The Neighbor Wars

by Jenna Gunn

  “Shall we argue over snacks now?” I ask, gesturing to the concession counter.

  “Why would you wanna buy snacks? We’re going to eat afterward.”

  “You can’t watch a movie without snacks.”

  “They serve nachos here?”

  “I’m gonna get mozzarella sticks,” I say, dragging him toward the line. “And maybe a soda. Ooh, and some candy.”

  He grumbles as I step up to the counter and make my order; I catch the words “expensive” and “waste of money”, as well as some expletives, but the whole thing just makes me smile. We’re going dutch after all. He doesn’t notice when I order him some candy.

  “Ready?” he demands as I receive my too-expensive spoils.

  “Ready,” I reply brightly.

  It’s not hard to find seats; the movie doesn’t start for another twenty minutes, so hardly anyone is inside. We actually agree on the ideal spots - the middle of the theater, close enough to see the screen, not so close we have to crane our necks - and plop down quickly. I turn off my cell phone; he follows suit.

  “So are you a romcom kind of guy usually, or do you just think the actress is cute?” I ask, elbowing him playfully.

  “So what if I like romcoms?” he retorts. He folds his arms grumpily. “Watched a lot of them with the boys overseas. They’re nice. Always have a happy ending.”

  For the rest of the movie, I can’t get the image of a bunch of soldiers in Army fatigues gathered around a screen and dabbing their eyes with tissues as the guy finally gets the girl.

  Halfway through the movie, I bravely reach out and grab Perry’s hand, lacing my fingers through his. He looks a bit surprised, but he doesn’t pull away.

  I sit in the dark without absorbing the plot too much. This feels...intimate. We’ve been naked together. We’ve made love. But the simple act of holding hands makes me feel safe and secure.

  He squeezes my hand. “Hey,” he whispers. “Can I get some of your candy?”

  Grinning, I drop the one I bought for him in his lap.

  25

  I laugh as the credits roll and we get up from our seats.

  “That was ridiculous,” I say. “Completely unrealistic.”

  “It’s a movie,” Trisha replies. She gathers up her trash and puts her feet back into her shoes. “It’s not supposed to be realistic.”

  I grunt and grab the candy box I emptied during the movie. “Well, we’ll talk about it at dinner,” I tell her. “Y’know - so we won’t run out of conversation topics?”

  She shoots me a look that I assume is supposed to be scathing, but it’s undercut by her grin. I smile back and reach out for her hand.

  She slips her fingers between mine and we walk out of the theater, pausing only to toss our trash.

  We hold hands as we walk out to the car. My heart is beating so hard I’m sure she can hear it. Why am I nervous about this? Why does holding her hand make butterflies erupt in my stomach?

  And why, when she pulls away to go to her side of the car, do I feel so sad and cold?

  I get into the driver’s seat and crank the engine. Trisha kicks her shoes off yet again and leans back in her seat to put her bare feet on my dash. Her toe prints litter that side of the windshield; I’m going to have to clean it when I get home.

  “So, do you know where we’re going for dinner?” Trisha asks me. She extends her hand toward the center of the car and places it atop mine on the gearshift. I feel like the back of my hand tingles. “Or am I supposed to be - oh geez, how did you put it? - let in on making that decision, too?”

  She smirks, her hand still on mine. This woman is sending me on a rollercoaster of emotions.

  “I have a place in mind,” I reply. “I know how tired your brain gets after making a decision or two.”

  She bursts into laughter as I take us toward a restaurant downtown. Her fingers draw little shapes on the back of my hand. Butterflies flit around in my stomach; I feel like a kid at school, holding hands behind the bleachers.

  I pull into the parking lot of my favorite steak place. Next to me, Trisha makes a sound somewhat like laughter, but it’s too quiet for me to make out.

  “You like steak?” I ask as I cut off the engine.

  “Sure,” she replies.

  “How do you like it cooked?”

  “Medium rare.” She opens her door as I open mine. “Why? What did you expect?”

