apartment. It’s eerily identical to mine, down to the large island I fell in love with three years ago. It has the same dark wood floors and high ceilings I fell in love with, the same shiny stainless steel appliances. It’s empty aside from the boxes scattered about, but the feel is different here. There’s no clutter, and the light shining in from the floor-to-ceiling windows makes it feel much bigger.

  “You want a water?” he asks.

  He’s even more stunning in natural light. The blue eyes that I thought were gorgeous before are more magnificent when the sun graces them, his smile even more electric, and I find myself holding my breath to make sure I’m awake and not dreaming.

  “I would, thank you,” I say, gripping the strap of my purse.

  I’m nervous. I haven’t been nervous around a man in a long time. He doesn’t seem to be though, striding with ease to his fridge. I peek around him and see water bottles, Gatorades, and a box of takeout food. He walks across the apartment and tosses the water bottle to me.

  “You don’t need one?” I ask. I’m sure his box was heavier than mine, and at one point, he was carrying both.

  “Nah, I’m good.” With an easy smile, he hops on the island, his eyes landing on the bottle in my hand.

  Right, he’s waiting on me to drink. I smile tightly, trying to loosen up. I take a small swig, then a longer one, resisting the urge to gulp it all down.

  “What floor do you live on?” he asks once I’m done.

  “It’s actually a coincidence… I’m right next door.” Unable to resist, I gulp down the water.

  “No such thing as coincidences.” His tone is serious, but his smile… oh gosh, his smile is contagious and makes me, a twenty-six-year-old woman, smile like an idiot at a stranger.

  Well he’s not a stranger technically. He’s Carter, my next-door neighbor. My extremely attractive next-door neighbor.

  “So what do you call this, fate?” I tease.

  His eyes narrow on mine as if he’s studying me, and I look away.

  “I don’t believe in that either,” he says with a casual smirk.

  I resist the urge to ask him what he does believe in. That seems like a mildly flirtatious question, and I don’t flirt anymore, especially with someone as handsome as he is. Especially someone as handsome as he is who lives next door to me. I would be furious if I caught Bryce doing it and I’m a Libra, so I’m sort of born to be fair.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you, Carter. Thanks for the water,” I tell him, heading to the door.

  “Thanks for the help,” he says, following me.

  I ignore the heat that creeps up my spine as he nears me. No more Long Islands for me.

  “Maybe I can get you a coffee sometime… as a thanks for helping me,” he says casually, as if he’s being friendly. But with a smile, face, and body like his, it’d hurt a girl’s pride, even a married girl like me, if he was just being friendly.

  I scan his hand and notice he isn’t wearing a ring, but what does that mean? Plenty of married men go without a ring. Crap, why am I worried about whether or not he’s married when I’m for sure married?

  “Married.” It comes out like word vomit, not cool and casual as I would have liked.

  Both his eyebrows lift, and he laughs. It’s a great laugh, but how could he not have a great laugh when he has perfect lips and teeth.

  “Okay, you’re free to bring your husband along.” He shrugs with a small grin.

  My whole face begins to burn up. So he’s not flirting with me, and I’m not sure if I feel relieved or disappointed. A little bit of both.

  “He’s not much of a coffee drinker,” I say, stepping across the threshold. It seems darker on this side, and it’s cooler. The air conditioner is always blasting in the hallway.

  “Well, until we meet again,” he says, leaning in his doorway with a casual smile that seems familiar and warm. That should feel unsettling, but it doesn’t.

  I turn to open my door and realize I haven’t unlocked it. I laugh at myself and glance back to see that he’s still watching me with an amused grin.

  “Keys would help,” I joke, and his smile becomes even better. How is that possible?

  “Or telekinesis.”

  “Or that,” I snort. Did I really just snort?

  When my door opens, I’m almost sad.

  “See you around,” I say once I’m inside.

  I wait for him to close his door first, but I secretly hope he doesn’t. I realize I’m being an idiot, so I give him a small wave and ignore that it’s the first time in days that I’ve genuinely smiled at a man including my husband.

  I stare at the blinking cursor on a blank page that screams that I’m a failure, that the books I wrote before were flukes, that eventually all my readers will know I’m a fraud, a one-hit wonder who writes about things I haven’t felt in a long time that seem so far out of reach.

  I push my chair away from the desk and flip on my television. I should just start with the first sentence, but instead I grab a carton of butter pecan ice cream and park myself in front of the latest season of Real Housewives.

  “Maybe I do need a life coach,” I mutter.

  I watch my favorite character get yelled at by the group of equally rich women and turn it off before the episode is over. I’ll wait until it’s on demand and I can fast forward through the parts I don’t like. I lie back, pulling the throw over me. It’s only seven and I usually don’t sleep until ten, but it’s where I find relief. I close my eyes and try to think of good things, happy things.

  At first my dreams are happy and make me smile, but when I wake, my heart is pounding and I’m sweating.

