Portia Moore - He Lived Next Door

by Unknown

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the agent?” His voice is sharp and cuts through me.

  How does he know? Did he see me? Did someone see me with Davien? My heartbeat drowns out my thoughts.

  “You didn’t think that was a pretty big deal? You didn’t think it was embarrassing for me to have to find out from Tiffany?”

  Right, it was Tiffany. I’m flooded with relief. “I planned on telling you. I wanted to, I just…”

  “You planned on it? What happened?”

  “Well, you abandoned me at your best friend’s house, that’s what happened,” I spit back, anger burning away my guilt.

  “I don’t know what to do, Chassidy. I’m trying, but you won’t let me help you! Do you know how bad it hurts me to see you hurting and you won’t let me in? You don’t think it rips me apart and makes me hate myself that I can’t fix this because you won’t even let me try?” His voice breaks, and tears fill my eyes. “What happened to us?”

  I have to cover the microphone so he can’t hear my cries. My sobs are shaking my body. A part of him died inside me, not once but twice. How do we recover from that?

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him so quietly that I’m not sure he can hear me.

  “I want to come home, but I’m afraid to.”

  Silence flows between us.

  “I can’t see you look at me how you have.” His voice is broken and vulnerable. “It’s like each time you see me, you only see loss and regret.”

  I’m sitting on the floor, my legs to my chest, as my tears soak my shirt.

  “I can’t keep feeling like this, Chassidy.”

  My heart twists in my chest. I’ve never seen or heard him cry, not even when we lost our babies, but it sounds as if he’s dangerously close.

  “I’ll fight for us, but I can’t fight against you,” he says, sounding defeated.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask, my body trembling.

  “What do you want me to do, Chas? Tell me. Anything, I’ll do it.”

  But I don’t know what to say. I can hear from his breathing that my lack of an answer is frustrating and making him angry.

  “I don’t know how to get through to you anymore.” He sounds as if all of his emotions have dried up.

  I can see his beautiful face in my head, his green eyes and dirty-blond hair and dimples so deep I could swim in them. Except now I know that smile has gone cold. The strong man who has always been there for me is weak, broken. I did that, and I have no idea if I can repair him when I’m so broken myself.

  “I don’t know either. I’m sorry.” It’s one of the most honest things I’ve said to him in such a long time.

  Is it too late for us? Is this the end of us, as far as we go, the end of our story? The old us would scoff at the idea—there was nothing we couldn’t get through, especially together—but now being together is like salt on an open wound. I keep trying to see past what broke me, what was meant to bring us closer together but is pulling us so far apart that we might as well be on opposite sides of the world. The silence between us is the loudest, most terrible sound I’ve ever heard. It used to wrap around us like a warm blanket. Now it’s smothering, suffocating us both.

  “I still love you,” he finally says, and my frozen heart melts a little.

  “Love has never been our problem,” I say with a sniff. “I-I think I just need some time.”

  “Time?” He sounds shocked and almost afraid to say the words. I can practically see his brow furrowing through the phone. “Time apart, you mean?”

  I don’t even recognize my own words, but they came out so easily. “I don’t know. I think so.”

  Do I want time apart? I want him here, I do, but I can’t lie and say that it doesn’t hurt when he is. I can feel his frustration and confusion with me, but he only sighs.

  “Okay. If you want time or space, I can give you that,” he says, his voice full of apprehension, confusion, and frustration.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Bryce, but I have to figure it out on my own. I don’t want us to keep going how we’ve been. I want us to be better, how we were,” I tell him through tears.

  “I get it,” he says, his voice short and quick. “How much time?”

  It’s a reasonable question, one I should have had an answer for before I made the request.

  “A week, a month?” he cuts through my thoughts.

  “I don’t know.” The words come off my tongue lightly but land as if they weigh a million pounds.

  He lets out a long, mirthless laugh. “Whatever you want, Chassidy.”