  I shrug. “As long as you don’t want it well done, we’re fine.”

  She laughs and nudges her door shut; I take a few minutes longer to get out. My prosthetic has been on for longer than usual, so it’s starting to hurt a little. Trisha rummages around in her purse while I figure myself out.

  “All right,” I say, locking the car doors. “Let’s head in.”

  She pushes her purse back under her arm without getting anything out of it, and I’m struck by the realization that she did that so I wouldn’t feel awkward about how long it was taking me. How do I feel about that? Coddled? Patronized? Grateful?

  I push it out of my mind as she tucks her hand under my elbow. I lead her inside.

  We walk in, talk to the hostess, sit down to wait for a table to open up, and then follow the hostess once a booth becomes available. Trisha doesn’t let go of my arm until we settle into our booth. It feels nice to be touched, to be close to someone.

  “So, what do you recommend?” she asks, picking up the unnecessarily tall menu. Her entire face disappears behind it.

  “The steak, obviously.” I don’t look at the menu. I know what I want; I get the same thing every time I come here.

  “Well, duh,” she replies. “But what sides? What about surf-n-turf?”

  “They have good twice-baked potatoes.”

  She lays the menu down on the table so that I can see her again. “So, this is your favorite place?”

  “When I’m home,” I clarify. “My dad always comes here when he wants to celebrate something.”

  She nods, still surveying the open menu in front of her. “Have you gone to see them lately?”

  “No.” I look down at my hands. “I stayed with them after I got back stateside, then moved into my house. I haven’t been to see them since I moved in.”

  “We can stop in,” she offers. “They’re close by, right? In Rockville?”

  “No - I mean, yeah, they are, but no, we don’t have to.” I avoid her gaze. I don’t want to visit my parents and have them look pityingly at me as their son, who used to be whole and well, hobbles around their house.

  I see Trisha make a face out of the corner of my eye. I don’t want to look and see her judgment.

  A waitress appears at our table to take our drink order; I get a sweet tea, and Trisha, to my surprise, orders a beer.

  “What?” she says as I look over the table at her. “I’m not driving.”

  “Just didn’t expect you to order the worst kind of beer there is,” I reply nonchalantly.

  She laughs, and we disagree over beer tastes until the waitress returns with our drinks and asks for our food. I order my usual and hand her the menu.

  And then I pretend I’m not listening to Trisha’s order.

  “Uh, I’ll have the sixteen-ounce ribeye,” Trisha tells the waitress, pointing at her menu. “Medium rare, please.” She rattles off the sides she wants, which is nowhere near as important as how she orders her steak. I look up as the waitress leaves. Trisha takes a sip of her beer, making playful eye contact with me.

  I could absolutely fall in love with this woman.

  Our food comes only a little later and we dig in. I haven’t had a steak in weeks.

  “This is so good,” Trisha sighs. She sticks a chunk of meat in her mouth and almost whimpers. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

  “No problem.” I cut another piece of meat off my steak; it almost melts like butter. “I like you, I like this place. Seemed like a good fit.”

  She grins at me. “You like me, huh?”

  I glance up at her. Our eye
s meet over the table. I’m still holding my fork aloft, the meat on the end of it suspended between the plate and my mouth.

  “Yeah,” I say softly. I look around the restaurant. “I...thought that was obvious.”

  Her grin widens; she sets down her fork and leans her elbows on the table. “That’s nice. I like you too.”

  The butterflies are back, flitting in my stomach and turning my gut into a churning, bubbling mess. I set my fork down on my plate. “You do?”

  “I thought that was obvious,” she replies.

  I smile at her. It’s so nice to be liked. It’s nice for someone to think I’m worthy of being liked.

  Am I worthy, though?

  We change the subject as we finish eating; I continue to rag on the movie we watched, and Trisha eggs me on. She reaches out with her bare foot and taps my good foot with her toes under the table. I offer her a bite of my steak and feed it to her.

