by Kate Davis
The guy’s lips twitch again.
I narrow my eyes at him and he smirks.
“You’re freaked out. Relax, love. I made that up. No idea who used to live here. I only moved in about a week before you did, so—”
He shrugs, and his smirk turns into a gorgeous smile, full-dimpled, and all.
So, he’s new too.
“I wasn’t freaked out.” Annoyed, I look away and bite my tongue hard before I say something I’ll come to regret. I mustn’t forget that he’s British, meaning he probably has the same type of humor that drives me mad whenever I meet my mother’s side of the family. I don’t know a single American who’d joke about death. We do tend to take that part of life, or lack thereof, quite seriously.
“Are you scared of ghosts?”
“Me?” I snort. “Why would I be afraid of something I don’t believe in?” I don’t sound convincing at all. I catch his expression and another realization descends on me. “Wait, you do believe in them!”
He shrugs again, but I know he does.
I laugh. “Really? A big guy like you scared of the undead. Who would have thought?”
“I never said I was scared.” He’s vexed. I can tell from the way his brows furrow and his jaw sets.
“But you do believe in them.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts; I believe in spirits. And why wouldn’t I? Spirits are like true love—everyone’s talked about them at some point or another, but few have seen them. I think everyone has that curiosity of the great unknown.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know there’s life after death. I know there’s meaning to this all, a plan, if you will.” His eyes focus on me, and for a moment I’m mesmerized, unable to look away. Something passes between us, but it’s so fleeting, once it’s gone I’m not sure it was there in the first place.
I know there is a higher plan in all of this—God’s plan. I know there is life after death if one chooses to believe in Jesus. I know because my parents and my pastor have been drilling that into me my whole life. I always shrugged it away, believing but not quite. The way he says it though, full of conviction as if he knows what he’s talking about, makes me want to know more about his beliefs.
“How?” I finally ask.
“How what?”
“How can you believe so easily in all of that, without a single doubt?”
He hesitates, considering his words. Or maybe his reasons are private and he hasn’t made up his mind whether he wants to share them with me. “I can because I’d rather die and find out there’s nothing than die as an unbeliever and find out there’s something. I want to live my life accordingly.”
What does that mean? I want to ask, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
“I’ll dispose of this for you.” He points at the garbage bin in his hand and heads out. I catch Sammy before she can bolt out the door after him.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Anything else you have to dispose of, say another soiled rug or a dead body, you know where to find me.” His eyes twinkle with humor and I can’t help but smile. I might not be a fan of dark humor, but coming from a gorgeous guy, I can definitely look past it.
“Wait. I don’t even know your name,” I call after him but he’s already reached the elevator and the doors have closed.
I look at Sammy who looks right back at me, her intelligent eyes mirroring my questions.
What was that?
And most importantly, why is my brain wide awake and ready to replay every snippet of conversation between me and my annoying neighbor?
Starbucks, I want to suggest, then realize the neighborhood’s unnaturally quiet so it must be the middle of the night. I peer at the clock. It’s 2.30 a.m.
The guy woke me up in the middle of the night to take out my trash?
“You can’t be serious,” I grumble and make myself a pot of coffee to get to work because I know there’s no way I’ll be able to get back to sleep.
Chapter Four
The email comes through on Monday morning, just as I’m about to apply some semblance of tidiness to the mess Sammy made while I only nipped out for a minute to grab the mail. Paper seems to harbor an irresistible appeal because my dog apparently can’t help herself whenever she sees it lying around. And so there are newspaper and magazine snippets everywhere, over which I try not to trip as I reach my pinging inbox.
The moment I catch a glimpse of the sender I know I should let it sit for a day or two, buy me some time, so to speak, but something compels me to open the email, if only to skim through the contents.
Not that I don’t know the contents.
This is the fourth “friendly reminder” Madeleine’s sent in the last couple of weeks, although she’s started to skimp on the “friendly” part and her tone’s picked up in intensity and frostiness. I guess that’s to be expected when an editor’s persuaded her publishing house to invest in you and you’re turning out to be a big, fat pile of disappointment.
* * *
Dear Samantha,
* * *
The two words instantly unsettle me. It’s as though even the spelling of my name seems to have taken an ominous meaning.
“This is ridiculous,” I mumble and force myself to read the rest. I’m a grown-up, for crying out loud. I’m also a professional. Business correspondence is not scary at all.
As I skim through the email’s contents my stomach takes a nosedive, and the task of cleaning the paper snippets off the floor loses its top spot priority. Suddenly I realize I wasted months on doing everything but writing and now providing a finished first draft is a matter of life and death, career-wise speaking.
Madeleine’s giving me a two weeks’ notice, after which I’m supposed to deliver a manuscript.
Otherwise, I’ll be forced to pay back my royalty advance.
I’ll lose credibility and no one in the publishing business will want to work with me again.
Obviously, those aren’t Madeleine’s exact words, but I can read between the lines, and the woman’s not exactly subtle in conveying the right meaning.
