Neighbors And Favors
Page 12
“Bad doodle,” I say instead because it’s the only word I can come up with in the heat of “my shoes are ruined” moment.
Sammy begins to pant, and it looks like she’s laughing in my face. Seeing her cute smiling face, I can’t help but smile myself and shake my head. “You really know how to shoot that arrow right into Mommy’s heart.”
She probably thinks she’s doing me a favor, getting me off my seat after I’ve been glued to my chair for hours.
“You got my attention now.”
I tuck her under one arm and grab my keys to head out with her. The thing is, I have nothing but my own carelessness to blame. I forgot to take her out for the night and now she’s repaying me with a big puddle in the middle of my living room slash hall. Considering that she hasn’t pooped yet either, I’d better get her out, and fast.
I hate to say it but I sort of miss Shane’s long walks with her and consequently my puddle free floors.
As I exit my building and put Sammy on her leash, letting her roam on the little green patch bordering the sidewalk, I take out my phone and stare at the countless messages.
All Mom and Dad.
And by countless I mean nearing a three-digit number. I scan a few and groan inwardly as I take in the desperation and paranoia.
* * *
Mom: Sam, are you busy, darkling? We haven’t hearkened onto you for a double days?
* * *
I almost choke on a snort. That’s obviously supposed to mean, “darling, we haven’t heard from you in a couple days”.
I read some more.
* * *
Mom: Samantha, your mummy and daddy are getting really queried. We launder you, sweets. I know you’re squeaky, but please let us grow your swell.
* * *
I laugh out loud, the sound carrying through the night air. Obviously, they love me and I love them too, which is why I’m going to get her a gift certificate for some cell phone typing lessons for her birthday. That is, if such a thing exists. I’ll definitely have to check her autocorrect, update it or something.
Truth be told, ever since the incident with Pastor Rick I’ve been avoiding them. They probably have a gazillion questions, all related to my mental health, and I can’t deal with those right now.
I begin to type back that I’m fine when the skin on my back begins to prickle. I turn sharply and peer into the shadows.
Nothing there.
I narrow my eyes.
I have this sixth sense. I know when I’m being watched. And right now, I’m not alone.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” I yell and could instantly slap myself for my stupidity.
As if the murderer’s going to answer, “Yes, it’s me, your killer. I’m just informing you that I’m looming in the shadows. You may run now, and I’ll gladly give chase with my huge, shining knife.”
Call it the influence of too many horror flicks in which every single victim seems to ask the same brainless question, right before they meet their demise.
Trust me to make the same stupid mistake.
“Way to go, Sam,” I mumble. “If a sweet old lady walking her dog finds my body in a dumpster in the morning, it’s your own fault.”
“I have a gun,” I yell with the confidence of a leaf wafting in a cold breeze. “And I know how to shoot,” I add for good measure.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” a female voice says, and she steps out of the shadows.
I stare at the blonde—Shane’s blonde—and the pack of cigarettes in her hand.
She’s a smoker. Yikes! I feel almost smug that yes, she’s pretty and everything, but he has to kiss that foul-smelling mouth of hers. No glowing skin and perky runner’s backside can mask that.
Talking about running, I can’t believe she’s still wearing her running gear. Is she training for the Olympics or something? Or is she some sort of Instagram celebrity making a gazillion of money endorsing some company? Because there really is no other explanation as to why she would be wearing her training outfit in the middle of the night.
“You didn’t scare me,” I say.
She raises her brow and in the soft glow of the lamppost it looks like she doesn’t believe me.
“Well, I think my dog’s done. I need to—” I point at Sammy who hasn’t pooped yet. I fact, she’s busy sniffing other dog’s business. I’ll have to wash her face and brush her teeth now, which sounds like fun compared to making small talk with the blonde. I mean, what would we be talking about? The difference between Nike and Adidas?
“You’re the neighbor, right?” she says, oblivious to my discomfort.
“Yes.” This is the point where you introduce yourself and everything. Only, I don’t want to introduce myself. I don’t want to talk to her. We have nothing in common, not even Shane. I want to run, but I have the feeling she’d be faster, and so I settle on turning my back on her, hoping she gets the hint. “Have a great evening.”
I walk past her into the building. To my horror, she follows right behind me.
“We’re going the same way,” she says chirpily. “You know Shane. He lives on the same floor.”
I cringe. Great! Now she thinks we’re besties or something and she’ll tell me all about her relationship with him. She’ll probably flip out her iPhone next generation that hasn’t even reached Apple’s development department yet, and I’ll see their happy little private life aka Instagram feed.
“He’s told me all about you,” she starts.
“Great.” I mentally begin to count the seconds.
It takes us forever to reach the elevator. It takes even longer for the doors to close.
“He used to walk your dog,” the blonde says. I turn to face her, surprised at her tone, which is now a bit accusatory, like he’s remodeled my home and I never paid the bill.
I think back to the park incident. Maybe he wasn’t pretending that Sammy was his dog. Maybe he was telling her about his big heart for dogs and what a good neighbor he is, always helping the lady next door who can’t even take her pooch out for proper walks.