  When we’re finished and our plates have been cleared away - and Trisha insists on separate checks because “I can pay for myself just fine!” - I clasp my hands together while we wait for the waitress to come back.

  “So...I was wondering something,” I tell her.

  She nods, her expression becoming serious. She can tell when I’m joking and when I’m not. She already knows me better than a girlfriend I once had for four years.

  “I...would you want to be in...a relationship with someone like me?”

  “Someone like you?” she asks. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Y’know,” I mumble, tapping on my prosthetic. “A man who’s you …know…less than whole.”

  “Not whole?” she asks incredulously.

  “You know what I mean,” I hiss.

  “I don’t,” she counters, an edge in her voice.

  “An amputee!” I say, my voice raising to a volume louder than I intended. I clear my throat as people turn to look at me, waiting for them to return to their conversations. “Someone like me, Trisha.”

  “Well, you are a whole man,” she says, rapping her knuckles on the table for emphasis. “You’re a whole man if I ever saw one. Missing a limb doesn’t mean you’re any less. That’s what you mean, right? You think I wouldn’t want to date you because of your leg?”

  I feel color rising to my cheeks. “Yes.”

  “I don’t care about your damn leg, Perry,” she snaps. “I’ve never looked at a man and thought, ‘Wow, he has two good legs - perfect marriage material.’ Half a man, my ass.” She shakes her head and takes a sip of her beer. “Of course I want to be in a relationship with you, and you’re an idiot if you think I don’t.”

  I look up at her in shock. “What?”

  “You heard me,” she replies. “I like you. You like me - you said so earlier.” Her face and ears are starting to turn red, making her numerous freckles blend in. “I’ve - I’ve been more vulnerable with you than I have with anyone in my entire life. And you saved my life, Perry. Who knows what Nathan would’ve done if…”

  She stops and looks away. Reflexively, I reach across the table and grab her hand.

  “You’re a whole-ass man,” she mumbles, squeezing my hand.

  “So...you do want to be - ”

  “Oh my God. Yes,” she says exasperatedly, looking at me again. “I want to be your girlfriend.”

  I look earnestly at her. “I’m so happy,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Me too.”

  I believe her.

  26

  I have a boyfriend.

  I glance over at Perry as he drives us back home. Is “boyfriend” the right word? Do people still use that? I’m not sure. I reach out and put my hand on his; the briefest smile flickers across his lips.

  He’s been silent and stoic since we left the restaurant. The atmosphere in the car is different now that we’ve decided we’re together. The air feels charged, like lightning’s about to strike the car.

  I glance briefly into the backseat as Perry takes a sharp turn. My box of leftovers looks fine. I ate all my steak, but the sides could be a meal all to themselves - so I saved them.

  “Do you want to go home?” Perry asks in a low voice. “Or...my place?”

  The electricity in the air gets stronger. I can almost feel static buzzing all over my skin.

  “Yours,” I reply quietly.

  We both know what he’s asking. And I’ve just answered yes.

  The rest of the ride is quiet. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s a tension surrounding us. We’re both on edge.

  When we get back to his house, I slide out of the car and grab my leftovers. “I have to let Apple out,” he says. “And check on the chicks.”

  “Right.” We head inside; he grabs Apple’s leash and lets her say hi to me before he takes her out.

  I open Perry’s fridge. To my surprise, there’s quite a bit of food in here - eggs, milk, fresh vegetables. I find a place for my container and shove it in.

  I head to Perry’s bedroom. I know where it is. I’ve been here several times before. This is my first time here as his girlfriend.

  I know what he wants. I know what I want. I shrug out of my jacket and lay it on a chair in his bedroom. His bed is neatly made; he’s got a blue-and-grey plaid comforter and grey sheets tonight. I’ve never really taken the time to notice them before.

  I slide my skirt down until it pools on the floor around my feet. Gingerly, I step out of it, grabbing the front of my shirt as I go to lift it over my head. I leave it behind.

