Valentine’s gifts weren’t really her thing, but she knew enough about the holiday to give good advice. Her trademark tone was no-nonsense, with a thin layer of snark. This topic would lend itself to that.
“I kinda like it.” She tapped her fingers on her closed laptop.
“Uh, Helen?”
She looked at Neil over the balcony divider. “Yeah?”
“Who is Cheese Louie?”
She quickly explained, then returned to her column idea. “I could write about stuff to get that special someone.”
“Better yet.” He got out of his rickety lawn chair and crossed the balcony. “Do a ‘what not to get that special someone.’”
“Oh! I love it.” Her mind was spinning a thousand miles per hour. “I could ask friends about really bad Valentine’s gifts they’ve gotten. I’m sure they all have stories.”
He leaned on the low, transparent dividing wall. “I think everyone has a bad Valentine’s Day story.”
“Do you?”
He just laughed. “Hundreds.”
She grinned. “Write me a letter.”
“What?”
She sometimes forgot to verbalize the thoughts that led her from one part of a conversation into another. “For my column. You should write me a letter about your hundreds of bad Valentine’s Days.”
He leaned his forearms on the balcony wall. “What about the ‘what not to buy on Valentine’s Day’ idea?”
“I can still do that one. I have three columns to write.”
His gaze narrowed. “And one of them is going to be ‘Neil MacKay’s Valentine’s Day Blooper Reel’?”
She hadn’t really thought of it that way. “I guess that would be pretty weird for you, huh?”
“A little, yeah.” He turned back toward his patio table and textbook, but stopped before he’d stepped away. He turned back enough to look at her again. “Actually, I do have a Valentine’s Day question.”
“Really?” Hope bubbled. “Great! What is it?”
He just shook his head. “I’m going to write you a ‘Hey, Helen!’ See if you can pick my letter out.”
She assumed her most confident posture, allowing her expression to turn smug. “Challenge accepted.”
Neil sat at his computer, staring at the “Hey, Helen!” submission page and realizing he was an idiot. He’d meant his “I’ll send you a letter” comment as a joke; Helen appreciated humor. But his only actual Valentine’s Day dilemma involved her, and that made writing to her about it… uncomfortable.
Hey, Helen! I think you’re amazing, and I’ve been in love with you for almost a year. Remember me? I’m the one behind the accounting book.
He couldn’t write that to her, but he also couldn’t keep being a coward.
Hey, Helen! I have a secret crush—
No. What was he, an eight-year-old girl?
Hey, Helen! I’m afraid to tell my neighbor how I feel about her. Because I turn into an idiot when I talk about this kind of stuff. And I’m kind of afraid of her.
Which wasn’t precisely true. He wasn’t afraid of Helen, just of losing her friendship. There was no recovering from, “I know we’re friends, but I want to be more than that,” followed by a, “No, thanks.”
Hey, Helen! I want to tell someone how I feel about her, and I think Valentine’s Day would be a good day to do it. How do I—
Something less direct.
Hey, Helen! I want to tell someone how I feel about her, but I don’t want to ruin our friendship by making it awkward. Valentine’s Day is coming up, and that would be a good time to show her. Is there any good way to do it?
Better.
It asked his actual question, while still fitting the theme she was working on. Would that make it totally obvious, though, that the letter was from him? He knew what topic she’d picked, and she knew he knew.
He needed a decoy.
Neil signed the first question “Dude With a Dilemma.” She usually changed the fake name, anyway. He hit the submit button, then refreshed the page and started typing.
Hey, Helen! What’s the best Valentine’s Day gift for a person who thinks Valentine’s Day is kind of stupid? — My Neighbor Thinks Valentine’s Day is Stupid
There. She would know that was from him, since the question was obviously about her, and she wouldn’t guess that he’d sent the other question. He hoped. She might not answer the first submission in her column, but she talked to him about most of the questions she received. When she brought up Dude with a Dilemma, he’d casually press her for her thoughts.
This might work.
Might.
Chapter Two
Helen rang Neil’s doorbell a couple of days later, her laptop bag slung over one shoulder, a pizza in her other hand. She’d gathered a bunch of bad Valentine’s gift stories from friends and colleagues and was ready to knock out her first column.
He opened the door, then eyed her bag and pizza box. “You’re writing tonight?”
She nodded. “Do you mind helping again?”
He motioned her inside.
She couldn’t remember when she’d started running ideas past him, but he was a great sounding board, and he didn't mind her dropping by unannounced. Pizza and writing had become a regular pastime of theirs, even though he wasn’t a writer. He was just really fun to hang out with, and smart. His advice was usually pretty good, and it never hurt to get a different perspective on the questions she was asked.
She set the pizza on the coffee table and dropped onto her usual spot on the couch. “How’d yesterday’s test go?”
“Aced it.” He sat in his orange armchair, same as always. “I’ve just got to get through this semester, and I’m done.”
“No more telemarketing job.” She knew how much he hated his temporary career.
“With my luck, I’ll end up working as an accountant for a telemarketing company.” He flipped open the pizza box. “But as long as I can pay back my student loans, I’m good.”
