Neighbors And Favors

by Kate Davis

  “Nothing. I was just thinking out loud.”

  “So, you’re a writer…”

  I smirk. “Not really. Not yet. I’m sort of writing a book.”

  “Really? What is it about?”

  You, I want to say. Obviously, it’s not about him. He barely inspired it. In fact, I don’t really see any sort of resemblance between the guy in my story and Shane. It’s a mere coincidence that they both moved into a new building and happened to meet a woman who owns a dog that likes to go to Starbucks.

  Barely any resemblance at all.

  “It’s not really anything yet. I haven’t been able to write for a long time.” I smile and avoid his gaze, ready to change the subject.

  “How come?”

  I shrug. My gaze focuses on Mom’s shrubs, all in full bloom now. But I don’t see them. I don’t see anything, just a big black hole that seems to want to swallow me up whole. I realize that’s what desperation must look like.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s been happening. I used to love writing anywhere, anytime. Now—” I shrug again. “Not so much, I guess. The only time I got any writing done was when you took Sammy for a walk.”

  And you were my inspiration, I should add.

  “Is there anything I can do to help? Take Sammy for more walks? Because I wouldn’t mind, and she seems to enjoy the exercise.”

  I peer at him. He looks so earnest, as though he really wants to help. People don’t usually do that without ulterior motives.

  “Of course, only if you don’t come banging on my door again, assuming I kidnapped her.” He laughs.

  I cringe, which seems to be a thing I do a lot around him. “That wasn’t my finest moment.”

  “It’s understandable. You two have a bond.”

  I nod and swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. He has no idea.

  “What do you say?” Shane asks.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Okay.” I pat my dog’s head absentmindedly and she licks my wrist in return. “We’ll have to work out a schedule though.”

  “Of course.” He nods, gravely. “You tell me a time that works for you and Sammy.”

  “No, I meant, work out a schedule that is convenient for you, and it can’t be too expensive.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Shane says. “I can make any arrangement work for me. Whatever suits you best. You’re the writer. Besides, she’s good company, and I don’t pay for good company, only for a mediocre one.” He winks.

  I should be laughing at his attempt at being funny, but instead I end up narrowing my eyes at him as suspicion settles in. I should be grateful that he’s trying to help, but for some reason, I just can’t switch off my paranoia. Why is he being so friendly to me, and in particular to my parents? Why is he so eager to help?

  What’s his deal?

  “You don’t have to go to work?” I don’t hide my curiosity because, let’s face it, attractive as he might be, I’m entrusting my beloved dog into his care.

  You’re not even paying for it!

  “I work from home.”

  “Oh.” That thought never even crossed my mind. “What do you do?”

  “You know what? It’s getting late and I promised your dad to help out with something before I get going.” He stands and puts Sammy down. The smile is gone, not even frozen in place, just gone. His whole attitude seems standoffish now.

  What’s wrong with me?

  I shouldn’t have asked. I should have waited for him to tell me. Some men don’t like busybodies, and obviously he’s one of them.

  But I couldn’t help myself. He had opened up to me a little. We had a bit of a moment and I blew it.

  “What about your food?” I point at his food, unsure how to make this go away, how to make him go back to smiling and chatting and telling me about his life.

  “You haven’t had anything yet. I’ll see you later.” With that, he’s turned away and is heading down the path leading back to the house, his broad shoulders tense.

  I watch him until he’s out of my vision, feeling like an idiot.

  Chapter Twelve

  Shane and I never got to work out any sort of schedule. Mom and I had to go grocery shopping and by the time we got back, Dad informed us that Shane had to leave. On Sunday, when I finally arrived home, I stopped in front of his apartment. I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything. I just considered knocking on his door to apologize, but there was no sound and I concluded he might be out.

  Think previously canceled date and all.

  So I entered my own apartment, heated up some of Mom’s leftover food and sulked in front of the television set, feeling sorry for myself.