“I can assure you he’s no longer walking her, which I’m sure you know given that he’s told you so much about me.”
“Right.” Her mouth presses into a tight line. There’s something about the way she looks at me. I can’t tell whether she’s pleased with that titbit of information or not.
“Whatever’s going on, I need you to know that Shane’s mind is not in the right framework for friendship.” She breaks off and her gaze darkens. “There’s a lot going on in his life right now and he needs to stay focused.”
I frown at her.
Definitely accusatory tone, as though I’ve done something wrong. But for the life of me, I can’t think of what that something could possibly be.
“Trust me when I say his focus can stay on whatever you guys are working through right now. We’re just neighbors, and barely even that.” Thank goodness the lift doors ping open. My apartment is just a few feet away. “Come on, Sammy.” I yank at the lash a little too harshly but I need to get away as fast as I can. I dash for it, dragging my dog behind me, while I inwardly vow to make it up to my poor pup with a nice slice of cheese.
I unlock the door to let myself in. An instant later, a door down the hall opens.
“Sam,” a male voice calls out. Pretending I didn’t hear him, I slam the door to my apartment.
It’s bad enough that he told the blonde about my affairs. Whatever he said to her, he’s made it sound like I am the bad one. I can’t allow him to stir any sort of feelings, good or bad, and distract me. It took me days to fight off the panic, the confusion, the anger I experienced last time we were in touch.
I kick off my shoes and head into the kitchen to prepare Sammy’s meal. As I watch her lick her bowl clean, I munch on some chocolate, and then take out my laptop.
As I pour all my feelings onto the digital paper, I realize I’m not even bitter. A little disappointed, but that’s life, right? Some drown and s
ome come out on top. I’m obviously the drowning type but at least I’ll get a book out of the entire situation. It’s half past three in the morning and I’m done typing up the Rashid scene when I think I hear the soft thudding of footsteps outside the apartment. The room is bathed in semi-darkness, the only light coming from the computer screen. I peer at Sammy who’s sleeping soundly, belly-up, at my feet. I get up silently, careful not to wake her, and strain to listen. Her faint snoring is the only sound now. I think about booting down my laptop to call it a night when the thudding carries over again, the sound unmistakable now.
I tiptoe to the door and place my ear against the cold surface. This isn’t the nicest area in NYC and our concierge aka security is usually busy sleeping on the job, that is if he even bothers to turn up. My heart is slamming hard against my chest, the noise thrumming in my ears. For a moment, I consider calling 911 but then what would I tell them? That I think someone’s outside my door, but I’m not sure because it’s late and my nerves are frayed from all the mystery writing that’s probably sending my imagination into overdrive?
I listen for a few seconds. When nothing stirs, I peer through the peephole into the lit hall.
Nothing there.
“I think I suffer from paranoia, but at least I’m not alone.” I laugh at my own joke.
“Get it? Not alone,” I mumble to myself and laugh and laugh until tears spring to my eyes. Yes, I’m officially losing it.
“Sam,” a male voice says. “Are you okay? You sound like you’re laughing or crying.”
My first reflex is to look up. Is someone up there talking to me? Then I realize the walls have ears, or in this case, the door.
“Sam?” the voice says again.
My laughter dies in my throat. It’s Shane, and he’s outside the door. He’s probably heard all of it: my paranoia comment, my laughter. Everything!
Does this guy have some sort of implanted sensor that can spy out my most embarrassing moments? He’ll probably tell the blonde and they’ll be laughing their heads off, right after she comes back from a run.
“I’m just having a moment with my dog. Do you mind?” I snap, realizing I’m yelling at the closed door.
“Can you open up?”
“What? No!”
“Please,” Shane adds. “This will only take a minute.” He sounds miserable, which in turn makes me feel bad.
I look down at my oversized top and snug shorts.
Have I shaved my legs? I’m not sure. The weak light from my laptop screen can’t reach this far so I can’t see a thing in the darkness around me. I bet the blonde wouldn’t be caught dead with stubbles on her legs.
“Wait.” I grab my knee-length winter coat from the hook near the door and squeeze into it. It’s not winter, obviously, but given that I just moved in and my apartment is the size of a matchbox, I haven’t found a place for it yet, which is great. My tendency to postpone things comes in handy at times. It’s like not putting away your groceries and then you realize you really need that salsa sauce and crackers because the movie you’ve been waiting for for weeks is about to start. In such a situation, everyone would miss the beginning, but not I.
“Okay.” I open the door a crack and peer out at his tired face. There are lines across his forehead that weren’t there a few days ago. Dark shadows frame his eyes and he hasn’t shaven in at least a day.
Unlike the stubbles on my legs, his facial hair suits him. It gives him a mysterious touch. I make a mental note to mention that in my book.
“What’s going on?” he starts, interrupting the mental progress of my book. The light in the hall falls through the crack in the door, but I’m still mostly bathed in darkness. I can see he’s straining to see me clearly. “Your parents are worried sick about you.”
I blink once, then again. After my encounter with the blonde, I completely forgot to text Mom. And when I haven’t done my daily check-in with my parents, bad things start to happen.