I close my laptop and plop down to the floor, my back pressed against the side of the sofa. The publisher loved my pitch and book outline. They were excited to give me a chance and I couldn’t wait to get started.
So what happened?
I made the mistake of telling my parents about it and Mom even started to refer to me as the next C.S. Lewis. (Not that my writing resembles C.S. Lewis’s in any way. He’s just one of the few authors Mom reads and approves of.) People started calling and from there everything went downhill. The more people started to talk about it, the deeper I got lost in the dreaded writer’s block.
I can’t believe I wasted months and months on nothing but bits and pieces, on terrible ideas and plot trails that have led to nowhere.
Snippets and yet more snippets of words that don’t flow.
The sofa’s my companion for a good half hour as I wallow in self-pity. I need to do something but I don’t know where to start. Eventually, Sammy jerks me out of my trance by scratching at the door like she’s trying to burrow her way through it.
“You need to go potty?” I push up to my feet and get the leash. Sammy instantly begins to jump in circles, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil.
We’ve barely made it out of the building when a voice calls after me, “Hey, neighbor.”
I turn and instantly frown at my male neighbor’s huge smile. Yes, the sun is shining and the weather’s balmy for this time of the year. But no person can be this genuinely happy.
“I just wanted to say the rug’s taken care of, and I haven’t left any witnesses behind.” His gorgeous smile widens, if that’s even possible.
“Thanks. Well, I need to get going,” I grumble and hasten my step in the hope he won’t be able to keep up. As I begin to huff and puff, he barely breaks a sweat.
“So.” He clears his throat. “How’s everything?”
&nbs
p; I shoot him a sideways glance. Is he trying to make small talk? Seek my friendship? Steal my dog? What does he want?
“Good.” I’m lying. I shouldn’t be lying. Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord or so my mother always said. It’s even written in the Proverbs. But I can’t tell him how inept I feel. He’ll ask questions and before I know it he’ll take advantage of my frail emotional state.
“You don’t look too good.” His brows shoot up in genuine concern, as though he truly cares.
“Huh.” My throat chokes up. Luckily, we’ve reached my local Starbucks and I see my chance to get rid of him. I stop and point at the green logo. “Well, I’ve reached my destination. Thanks for accompanying me. I’ll see you around.”
“You drink this stuff?”
I sigh. He’s not easily deterred, is he?
What can I say to that? I drink and eat and breathe this stuff.
“Sometimes.” Another lie. I’m going to be spending the evening repenting.
It’s a bad habit I acquired after moving out. My parents wouldn’t stop worrying about every single detail of my life that could possibly go wrong. When they started bombarding me with questions, throwing well-meant advice this and that way, I just couldn’t take it any more, and so the lying started.
Obviously, I’m not proud of it.
“Hm.” He doesn’t approve. I can tell from the frown lodged between his eyebrows.
“I have friends working here and so I stop by every now and then,” I hurry to add. Not that I care to win his approval or anything. I just don’t want him to think I don’t take care of my health.
His frown lifts a little, but his eyes remain focused on me. For a good minute, we stare at each other in awkward silence, unable to speak or leave.
Eventually, my neighbor says something and I realize it was a question and he expects an answer.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
He points to Sammy who is yanking at the leash, eager to move on to the next green patch.
“Oh. Right.” I release the lock button to extend the leash and give her more room to find the perfect pee spot, but fat chance. All she does is sniff the ground. I sigh. This is going to take ages. By the time Sammy’s done, I’ll have wasted half a day. “Come on, Sammy,” I hiss.
“Want me to take her around the block while you visit with your friends?” The neighbor’s smile is back on.
I look at him, a little thrown off. “Why do you say that?”
“You seem kind of distracted, as though you have a lot on your mind.”
I smirk because he’s spot on.
Madeleine’s words are still echoing in my mind. I think of her warning, of the possibility of losing my deal, and shiver a little. I would have to pay back the advance. I would be losing the possibility of getting published and also the publishing house’s trust. My agent would probably stop returning my calls.
Two weeks.
How am I supposed to write a book in two weeks?
“I have some things to sort out,” I mumble.
“Important stuff, huh?”
“Very.” I wipe my hand over my head, ignoring the odd sense of dizziness that seems to keep rushing through me every few minutes.
It’s the stress. Too much of it. I don’t know how to handle it.
“I could take her off your hands for an hour or two, if that would help you,” my neighbor says.
“What?” I peer at him. Is he suggesting—
He shrugs. “I could take her for a walk or just keep her occupied. It wouldn’t be a big deal.”
Is he offering to babysit Sammy while I get some serious writing done?
I shake my head. “No, I couldn’t possibly impose on you like that.”
“You seem in dire need of—” he points to the Starbucks sign, “—your friends’ company. I have nothing but time on my hands…” He trails off and lets me fill in the blanks.