  By Monday morning, I’ve even managed to push the whole weekend disaster to the back of my mind. What can I say? Selective memory can be such a beautiful thing.

  I get my usual Starbucks beverage, then settle at my desk, prepared to spend another few hours staring at my Word document when the doorbell rings. It’s Amanda, thank goodness, and she barges in the way she always does—with the overwhelming presence that comes with her model height.

  “How’s it going?” She pecks me on the cheek and smooches my Sammy.

  I sigh.

  “That well, huh? Well, I told you to simply get a day job, didn’t I? It’s so much easier than that creative stuff. You do some work, get paid for it, and at the end of the day you’re not starving. It’s an idiot-proof recipe for success.”

  I want to be angry with her for speaking out her mind, but she is my best friend and, let’s face it, she does have a point.

  “Did you bring me anything?” I peer at the countless shopping bags she’s dropped in my hall.

  “What sort of bestie would I be if I didn’t?” She rummages through one of them and pulls out what looks like a sheer top and matching panties in lavender and lots of frills.

  “Oh.” I can only stare. “They’re gorgeous. Thank you.” Under usual circumstances, I couldn’t afford something so expensive, but Amanda works in a designer shop and she gets a great discount, plus lots of free stuff. She also puts aside everything she thinks I might like. Especially at the usual end of season sale, she makes the unaffordable a bargain.

  “You like?” Her eyes shine with pride.

  “I do. Very much.”

  “I thought so. I thought I’d just drop them by quickly before making my other rounds.” She points at the rest of the bags. “I have deliveries to make.”

  “Are you implying that—”

  She laughs at my horrified expression.

  “Relax. I’m not doing anything illegal. This is high demand merchandize. The company’s selling it to make room for the new collection. Everything needs to go, fast. We can’t spend days not making much profit. And so we’re allowed to buy as much as we want and then resell it for a profit. I’m not doing anything illegal.”

  “You can do that? Stocking up and reselling designer clothes?”

  “Absolutely.” She pecks my cheek again. “In fact, we’re encouraged to. Gets the word out there and makes new customers where there would be none. We’re targeting the consumer directly, the kind of woman that might not ever put foot in one of the stores out of fear dropping unconscious at the mere sight of our prices.”

  The whole concept is foreign to me, but then again, marketing in general is. Amanda is the one familiar with the stuff. In fact, she even has a college degree to prove it.

  “Nowadays, a company’s got to be creative to stay ahead of the crowd,” she says. “The company’s gaining new customers and the sales associates are making a bit of a profit. It’s a win-win situation, a very unique approach that was introduced last year, and everyone’s happy. Got to dash. By the way, great last blog post. I really enjoyed it. You should look into ways to make money from that. It might be easier than writing that book of yours or at least it could keep you afloat in the meantime. See you soon for drinks?”

  She doesn’t wait for my answer. S
he heads out the door, leaving the space she’s just occupied strangely empty.

  “Thanks again,” I call after her but she’s already boarded the lift and is out of earshot.

  I stand glued in the doorway, unsure what to do with myself. I should be getting back to work, but Amanda’s words are ringing at the back of my mind the way they always do.

  She is my best friend, and she means well, but she doesn’t have the whole picture. There are certain things about my life that I don’t share with her. Take Shane, for example. I haven’t told her about him because Amanda is a bit of an independent feminist. She’s always focused on goals, on getting ahead in life, on “making it” as she likes to call it. I have a feeling that if I told her about Shane and the fact that he’s inspiring my writing, she would try to talk me out of it, call it a “bad idea”.

  Obviously, she is right about the whole keeping afloat thing. I need some sort of income or I’ll end up moving back home. Come to think of it, maybe it’s all fantasy. All wishful thinking. Maybe I wasn’t born the author I always thought I was. Maybe it’s time reality sank in. Maybe it’s time I quit while the publisher’s not suing me for damages and my reputation is not in tatters.