  I cringe—he never calls me Chassidy. I look for something to say, something that will make things better, but I can’t think of anything. I want to tell him that I still love him, but saying that now seems like it will make things worse. It’s ridiculous how much I miss him, but feel suffocated around him. His absence has been like a person in our home, one that taunts and comforts me.

  “I’ll send Jax by to get some of my things.” His voice is defeated and tired.

  Tears well up in my eyes. I put my phone on mute, sniffle and clear my throat, and take the mute off. “You don’t have to do that. You can come. I’d like to see you.” I know how hypocritical I sound, but I’m so confused.

  He sighs. “I’ll let you know.” His tone lets me know our conversation is coming to an end, and I feel relieved and saddened all at once.

  “Okay,” I say quietly. I don’t hang up and notice that he hasn’t either. I watch the numbers tick by on the phone.

  “Congratulations on the agent, Chas,” he says sullenly.

  My heart speeds up and I fight a weak smile. “Thank you.”

  I watch the call end.

  I wrote five pages today. It’s been one day since Bryce and I had our call, and I wish I could say that I feel better or worse, but I don’t. I just feel numb and anxious. Like a jerk, I want to pity myself, but I end up hating myself instead. In a year when we’re sitting in divorce court over irreconcilable differences, I know it will be my fault. He’s giving me space now, but how long will it last for? Will having him gone, really gone, make things better? Does absence really make the heart grow fonder? Or does it just make it colder, indifferent?

  I walk to the window, my favorite place in my apartment. It used to be at least. Being able to look out over the entire city and see the people used to fascinate and excite me. I could feel their energy, and it used to inspire me. Now it’s almost depressing. Yet I’m still drawn to it, maybe out of habit, maybe because I keep hoping I’ll get that inspiration back. My phone vibrates, and I walk over and glance at it—it’s an unknown number. I hit ‘ignore’ and slide in front of my computer and stare at the blank screen.

  I scroll to the top of the document, and as I’m about to turn off my Wi-Fi, I see an email pop up from Davien. My skin flushes as I think back to the other night. I open the email in record time. He’s letting me know that my series is on submission to publishers in Italy, Spain, France, and Germany. The idea that my words could be read in a different languages is surreal. It’s thrilling, an excitement I haven’t felt in such a long time.

  I quickly respond with my thanks, then I toggle back over to my blank document and type several sentences. They’re okay. Not great, but a start. Thirty minutes pass, and I write a page and a half. It’s not complete drivel, but I don’t have a connection to it yet. I won’t know if it’s worth continuing until I hit about page fifteen. If the characters become alive and start to speak to me, hopefully I can speak back.

  If Davien is able to sell my work to foreign publishers, it would be good to have more for them to consider. This story is only an idea half formed in my head, about a girl who falls in love with a rich guy who is a jerk and ends up really being a jerk. Then she meets a poor guy she wants to risk everything for. Poor guy happens to work for rich guy, and both are equally handsome. Not sure how it ends yet, and I need a twist—it’s sort of been my signature—even if it’s not a jaw-dropping on
e. I scribble a couple of ideas on the notepad I haven’t touched in weeks, and I smile.

  My phone rings, and I scold myself for not turning it off. It’s Kelsey. I ignore her, then she calls again. I wonder if it’s important. Kelsey will usually shoot a text if I don’t pick up. I think back to when we talked earlier last week. I’ve avoided her other calls and have only texted back since then. Hopefully she’ll realize I’m avoiding the topic and she will too. I poured out a secret I’d held so tight to me, but she knows me so well that she can smell when something is wrong, and that stench fills this apartment.

  I finally relent and pick up.

  “Hey, hun bun!” she says, as cheerful as she always is.

  I relax, glad her tone indicates that nothing is wrong. “Hi,” I say, trying to match her energy.

  “What are you up to today?”

