Portia Moore - He Lived Next Door

by Unknown

  “Yeah,” I tell him, wishing he’d pick up on how much I’d rather talk about something else.

  “How many?”

  “Three,” I mutter, tucking my loose hair behind my ear as I lean against the refrigerator.

  “That’s amazing! So you’re not, like, just a writer.” He pops the remaining blackberries in his mouth and swallows them in almost a gulp. “You’re an ‘author.’”

  I giggle uncomfortably and shrug. “I think they’re the same thing.”

  “So is that what you do, like, write all day?” he asks, still enthusiastic.

  “It’s what I should be doing… but most of the time, I end up watching reality TV and eating junk food.”

  “And the occasional blackberry,” he adds, his eyes gleaming.

  I’m so glad he’s gay, because if he wasn’t, I’d feel really guilty for looking at him how I am. But when you’re a writer, you get to look at really attractive people in a non-pervy way because you need descriptions for characters, and what a book boyfriend he’d make.

  “That you’re right about.” I sense he’s about to drop the subject, but just in case, I’ll head him off. “So what do you do?”

  He glances at the ceiling as if he’s uncomfortable talking about his job as I am. “It’s sort of complicated.”

  I scoff. After he interrogated me, he’s not getting off that easily. “Oh no, please explain.”

  “You could say I work for a not-for-profit.”

  I feel my eyes widen. Handsome and charitable? If he wasn’t gay he’d be perfect for Kelsey if she weren’t already married to a handsome charitable man. Maybe Nicole, if she didn’t eat him alive first… he seems a little too laid-back for her.

  “What sort of not-for-profit?”

  “Helping people?”

  I raise my brow at him, and he gives me an innocent smile that makes me smile back. “Do you really work for a not-for-profit, or are you secretly a billionaire who’s moved into the building to track down a long-lost love?”

  He tilts his head as if he’s confused, and I chuckle at my own joke.

  “Sorry, I’ve been reading a little too much.”

  “You write suspense?”

  I laugh. “Maybe one day. Right now, it’s more like love stories.” I would say romance, but then I’d get the inevitable Fifty Shades question, and even if he is gay, it’d be sort of awkward explaining to him the difference between romance and erotica.

  “Is it true to life?” he asks, and that surprises me. “You and Bryce?”

  I’m surprised he remembered my husband’s name, and the question makes me feel tense and sad all at once. “No, I haven’t gotten to our story yet. Romance readers like drama, and we’ve never really had much.”

  “So you write those books that used to be in the grocery store with the Fabio guy on it?” he jokes.

  “Not exactly.” I laugh as I notice his phone vibrate. He looks at it and frowns before getting to his feet. “From the exasperated look on your face, I assume it’s Magnew?”

  “Why couldn’t the maintenance guy look like Megan Fox or Beyoncé?” he asks as he grudgingly heads to the door.

  Wait, is he gay?

  “Well, thanks for letting me squat here for a while,” he says, his hand on the knob.

  “Any time, it’s an excuse for me to not write.”

  His smile fades a bit and his expression becomes more serious. “You should write a story where, you know, you get your happy ending.”

  I start to feel uncomfortable, but his smile stretches, erasing any trace of awkwardness.

  “Don’t eat too much fruit. Mix it up with some doughnuts or something,” he jokes before leaving.

  I close the door and sigh, then I think about how out of touch you have to be to mention Fabio before Fifty Shades.

  I can’t sleep tonight. Everything is keeping me awake. First the temperature in the room is too hot, then it’s too cold. It’s too quiet, then not quiet enough. I’m so restless for the first time in a long time. I hop out of bed and head to my office, which is just a desk with a MacBook in our living room. Bryce has asked me a million times if I want to turn our extra bedroom into an office, but each time he asks, I become silent, angry, bitter. It makes me feel as though he’s given up on us ever being able to use that room as a nursery.