  But I can’t. I know there’s a story inside me. I just need a little more time to tap into it, to drag it out of me.

  My phone’s ringing jerks me out of the proverbial dark pit I’m about to fall into. I dash for it, leaving the door open. The number’s unknown. Strangers don’t usually call me because barely anyone has this number, so it can only be an emergency. Maybe something happened to my parents and they’re in a hospital. The thought makes me faint with sudden fear. I answer with a silent, “Hello,” immediately expecting the worst.

  “Samantha Powell?”

  The female voice is grave, too grave, as though she has bad news for me.

  “Yes,” I answer feebly. “Can I help you?”

  “You can actually. This is Madeleine Albright. I’m calling to inquire about the book you’ve been paid to write.”

  Oh, no!

  I press my hand against my chest as I feel my knees buckle beneath me. I don’t know what’s worse, hearing from the one person I’ve been trying to avoid for months or getting bad news from her.

  The first time I met Madeleine was when she read a short story I wrote during my time at college and sold it to a publisher. Getting a book deal was a dream come true. In fact, the publisher loved the book so much they even went so far as to offer me a decent advance for my next book—this time a full-length story.

  I soon realized the dream come true turned into a nightmare because, with expectations rising, my confidence shriveled to the size of a plum. Suddenly the inspiration and writing, which always came easily to me, began to feel like forcing water through a clogged drain. And Madeleine’s constant reminder that I had to come up with something great soon, because that’s what advances are for, didn’t help one bit.

  Did no one tell the woman that creativity is an elusive thing that can’t be forced? Instead of feeling like a free-spirited, creative genius, I felt like a caged bird everyone was watching in the hope she’d finally start to chirp.

  The chirping didn’t happen, and I doubt it will any time soon.

  “Madeleine.” I fake cheerfulness that sounds so crystalline sweet I fear I might just turn into a candy bar. “So good to hear from you.”

  “Is it?” Madeleine’s tone is dry, unbelieving. You can instantly tell the woman has experience with people avoiding her.

  “Of course.” I laugh.

  “I’m sure. You probably have an idea why I’m calling.”

  “Yes.” I nod eagerly even though she can’t see me through the phone. Or can she? A little paranoid, I peer around me, just to be on the safe side. “The book.”

  “Yes, the book. I think I already mentioned that. So, when can we expect the final draft?”

  The final draft? What happened to a first draft? Or the draft in between?

  “I’m working on it,” I say with the kind of confidence I don’t feel. “In fact, I’m booting up my laptop as we speak.”

  Which isn’t really that big of a lie given that my laptop’s in my line of vision and I could reach it in a few strides.

  “Then I’m sure you can tell me a little bit about it. Just enough to throttle my curiosity. Let’s say the beginning and the end. And preferably also mention a few of the plot points happening in between.”

  “I can’t.” I make a face. “It would take too long and I wouldn’t want to waste your time. You sound like a busy woman and are probably needed elsewhere. Why don’t I just email you everything?”

  “You said that before and didn’t deliver.”

  “That’s because I was busy rewriting. I wasn’t happy with the result. In fact, I was so unhappy with my first chapter I ended up deleting the whole thing…a few times.”

  “I’d rather we talked about your project. When I offered you a deal, I told you that I’m a hands-on editor. I like to get involved and you said you were happy with that. Give me everything you have and we’ll take it from there.”

  I strain my brain but I seriously can’t remember that part of our conversation.

  “I would be glad to but now’s a bad time.”

  “Why?” Madeleine asks, the suspicion in her voice carrying down the line.

  “Because—” I peer around me, scanning my surroundings for anything that might help my mind come up with an excuse.

  With a lie, I inwardly correct myself. As Pastor Rick would say, lies will get you nowhere. But what choice do I have? I can’t possibly tell Madeleine the ugly truth, which is that I promised something I can’t deliver after all. I also can’t tell Madeleine that I can’t back down on the project either because I can’t pay my advance back. That money was barely a speck on the radar that is my student loan.