  I feel one of her infamous girls’ trip invites about to be extended. Kelsey’s girls’ trips usually include searching for things at Ikea, Home Goods or Hobby Lobby so that she can make something she saw on Pinterest, and of course it always turns out exactly like the Pinterest picture, instead of being a complete failure like it does for the rest of us normal human beings. She does always treat for lunch though, and she has the best listening ear in town. Except there are things I don’t really want her to hear right now.

  “I was actually writing,” I tell her with a small grin.

  “Oh, yay! I’m so sorry to interrupt you!”

  “No, it’s okay. What’s up?”

  “Well, I’ve been sort of working on something I wanted your opinion on,” she says nervously.

  “Please tell me it’s cookies!” She’s one of the best bakers in the world.

  She laughs. “No, but I could bring you some on Friday if you’d like.”

  “You’ll make my week,” I tell her as I see a text message pop up at the corner of my screen.

  “Done. But it’s actually a book.”

  My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really? Wow, that’s great! Why didn’t you say anything? How far are you into it? What it is about?”

  I’m not surprised because I didn’t think she could write one, but she’s never expressed interest in writing. Plus her world revolves around two small people and a husband, so I’m wondering how she came up with the time.

  “Well I didn’t want to bother you with it until I knew I was serious, and it’s not a book like yours. It’s more of a short book, only about a hundred twenty pages.”

  “Wow, that’s so great!” I say while I open my text app on the computer. My heart beats faster when I read the words. It’s from Davien.

  I wish our story the other night had a different ending…

  My chest tightens. I don’t know what to say or how to respond. My heart is beating so loudly in my ears that I can hardly pay attention to what Kelsey is saying.

  “So it’s just sort of a memoir-ish type of thing about my marriage and kids, the struggles and trials and how we got through them…”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I ask, closing the text message and demanding my thoughts be on what my friend is saying and not Davien or that night or how I thought the same thing about it.

  “It’s a memoir, really personal, but it’s been on my heart to share with the world, and since you’re my best friend and a great writer, I wanted to get your opinion on it. If you’re uncomfortable doing it, I totally understand!” she says quickly.

  “I’d love to help! I’m flattered that you want to share something like that with me,” I say even though I wonder what trials or losses she and David could have suffered that would be worth writing about. Their marriage is perfect, her life is perfect. If anything, I wonder if normal couples who don’t wear rose-colored glasses can relate.

  “That would be amazing. There’s no rush to send it back to me or anything,” she says.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll get right on it,” I tell her, my thoughts drifting back to the text message I received.

  “Still, no rush or worries. So what’s going on with you? How are you doing?”

  I swallow hard, feeling guilty. The urge to tell someone about what happened that night with Davien battles with the need to hold it close. Guilt and embarrassment stitch the words to my throat while I have to admit excitement and curiosity try to force them out. But out of my friends, Kelsey isn’t the one I can share this with. Not that she’s judgmental, but I don’t think her words will be different than the words I keep telling myself, and I’m craving to hear something different.

  “I asked Bryce for some space,” I blurt.

  Crap! I didn’t mean to say those words. I throw my head back, not believing how ridiculous I am.

  “What?” she asks, surprise and shock all over her voice.

  “It’s not a big deal. I just… I’m tired of hurting him because I’m hurting. I don’t want him to be a casualty. He doesn’t want to be a casualty,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice light and casual as though it’s not a big deal. But in Kelsey’s world, it is a big deal.

  “Is that what you really want?” she asks. I can tell she’s trying to suspend her disbelief.

  “I’m not saying it’s forever. It’s not even, like, an official separation or anything.” I laugh to try to mute the seriousness of the words.

  Kelsey is quiet. “Is this… is this about you losing the baby?”

  I press my lips tightly together.

  “I’m coming over,” she announces, and I sigh.

  “Kelsey, no, it’s not a big deal. Couples take time apart all the time.”

  “And it’s almost never the answer,” she retorts, her voice firmer than I’ve heard it in a long time.