  I let out a frustrated breath and push that thought out of my head. I pull up the document I was working on before my “writer’s block” hit me. This story was supposed to be light and filled with humor, a feel-good tale, sort of like a Hallmark movie with a hint of Lifetime. I had a good chunk of it done. I knew my characters and connected with them and writing it was fun. Then I lost Anna and all of the humor and hope in the story left me. Every time I try to write a scene in this story, it ends in death, something my readers would balk at. I take my readers through hell, but there’s always a happy ending, a thread of hope wrapped around each obstacle and tied into a bow. Now I’m out of that thread.

  Bryce loved this story. He said it was his favorite one yet. Well, he always tells me the newest is his favorite, and I always believe him because he always tells me he fell in love with my words. He sees my books before anyone else, the good, the bad, the vulnerable parts of me. I’ve shared so many things with him, and he’s always made me feel safe.

  I’ve never been able to do that for him, and lately, it seems I’ve only brought him pain. After we lost Logan, I was hurting so badly, but I couldn’t bring myself out of it to help him with his pain. He was always so strong and never let me see how losing our son affected him. But on the nights we made love—and it took months before I was ready again—when he thought I was asleep, he’d reveal his pain, his devastation, his mourning. Those moments hurt more than Logan’s loss itself, because he knew I couldn’t handle carrying his grief when I was so weighed down by my own.

  I can’t see him hurt again. Anna is the first secret I’ve ever kept from him, and I hate myself for it. The tears I tried to blink away earlier are falling full force now, and I can’t stop them. I feel weak and angry that I haven’t gotten over this yet.

  I ignore the tears, open a new document on my computer, and try to focus when I hear the key turn in the lock. I jump from the keyboard and bolt to the couch, where I pull the throw over me. I hear Bryce come in and drop his bag at the door after he closes it. My heart pounds as I try to pull myself together. I can’t let him see me like this.

  I hear his footsteps. I know he’s headed to the kitchen—it’s always his first stop. If he didn’t work out so much, I swear he’d be shaped like Peter Griffin from the way he eats. The water comes on first—he’s washing his hands—then I notice the smell of takeout. He’s not cooking, which means he’ll be heading my way any second to park in front of the TV and destroy one of his favorite meals.

  Just as I predicted, I hear his footsteps approaching. He stops beside me. I know I’ve surprised him—I never used to sleep on the couch. It’s leather and he never wanted us to get it, but I fell in love with the way it looked, and as he usually does, he let me win.

  “Chas?”

  I close my eyes tighter. I hear him put the food on the coffee table, and a few moments later, he’s lifting my legs and he rests them on his lap.

  “Chas, you fell asleep on the couch. You never fall asleep on the couch,” he tells me quietly.

  I keep my eyes closed. If I open them, I’ll start crying. I hear him let out a sigh, and I wonder if he knows I’m awake. In a second, he lifts me from the couch, puts me in our bed, and sweeps the covers over me. I want to tell him that I’m so glad he’s home and how much I’ve missed him, but instead I keep pretending I’m asleep, not entirely sure if he buys it or not. After a while, I hear the television come on, so I slip out of bed and crack open the door to sneak a peek at him. He’s only in the next room, but he seems so far away, and I know it’s my fault.

  I wake up to the phone vibrating on my bed. I also see that I have three missed calls. They’re all from
my mother of course.

  I take a deep breath and answer. “Hey, Mom,” I say, trying to remove the grogginess from my voice.

  “Where have you been? I’ve called you a million times,” she squeals.

  “Mom, you called me four times in a row this morning. I was sleeping,” I tell her, sitting up in the bed. I look around the room and see no trace of Bryce. Him coming home so early was a surprise. He wasn’t due back until tomorrow.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  I’m so glad she doesn’t have an iPhone and can’t Facetime me. “I am, Mom, I’m just looking for Bryce.”

  “What do you mean? You’ve lost him?” she asks sarcastically.

  I know I must be sleepy because why would I ever tell my mother the truth? I’m now in the living room and there’s no sign of him.

  “No, it’s complicated,” I say tightly.