  I saw her.

  Anna and Bryce together. He was holding her and looking at me with the most fantastic smile, the smile of the happiest man in the world. Then she disappeared and the pink blanket she was swaddled in became stained with blood. The despair in his eyes, the wail in his throat haunts me. I shoot off the couch toward the kitchen sink and splash my face with water.

  I haven’t seen him since I lost her.

  It was too early to know if it was a boy or a girl, but I felt in my heart she was a girl.

  She sneaked in on me. We weren’t trying. Logan took so much out of us, seeing his face and holding his tiny body, his hand curled around my finger as if he were alive… I thought I’d never recover from losing him. It took months until I felt like me again, until we felt like us.

  It was so long before we didn’t feel guilty when we smiled or laughed.

  I don’t want to say that we moved on because it makes it seem like we dropped him off and left him behind, but we managed to live again. Bryce was there for me, but I almost pulled him into my darkness instead of him pulling me out. I saw the man I loved with bright eyes, a kind spirit, and unbreakable resilience slipping beneath the current with me. But he managed to keep me from going under and pulled us both out.

  I lost her while he was gone. For ten weeks she w
as mine, a little secret I couldn’t wait to share with him, but I was cautious. Or was I selfish? Did I have some sort of sixth sense that she wouldn’t be alive for long? I knew her for five weeks. Five weeks of joy and hope died within me, and the only evidence of her was left on sheets that I had to strip and throw out so he wouldn’t see.

  I go for the bottle of vodka Bryce usually partakes in. At least if I have another bad dream, I’ll be too drunk to remember it when I wake up. I begin to open the bottle as someone knocks at the door. I grab my cell phone to see if anyone called or texted me about coming over. When I don’t see any missed messages, I hesitantly make my way to the door. For a moment, my heart leaps, thinking it’s Bryce home early and wanting to surprise me, before the feeling of dread returns. Don’t get too excited in case you’re disappointed. It’s always been my mantra.

  “Who is it?” I ignore the creeping anticipation climbing up my chest.

  “Carter. From next door.”

  My heart skips a beat, and I open the door. This time his brown curls are partially covered with a beanie, and I wonder how it’s possible that he’s cuter than he was yesterday.

  “Hey, neighbor,” he says with an enthusiasm you’d think he was too cool for.

  “Hi,” I say, my surprise not hidden in my face or tone.

  “I’m not bothering you, am I?” he asks almost sheepishly.

  I give a small shrug, commanding my eyes not to lock on his chest. It’s broad and sculpted enough that I can see each line through his shirt. He’s got to be a personal trainer or something… but he seems too laid-back for that. I worked with a trainer for a few weeks after I lost Logan, and he was like a legit drill sergeant.

  “Um not really. Well I was sort of working, then I got side tracked by reality TV crack,” I joke, running my hand through my hair nervously. I start to tell him I had a nightmare, but I keep that to myself. I wonder why it would have come out so easily.

  He looks amused. “You work from home?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” My thoughts focus on why he’s knocked on my door.

  He reads my expression and gestures to his door. “I locked my key in there. The maintenance guy said it’d be about twenty minutes or something…” He gives me a smile that I’m sure has convinced many women to make bad decisions.

  “Oh, you want to come in?” It comes out more like a confused accusation than an invitation.

  “Or… I could go sit in the café downstairs,” he says with a lopsided smile.

  “No, don’t be silly. Come in.” I stand back and motion for him to come in.

  His blue eyes sparkle at me. “You sure?”

  “Yes, completely. If you turn out to be a psycho though, I have a black belt, so just be forewarned,” I kid, feeling a little more at ease.

  He turns around, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really?”

  “Let’s pretend, okay?” I whisper as if telling him a secret.

  He nods and gives me an adorable wink. I fight the smile spreading across my face, but it’s useless.

  “Can I sit down?” he asks, gesturing to the barstools lined up against my island.

  “Yeah, please.”

  He takes a seat and rests his upper body on his elbows on the island. I watch him look around the apartment, and my face flushes scarlet as his gaze lands on the bottle of vodka. I swipe it from the counter and tuck it neatly onto its shelf under the sink.

  “Is it like de ja vu?” I ask, heading to the refrigerator.

  “Yeah,” he says with a chuckle.

  I grab a water bottle and hold it out to him. “My debt repaid.”

  His lips turn up into a grin. “I’m glad you were home. The maintenance guy makes me nervous.”

  Magnew, our maintenance man, is a 4’11” Polish man with a mouth like a sailor and a stern look and harsh tone for any guy in the building. He’s always a jerk to Bryce and a little puppy with me, so Bryce always has me call when something goes wrong in the apartment. It’s funny how two big strong guys like Bryce and Carter can be intimidated by little Magnew.

  “He’s as sweet his pie. His bark’s worse than his bite,” I tell him, and he shrugs.