Like them involving the one guy I’d rather keep at a distance.
I look past him to the hall, almost expecting my parents or Pastor Rick to be hiding there. But there’s no one.
“I was busy.” I shrug. “I’ll make sure to give them a call in the morning. Thanks for the reminder. Now, if you would stop looming in front of my door in the middle of the night, I’d really appreciate it.”
“I wasn’t looming. Your parents woke me up when they just called, worried sick that they haven’t been able to get a hold of you. Apparently, you haven’t been yourself lately, but they accept that you’re a grown-up and don’t want to stifle you. And so they asked me to make sure you were still alive so that’s what I did.” He gives me a reproachful look, which makes me laugh.
“Not stifle me?” I snort and yank the door open, planting myself against the doorframe. “It’s obvious their definition of the word is not mine. And it is looming if you’re standing in the hall, listening, snooping, giving me the fright of my life. You could have rung the bell.”
“Would you have answered?”
His question takes me by surprise. Not in a million years. “In the middle of the night? Absolutely,” I say. “Wouldn’t you?”
“See, the thing with neighbors is that just as you can hear everything that’s going on inside their flat, so can they.” His eyes glint with challenge. “I know for a fact that you pretend not to be at home. I know it because I can hear you moving around and the moment the doorbell rings, you simply stop moving. You probably even stop breathing.”
“No, I don’t,” I say defiantly. The guy really has no idea how spot-on he is, which is kind of reason enough to deny it.
“Yes, you do. In fact, I tried ringing twice, and you didn’t answer, which leads me to the conclusion that you’re avoiding me. Why?”
I should be lying, but it’s late and I’m too tired and he’s too sharp for his own good.
“Because—” I break off.
How can I tell him that I can’t be friends with him?
I like him too much for that, and so I’d rather we were nothing than just friends. “I’m busy.”
“So you say and yet you barely leave your apartment, you never walk Sammy, and that book you’ve been pretending to write isn’t going anywhere either. I know because Trish told me. No wonder they’re so worried. I’m beginning to worry, too.”
He’s officially joined the crew of people doubting my mental state. For some reason, that’s even more embarrassing than a poop-soiled rug and my mother’s announcement that I suffer from diarrhea.
“You shouldn’t be. You don’t even know me,” I mumble.
“And yet I am. You know why? Because I care about you.”
I take a sharp breath and exhale slowly, unable to hold back the snort forming in my throat. A laugh erupts my chest—the loud kind. Before I know it I’m wiping a hand over my eyes, struggling to catch my breath.
Shane looks at me, even more worried than before, which in turn worsens my hysteria.
“You don’t believe me,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Of course I don’t.” At least not in the sense I would want him to.
“It’s true.”
Whatever he’s saying doesn’t mean anything. People care about each other all the time. They care about the poor and the homeless and the grieving, but it’s a fleeting, general feeling with no personal connection.
Sammy barks to get my attention. Her cute, tired dog eyes are staring at me. Something must have woken her up. Either that or she can sense my inner turmoil.
“Hey there.” Shane squats to pet her.
“Sammy, get inside.” I plant myself in the doorway, blocking his way in case he tries to invite himself in. “Anything else, Shane?”
He seems oblivious to my frosty tone. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”
“I eat.” Does dry granola count? The chocolate kind, obviously.
“I’m talking about proper food.”
I shrug. “Chocolate is
proper food. It’s full of antioxidants.”
He shakes his head, as though he doesn’t agree. “Do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow?”
His tone is nonchalant, but there’s something there that makes me regard him intently. I take in the way he runs a hand through his hair and then shifts his weight onto one leg, as though he’s nervous. As though waiting for my answer makes him apprehensive.
It’s just dinner. It probably means just as little as the caring about me part. I shouldn’t interpret anything from it, which is why I’m more than happy to pass.
Shane cocks his head. I don’t know how he does it, but it makes me feel like I’m the bad guy if I decline.
He isn’t just pretending to be a nice guy; he probably is.
“Yes.” I can barely squeeze the air out of my lungs and so I have to repeat the word. His lips stretch into a wide grin.
“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven. Can you please call your mother and tell her you’re not dead?”
“Sure. I’ll tell her I’m still alive and kicking.”
“Thanks.” He leans into me as though to peck me on the cheek, then stops to whisper in my ear, “And Sam, do me a favor and stop opening the door to people in the middle of the night, and particularly not wrapped in a coat with your undies showing.”
I look from his smiling face to the front of my coat, which I forgot to button up. My shorts are on full display and they really are a bit too tight.
“It wasn’t intentional. I wasn’t—” I mumble as heat travels up my neck.
“I didn’t think it was.” He winks. “Seven.” And with that I watch him as he turns his back on me and walks the short distance to his apartment, calling over his shoulder, “Close the door and lock up.”
Chapter Eighteen
The following day I’ve barely woken up when my phone begins to ping with incoming messages. I throw a glance at the caller ID and groan. It’s Mom and she’s apparently over the “swoon” because Shane’s asked me out to dinner. How she even knows that is beyond me. I can only assume Shane called her and he couldn’t keep his big mouth shut.