  “Everything is always so complicated with you. Why is that?”

  “Mom, please, not this morning,” I beg, searching for a sign of his things.

  It’s nine thirty, so his usual routine would mean he'd just come back from his run an hour ago and now he’d be in the shower, but there’s no sign of him anywhere. I head to the kitchen and check for the takeout bag in the garbage. If it wasn’t there, I’d think I imagined the entire thing.

  “Are you guys okay?”

  I note the smugness of her tone and I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “Yes, we’re perfect.”

  I love my mom, but she’s never been the biggest supporter of our relationship. Since my dad left, she’s had a strong disbelief in having a relationship with anyone. Boyfriends yes, flings yes, but marriage? She thinks they’re all doomed to fail and she didn’t hesitate to tell me that the day I told her Bryce had proposed.

  “You don’t sound perfect,” she says accusingly.

  “Let me call you back.” I hang up and text Bryce.

  Are you home? is the weirdest text a woman should have to send to her husband. I’m startled when I hear keys in the door and, a few moments later, it opens.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice uneven. He looks almost as surprised as I am to see him.

  I smile at him—it’s genuine and not forced. He’s always had the ability to make me smile, even in my saddest moments. His eyes smile at me, but it doesn’t reach his lips. His eyes lock on mine, trying to read me, read who I am today. Am I someone he can talk to, touch, make love to, or someone who will freeze up and want her distance?

  I hate myself for not knowing. Awkwardness has grown between us like weeds. When did they start? The day I found out I was pregnant with Anna and I didn’t tell him. Ever since then, there’s been a secret between us that I couldn’t share yet, and now… well, it doesn’t even matter.

  He pulls his sweatshirt over his head, and in doing so, his white wife beater pulls up, showing his etched stomach and strong arms. My skin heats up from the sight. Our distance has never been due to my body not desiring him, and it’s screaming at me now. It’s been a little over two months since we made love. I’ve missed him so much.

  He folds up the sweatshirt and sets it on a barstool, then he sits down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His eyes trail up my body, and my stomach flips. Then his eyes lock on mine. They’re big warm pools that I used to swim in every night.

  “You slept on the couch last night.” His tone is cautious, hesitant, and he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweats.

  “I just fell asleep,” I say meekly.

  He squints at me in disbelief, then he sighs, looking at me as if he’s searching for the woman he used to love, as if I’m a ghost of myself. “You never fall asleep on the couch.”

  There was a time when he came back from trips and would wake me up so we could make love for hours. Now we’re almost uncomfortable to be in the same room with each other.

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  He nods, but he’s skeptical. He knows it’s nearly impossible to get a good night’s sleep on the Couch of Death.

  “Do you want me to make breakfast?” I ask, walking toward the fridge.

  “I grabbed something after my run,” he says before I get a chance to open it.

  “Oh.”

  “But I can sit down and eat with you,” he says quickly, but I don’t want his pity breakfast time.

  “No, I’ll probably just eat a bagel or something,” I say, trying to hide my annoyance with him and myself. I bite my lip and grab a pack of bagels. I hate this feeling. I hate how we feel like we’re roommates rather than husband and wife, two people who love each other.

  “I missed you.”

  His words stop me in my tracks. I close my eyes and wrap his words around me. I missed him too—so much. I look back at him. All the feelings I’ve ever felt for him stir up in me, but I swallow them.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I ask, fighting with the stubborn bagel that doesn’t want to leave the pack.

  “I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me,” he says quietly.

  My face heats up, and I pull the bagel out of the bag.

  “Did you… want me to call?” His voice sounds tired and cracked, exhausted.

  He’s exhausted with me. I’ve drained him. I did want to hear his voice, but at the same time, hearing it makes me feel so guilty.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say with a half shrug and a fake grin, and I see a brick wall being built on top of those weeds between us.

  “That’s not what I asked you,” he says sternly.

  My eyes dart to his. They’re hard. I focus on putting the bagel in the toaster. The silence between us is like a person, and I hear him let out a frustrated sigh.