  His eyes continue to inspect the apartment, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s a thief. He could be scouting the place, but it’d be pretty ridiculous to rob your next-door neighbor when you’re new to the building.

  “How long have you lived here?” he asks.

  “Going on three years,” I say, taking a seat on the stool farthest from him. “Me and Bryce.”

  My eyes fall on the picture of us, a picture of when we were happy—truly, disgustingly happy. The kind of happy that would make you swear the couple had just met or were doing it all for show, but we weren’t. We had the kind of love I write about—or used to at least.

  Carter’s eyes follow my gaze. I guess I’ve been staring at the picture longer than I realized.

  “Is that you guys?” he asks, and I nod. He points at the frame. “May I?”

  I shrug.

  He walks over and picks it up. “You guys look like one of the couples on those magazines.”

  I feel myself blush. I wonder if that’s a guy’s way of saying Bryce is attractive? Bryce is—there’s never been any denying that. He was one of the most beautiful human beings I’d ever met, with thick ash-blond hair swirled with natural golden-blond highlights. He has naturally moist, kissable lips and forest-green eyes with speckles of amber around the iris. He had me at first look.

  “Thanks,” I say as he puts it down.

  “What type of guy is he?” he asks, striding back to his seat.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean is he the type of guy who’d kick the chair out from under me if he saw me sitting here with you?”

  I laugh.

  “Or would he offer me a beer and we could all watch the game together?”

  I smile and let out a short sigh. “Umm, a little bit in between, I guess.”

  “So he’ll knock me out of the chair and offer me a water bottle?” he jokes, and I laugh.

  “He’s not really jealous. I never give him a reason to be though.”

  “You’re frowning,” he says with a half smile.

  “No, I’m not.”

  He nods adamantly. “Yeah, you are.”

  Then I notice the muscles in my face are scrunched up. “Sorry, I wasn’t frowning at you.”

  “Were you frowning about what you said?”

  “Why would I frown about that?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think you should give him a reason to be jealous?”

  I search his face for some hint of flirtation. His words sounded like a pick-up line, but I see no trace of innuendo. “No, why would I want to make my husband jealous?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Women are weird sometimes. No offense.” He puts his hands up in defense.

  “No, I don’t want to make my husband jealous.” As I say it, I ignore the slight tingle inside me at the thought of Bryce walking in, seeing Carter here, and being jealous. I like the idea of making sure he knows I’m still desirable, that he still wants me and would fight for me.

  But I already know that.

  “So what women are driving you crazy?”

  “None, thank God,” he says, and my eyes widen.

  “Really hate women, huh?”

  “No, it’s just that you’re a complicated species,” he says with a casual shrug.

  Suddenly it hits me. Carter hasn’t flirted with me, and he’s completely harmless. He’s definitely gay. I feel a wave of anxiety leave my body. Of course he’s gay, because I live in the real world and not a romance novel. No woman is allowed to have a straight, single guy neighbor who looks as impressive as he does.

  “No meddling mother?” I ask.

  He chuckles, displaying a teasing grin. “More like a really involved father.”

  I smile tightly, thinking of my own dad and how laid-back he is. He called me two days ago and I f
orgot to call him back. I make a mental note to do that.

  “So what were you working on?”

  I look at him, confused.

  “When I got here, you said you were working on something before being sucked into crap TV.”

  “Oh right,” I mutter.

  As I think, I take the hair tie off my wrist and put my hair up, flicking away some stray blond strands. I bite the corner of my lip. Telling people what I do, especially people I just met, is always weird. Some people are genuinely interested and impressed, but others are dismissive or ask a million questions, including personal questions that people of other occupations never get asked. Questions like am I any good, how much money do I make, or is my book like insert any that’s been made into a movie over the past five years.

  “A story,” I say quickly. “What do you do?”

  When he looks at me with curiosity littering his handsome face, I know I’m not going to dissuade him so easily. “Like what type of story? Like an anecdote, a journal entry?”

  I sigh. “No, more like a book. Nothing really significant like War and Peace or anything.”

  “But a book, like a real book with a cover and chapters?” he asks, sounding even more enthused.

  I feel better answering this one, since he seems to be in the camp of nicer people, but now I feel like his opinion of me is higher than I deserve. I stand and walk over to the refrigerator to distract myself. “Trying. I’ve been a little stuck.”

  “That’s so cool! You’re writing a book!”

  I feel my face heat up as I take out a carton of blackberries. I never know what to say when people compliment me like that. Thanks seems sort of pretentious or snobby, so I stuff my mouth instead.

  “What made you decide to do it? How far are you into it? Are you into it? How do you have the time?” His questions come rapidly, and I feel anxiety creeping up from my neck to my head.

  “Well, I always loved to read, I just started this one, and I write full time, so technically all the time in the world.” I offer him the carton, and he takes a handful of berries.

  “Wait, you said, ‘this one,’ which means you’ve written books before?”

  Now I feel embarrassed from how he’s looking at me—like I’m an interesting creature.