  As I shift positions, I see my once favorite pair of sandals which Sammy did a great job of ruining. My legs looked amazing in them. I spent weeks looking everywhere to get a replacement but they were sold out everywhere.

  Anyway, thinking about my shoes, that’s when creativity strikes.

  Call it a survival strategy, the kind that only strikes when you’re really out of options.

  “I broke my leg,” I say and infuse some fake pain into my voice. “Just a few minutes ago. In fact, I’m on my way to the hospital as we speak.”

  “You broke your leg?”

  “Yes. It hurts so much.” I wail a little bit for good measure. It doesn’t even sound that bad. Seriously, I might just consider a career change and become an actress.

  It’s a lie!

  I push the nagging thought to the back of my mind. So what? I feel like yelling at my conscience. If it buys me some time, then no harm done, right?

  “You’re on your way to the hospital?” Madeleine asks, hesitant. I can tell she’s torn whether to believe me or not.

  “Yes.” I nod to infuse more confidence into my voice, ignoring the pangs of guilt instantly flaring up at the back of my mind. “In fact, the cab’s waiting and I really need to get going. The ankle’s all swollen up and the pain’s unbearable.” I add a little groaning and huffing to the wailing.

  You’re going to hell, you’re going to hell, young lady, I hear my mother’s voice in my mind. It’s so clear for a moment I have the feeling she’s standing next to me, watching me disapprovingly. Maybe she’s even called Pastor Rick to tell him about my transgressions. I shake my head, annoyed that even moving out hasn’t helped get rid of the fear she drilled into me for years.

  “Well, then. You’ll email me?” Madeleine asks.

  “Yes. Tomorrow, if the pain’s not too unbearable. Otherwise, the day after.”

  “Okay.”

  I can sense she wants to say something else, probably demand more reassurances or the hospital’s name so she can ambush me. I bet she’s the kind who’d do that.

  “Thanks for calling, Madeleine. I’ll be in touch. Bye.” I hang u
p and lean against the sofa, pulling my legs to my chest.

  That was close. Too close.

  As I close my eyes I realize I’m hyperventilating and rivulets of sweat are trickling down my back.

  “Are you all right? Do you need a cab?” Shane asks from the hall.

  I snap my head in his direction, horrified to see him staring at me, concern written all over his face. I completely forgot about the door which I must have left open when I dashed to answer the phone.

  How much did he hear? What exactly did he hear? And most importantly, where’s my dog?

  I peer back to the spot where I last saw her lying, chewing on whatever. She’s not there.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I just saw the door thrown open. Sammy was in the hall. You usually don’t let her out of your sight. So I thought something might have happened and I wanted to check on you.”

  “Yes, Sammy.” I look down from his face to his feet where Sammy’s happily chewing her way through his sneakers. I hope he’s not wearing his best pair because by the time she’s finished with them he’ll be able to use them as a colander.

  “I’m fine.” I get up from my sitting position and brush a hand through my hair, wondering why the heck I hadn’t bothered giving it a nice blow-dry.

  “You don’t need to get to the hospital?”

  I blink at Shane once, twice, and feel my face heat up. He heard that part. Of course he did.

  “No broken leg?”

  What’s with this guy and the inquisition?

  I test my leg. “Feels better. Not broken after all.”

  He takes a step forward and opens his mouth to say something, then seems to change his mind.

  “Well, thanks for checking on me. Sammy and I are fine and we’re—” I peer at my dog who’s now licking his shoes clean. She’s really good at that and saves me a ton of money on dry cleaning—not.

  If only she could also write a book and dust the furniture, then I’d have the perfect dog.

  “I’m glad to hear. See you around.” He turns around, heads for the door, and is out of my sight.

  I heave a sigh of relief and hurry to close the door before more people turn up and tune into my conversations.