  “I wish you would tell me what I did,” he says, his voice strained. It makes me want to hug him, but I don’t know what it is I want or if what I want is what’s best for him.

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  I hope he sees that the problem is me and not him, but he lets out a frustrated groan and rakes his fingers roughly through his hair. His head lowers, and he waits a moment before he looks back up at me.

  “Is this going to be it for us?”

  His question makes anxiety course through me. When I look at him, my heart wrenches. His face is blank, but his eyes are full of confusion and sadness, and my heart beats wildly. Is this going to be it for us? Is it too much? Can I ever get over this pain, this fear of not being good enough for him, that he deserves more than what I can give him? Looking at him, I see the love in his eyes and I can’t imagine giving him up, but I’m not ready to give in, to break, to have him fix me at the expense of himself.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice revealing a tremble I didn’t intend.

  I start to feel angry too. Yes, we’ve been distant with each other because I’ve kept to myself more than normal, but how can we heal when we barely see one another? He’s gone so much, and if he wasn’t, then I wouldn’t have had a chance to make distance my friend. Is he ready to give up on us just because things aren’t perfect anymore, because we’re going through a rough patch? This man promised me forever.

  “Why would you say that?” I ask, feeling tears come to my eyes.

  “Why wouldn’t I say that? You’ve completely shut me out!”

  I flinch. He hardly ever yells. Well, when he’s watching football games with his friends and brothers, he does, but not at me. I guess I’ve never deserved it before.

  “Don’t blame this all on me,” I say, my own voice raising.

  “This isn’t about blame. I don’t care whose fault it is, mine or yours. I want to know if we can get past this! If you’ll let us.”

  His nose is flared, his beautiful face contorted in anger, his voice passing decibels it never has with me. This is what I’ve made him become. My stomach sinks and I feel sick as I cry.

  He approaches me and lifts my face to make me look at him. “Do I not make you happy anymore?”

  My heart breaks that he thinks thi
s is his fault. I love this man with everything in me, and I’d rather him be happy without me than unhappy with me. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve a woman who is so screwed up she can’t function, who’s so stuck on the past she can’t bring herself to get over it and love her husband and rest in his support. That’s not who he deserves. It’s not what I promised him when we married.

  “Chassidy, tell me what’s wrong, please.”

  He’s practically begging me, but my words are buried under fear, stubbornness, pain. I can’t force them up, so I just cry. But he holds me, and he kisses my head, my neck, my lips.

  “Just let me in,” he begs.

  His fingers reach my skin, climbing underneath my clothes, and they come off. His do as well, but I don’t feel passion or yearning. All I feel is a secret between us. When I look into his eyes, I see the eyes of our little girl, and it freezes the fire that used to ignite between us. I can’t concentrate on how good his lips feel on my neck, how warm and hard his body is, how he knows me inside out. I only notice how cold the floor is, how useless my body is, and how I don’t know if we can ever get past this. My body becomes tenser, my breath shortened.

  But he needs this. If I can give him this, maybe it will ignite something, or at least give me time to let him know I haven’t checked out. I look at the ceiling and try to relax, but when he grips my chin, bringing my gaze to his, his eyes bore into mine and he stops. I panic because in his eyes, I see disappointment and frustration. He shakes his head, and he presses his lips so firmly together that they’re swollen when he parts them. He pulls himself from inside me and sits next to me, his knees pulled toward his chest.

  I sit up and wipe the tear from my eye. “I’m sorry.” I feel terrible because he doesn’t look angry, but sad and confused. “Let’s try again.”

  I grab his arm, but he pulls it from me. He looks at me with a sad smile. “You didn’t think I’d notice.” His voice is sharp but distant. “You weren’t even going to say anything. You didn’t think I’d notice that you weren’t here? You think I want to make love to just a body?”

  He stands up, his body chiseled and defined, a gift to women, and I cover my face with my hands. I’m so embarrassed. He grabs his clothes off the floor, and I stand, grabbing my own clothes.