  “Almost never. It’s our answer, my answer, and I didn’t even say how long for.”

  “That’s what scares me.” Her voice is strained and raised, and it’s bringing me down.

  My eyes water, taking my thoughts to a place I don’t want to go right now. “It’s not a big deal, I promise. Bryce’s schedule has been really hectic, so we weren’t seeing much of each other anyway.”

  “Are you home for the day? I can be over in about two hours.” I can hear their dog barking and her trying to appease her.

  “I am, but I plan on getting some writing done and starting your book, so today just isn’t a good time.”

  “Friday then? When I bring the cookies, we’ll talk?” she asks with disappointment in her voice.

  “Yes, Friday, I’m all yours. Promise. But don’t worry about this, Kelsey. I shouldn’t have even said anything,” I sort of mumble the last part.

  “Yes, you should have. I’m your best friend, Chas. What hurts you hurts me,” she says, her voice sort of breaking.

  I sigh. “No one’s hurting.”

  “Liar.”

  I bite my lip. “Wish me luck on hitting my writing goal today, hon.” I want to end our conversation on a positive note.

  “You’ve already got it,” she says, only a hint more cheer in her voice. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, Kels.”

  I hang up and sit still for a moment before clicking back on the text message. There’s another one.

  A writer with no words… ;)

  I swallow hard and remember I have my read notification settings on. I grab my phone.

  None that you want to hear.

  I text back with a grin.

  I see the bubbles move across my screen, and I wait with almost bated breath.

  I think you just don’t want to share them.

  I see the email from Kelsey pop up in my notifications. I mentally put it on my to-do list.

  I think you’re afraid too.

  What am I afraid of? Nothing really. So what if I tell him I do think about that night, that I pondered what would have happened if Carter didn’t take me home? I’m afraid of those thoughts, but there isn’t any harm in telling him that, right? Words are just words and thoughts are just thoughts. Without action, they’re nothing. I work
up my courage.

  Maybe.

  It’s a simple word.

  I’ve done so much with words, created worlds, people, and stories. I ignore the gnawing feeling that this word is different. I feel almost as if it’s starting a new chapter in my real life, changing the direction of my story.

  No. It’s just a word, a non-committed word at that. It’s simple, not life-changing. It won’t affect anyone or anything except allowing me to pass the time with a small spark of something I haven’t glimpsed in a long time. A word. It’s a stupid, silly little word.

  Then I hit Send.

  2 years ago

  “Brycelin, you’re being ridiculous. Get up, we’re going to the emergency room.” It’s my mother’s stern voice, the one she used when I was five years old and didn’t want to go to school and was trying my best to get out of it.

  My stomach feels like it’s been thrown off a roller coaster and swept up in a tornado. My heartbeat is chaotic, confused about if it wants to speed up or slow down.

  “I can’t. I’m getting married today,” I tell her, forcing air out of my throat.

  “You look terrible. You’ve caught some type of bug in this godforsaken city,” my mom says, disgust clear in her voice.

  My mom always dreamed of me getting married in a big church with hundreds of her and my father’s friends and business associates around. Now she has to depend on one of her twins—who can’t even remember a girl’s name long enough to date, let alone marry—to have the wedding she’s been dreaming to throw. It doesn’t matter to me, but Chassidy wanted something simple and fun. Vegas seemed perfect for that.

  “Son, you look terrible. I don’t think you can make it down the hall, let alone an aisle, without help,” my dad says. He’s always been the casual one, since my mom is high-strung enough for them both.

  “I’m fine.” I get myself together enough to stand up, but my knees instantly wobble.

  “I think this is a sign,” my mom mutters.

  “It’s not a sign,” I snap, but my voice comes out weak like my legs.

  “I’m telling you, Brycelin, this could be God’s way of telling you she isn’t the one,” she tells me. Her whisper is loud, but it’s meant to be.