I hesitate for a moment. The offer is tempting. I could grab a coffee and then I could go back to my place and get my thoughts together without any distractions.
Sammy is a good dog. However, she craves and pleads for attention. She can be quite a handful if she doesn’t feel that she gets my entire focus.
“I don’t even know your name,” I say feebly, my resolve slowly crumbling.
“Shane. Shane Logan.” He smiles. “I’ll take her along my morning route. It will be good for her, you’ll see. A little exercise and discipline will do wonders.”
I gawk at him.
What is he saying?
A little exercise? My dog isn’t fat. And what discipline?
I want to put him in his place, protect her like the mother hen I am, but thinking of it, he kind of has a point. Looking at my pup, I realize she has gained a little weight. Not that much, mind you, but it is noticeable.
It’s probably all my fault. My preoccupation with my book, or lack thereof, has kept our daily walks on the short side. And then there’s all the cheese she can’t get enough of.
I nod. “Fine. But only for half an hour. An hour tops.”
Shane takes the leash out of my hands. “I’ll have her back within the hour.”
His eagerness awakens my suspicion.
“Wait. I’ll need to see some ID.”
“What?”
“ID?” I prompt. “I can’t trust you with my dog without knowing who you are.”
He seems taken aback and for a moment I’m pretty sure he’ll refuse my request. I can almost see my chance at having some quiet time flying out the proverbial window when he reaches into his jeans and pulls out his driver’s license.
A British one.
“I’ll keep hold of this, if you don’t mind. You’ll get it back when I have Sammy back.”
“Good grief,” he mumbles but there’s a smile playing on his lips. “Is she famous? A celebrity in the dog world?”
“Maybe she is.”
His gaze shoots from me to her and then back to me. His head is cocked, lips twitching.
I know that I come across as protective. Even overbearing at times. But when it’s about Sammy, I can’t help myself. She’s like a child to me.
He holds out his hand, silently urging me to pass him the leash. I stand frozen, unable to react.
I fear for her safety.
As if sensing my sudden reluctance, he says, “What’s your name?”
“Samantha.” I point to my dog. “And this is Sammy.” I catch the disbelief in his face and scowl. “What?”
“Let me get this straight. Your dog’s name is Sammy and yours is Samantha?”
“That’s right.”
“What do your friends call you then?” Shane asks.
“Sam.” I glare at him in case he dares to laugh. “We are a girl team.”
“Fine.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “You’ll get Sammy back safe. You can trust me.” He pauses for a second, then adds, “Relax. I have experience with dogs. I had a couple of them while growing up.”
Oh my goodness. That’s not a good thing!
Most dogs I knew reached at least the age of twelve, if not more. No one has “a couple of them”. Animals aren’t underwear.
I eye him incredulously, but his face looks so genuine he must be telling the truth.
“A couple? You mean they all lived at the same time? Or—”
Did they die one after another while in your care? I feel like asking but can’t bring myself to.
“My grandparents fostered. They all enjoyed a long and happy life,” Shane says. “My grandparents made sure of that.”
“Oh.” Tears of relief gather in my eyes. “Let me give you my number in case of an emergency.” I hand him the leash before grabbing a pen and some random paper I find in my handbag, and jot down my details. “Please take good care of her.”
“I will. Don’t worry.” He stuffs the piece of paper inside a pocket.
As I watch him take off with my dog I feel both panic and relief, but only for a second, until
I yell, “I know who you are, mister, so no funny business.”
He raises his hand to signal that everything’s fine. And then they’re out of my sight.
I close my eyes and press my open palm against my racing heart as a first wave of doubts floods my mind. I can’t believe I’ve just entrusted a stranger with the care of my dog. Sammy is never such a handful that I would need to delegate my responsibilities.
What’s wrong with me these days? I should be hard-working. Honest at all times. Sticking to a schedule.
Instead, I’m a nervous wreck. I can’t seem to get my life together. I can’t even seem to find the energy to smile.
Speaking of smile, there’s something about the way Shane’s eyes always seem to shimmer with amusement. He’s positive, I realize, confident, calm.
He would be the perfect cast for the main protagonist in my book. His words echo in my head, “I’d rather die and find out there’s nothing than die as an unbeliever and find out there’s something. I want to live my life accordingly.”
Something inside me stirs. That hasn’t happened in a long time, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is.
Inspiration.
Ideas begin to take shape, and suddenly I’m filled with excitement and buzz.
Chapter Five
I don’t even bother with getting coffee and head straight back home. I barely kick off my shoes and booting up my laptop feels like an eternity.
The inspiration comes instantly. The words seem to be flowing. Somehow, it all involves this guy and the fact there’s something very strange about him. He’s an enigma I want to get to know. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I tell the world about our meeting and describe him in detail. What I don’t know about him I wrap up nicely with a story I recently read in the news.
I even give him the name I read on his driver’s license: Shane Logan.
He does look like a Shane and somehow no other name fits the character. At least not for the time being.