  In just my lacy bra and panties, I slide onto his bed and rearrange the pillows so I can sit back against the headboard comfortably. This is a big bed - queen-size, I think. It takes up a lot of room. His closet door is ajar, and in the gap I can see some of his shirts hung up nicely. I wonder if his uniform is in there.

  There’s a chest of drawers in the corner. It’s simple - one of those build-it-yourself things, probably made of particle board. I’m guessing its brand new since its black finish is glossy and shiny.

  I recline on the bed and spread my legs a bit, letting my own hand drift down my stomach. These are the cutest panties I own. I normally just buy them in bulk for ten bucks, but these? These pale pink, silky, lacy panties, I bought on their own for more than I would normally spend on a whole package of regular cotton ones. They better be worth it.

  I let my hand slip between my legs. Perry will come in soon, and I want to be ready for him. I lean my head back and slide my fingers beneath the waistband of my panties to touch my bare skin.

  “Mm.” I sigh in relief as I touch myself. The tension in the car was getting too much to bear. I’ve been aching down there for something, anything, to brush against it.

  I go slow. There’s no need to take off running. I let my fingers slide and search and tease. When Perry comes in, he’ll be doing this for me. I close my eyes and imagine him using his own hands, and then his tongue; I struggle to keep my pace slow.

  I want to take my bra off, but I think it’ll be sexier if Perry does it. I reach up and touch my own breast through the cup.

  I get lost for a bit in my own pleasure. I keep my pace as slow as I can, fighting the temptation to bring myself to climax before Perry ever enters the room. My desire builds the longer I wait; I’m almost desperate enough to go outside in my underwear and do it right there on the front lawn when I hear the front door open.

  “Come on, Apple,” I hear him say.

  I try not to moan as I hear his voice; I force my fingers to go slower. I’m trembling with desire.

  He putters around out there, getting some food and water for his dog, I assume. Hurry up! I feel like shouting. My hips rock a little.

  Finally, he appears in the doorway and freezes. His eyes travel the length of my body, lingering on my breasts, at my hand inside my panties.

  “Hi,” he breathes.

  “Hey,” I sigh back.

  He walks into the room and shuts the door behind him. “Don’t stop,” he tells me.


  I groan in protest.

  He sits on the edge of the bed and keeps an eye on me while he takes off his jacket, then his shirt. He slides his pants off and begins working his prosthetic away from his severed limb. His gaze stays on me the entire time.

  “God, you’re sexy,” he breathes, shoving his clothes into the floor.

  I whimper. “I need you.”

  “I bet you do.” He goes slowly. He’s doing this on purpose.

  Finally, after he’s naked and his prosthetic is off, he crawls over to me on the bed.

  “Perry,” I say softly as he hovers over me.

  He takes my wrist and guides it out of my panties. Immediately, I feel almost in pain; I was so close, and now there’s nothing. I let out an involuntary sound somewhere between a whine and a moan.

  Perry leans down and kisses my neck. He keeps my wrist trapped beneath his hand, but allows my free hand to wander down his bare chest. He’s completely naked. I don’t have any fun things to peel off him.

  I’m not disappointed, though; it means that as he plants gentle kisses along my neck and down my shoulder, I can trail my hand down between his legs and take hold of him.

  “Mmph.” It’s a strangled sound that he makes, but I know the meaning; he stills a little as I stroke him.

  “Trisha,” he says into my ear.

  I close my eyes and smile. I love the feeling of his breath against my skin.

  He pulls away and sits up, pulling me with him to straddle his lap. I bend down and kiss him deeply. My tongue gently presses to his lips, and he parts them. His hands slide up my back to the hook on my bra.

  I shudder as he releases it and I can shake the damn thing off to press myself against him. He pushes my breasts together with his hands and kisses the tops of them. The sensation causes goose bumps to rise. His fingertips find my nipples and I gasp, leaning back; he closes his mouth over them instead, and I moan as he teases them with his tongue.

  “More,” I say, and he obliges. He snakes one hand to the small of my back; the other he dips between my thighs and finally - finally - presses his fingers to the bundle of pleasure there.