“That is why some of us wisely didn’t go to college.” She snatched a slice herself.
She had told Neil many times about her strained relationship with the entire educational system. She wasn’t stupid— she knew she wasn’t— but school had always made her feel that way. She’d spent her entire childhood with a brain that constantly had dozens of balls in the air that regularly crashed down around her in the form of missing assignments, poor grades, and pathetic test scores, despite working longer hours on her homework than anyone else she knew. School just wasn’t for her.
She’d done pretty well for herself without a degree. It wasn’t as if she was illiterate, or couldn’t keep track of her bank accounts. She was a functioning adult. That had to count for something, right?
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Neil’s smile. “What?”
He shrugged. “You were a million miles away. You do that a lot.”
“Sorry.” She had heard it before. A lot.
“I wasn’t complaining.” He moved to the kitchen and pulled a couple of glasses out of a cupboard. “You write your best columns on the days when you’re super distracted.”
Why did that weird compliment touch her so deeply? Sure, she had some insecurities about her writing, but she didn’t need constant validation. And she was a little embarrassed about her flighty brain, but she didn’t need people to tell her she was okay even if she had days, a lot of them, when she couldn’t focus on anything for very long. And, yet, his bit of praise felt like a lifeline.
“Thanks for always helping me with the columns,” she said.
He set a glass of water on the coffee table in front of her. “You don’t really need my help, but it’s fun.”
“I don’t need your help?” She scoffed at that nonsense. “Do you remember the letter from Super Sinus?”
His laugh started low and quiet but quickly grew. “You almost told him to buy stock in facial tissues.”
“But you, rightly, told me to suggest he see an ear, nose, a
nd throat doctor. And when he wrote back to tell me that he’d had a surgery that fixed pretty much everything, you didn’t even gloat.”
Neil retook his seat. “I’m great like that.”
His sense of humor had taken a little getting used to. It was dry and usually really subtle, but once she’d learned to recognize it, she liked it.
His phone chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket and eyed the screen. “Mom and Dad must be fighting again.”
His parents texted him when they were arguing, each complaining about the other and insisting he take sides. It happened all the time.
“Which one texted you first this time?”
“Mom,” he said without looking up from his screen. His thumbs moved quickly.
“The usual response?”
He nodded. “‘Sorry. I’m sure you’ll work it out.’ It’ll make her mad— it always does— but I’m not getting in the middle of it.”
His phone chimed again. He stayed bent over his screen. “Ah, Dad. Right on time.”
“Let me guess. You're typing, ‘Sorry. I’m sure you’ll work it out,’” she said as his thumbs tapped against the glass screen again.
“I can’t write exactly the same thing to both of them,” he said. “Dad’s getting ‘Sounds tough. You’ll figure it out.’”
She nodded her approval. “You have become an expert at this.”
“Unfortunately.” He set his phone on the coffee table. “So, what do we have for the column tonight?”
Neil didn’t usually like to talk about his parents’ problems. Helen had learned to let him change the topic as abruptly as he wanted.
“The ‘what not to buy on Valentine’s Day’ column. I’ve collected some hilarious stories.” She popped open her laptop with one hand, holding her pizza slice in the other. “So, it won’t be the traditional question-answer-question-answer format. You don’t think that’ll be a problem, do you?”
He shook his head. “Just open it by saying that you get a lot of questions about Valentine’s presents, so instead of answering them all individually, you’re just going to cover the whole topic.”
“I like it.” She made a quick note to include an intro with this particular column. “Then I’m thinking I’ll put in ‘What Not to Buy on Valentine’s Day’ then dot-dot-dot, and I’ll just list them. If they’re funny enough, they won’t even need an explanation.”
He nodded. “It would probably be funnier if the readers know that the list is based on actual Valentine’s Day gifts.”
“I thought so, too.”
Neil’s phone chimed again. “Sorry,” he said as he picked it up. He read whatever had arrived, but didn’t respond. He just set it back down again. “Keep going.”
“Are you sure? If you need to put out a fire—”
“I’m not their firefighter anymore.” He slouched a little lower. “What else’ve you got for the column?”
“I’m thinking I start with food and work my way toward power tools.”
“Power tools?” Neil laughed, which was a good sign— not just for the column, but for him as well. His parents’ constant fighting and their insistence on pulling him into it had taken a visible toll on him over the year she'd known him. But today he seemed to be dealing pretty well with it. “Did someone actually have a power tools for Valentine’s story?”
“Yup. I worked with her back when I was doing data entry. A boyfriend gave her an electric screwdriver for Valentine’s Day. Didn’t go over well.”
“Why would he think she wanted an electric screwdriver?” Neil, as usual, hit on the heart of the problem first thing.
“That’s actually the single underlying problem with these gifts: not understanding what matters to the other person. Some people buy really unusual things, like electric screwdrivers, for people who couldn’t possibly want them. Others bought generic Valentine’s stuff for someone who wanted something more personal.”
His brow pulled in thought. “So the issue is not knowing the person you’re giving the gift to well enough.”
She pointed her pizza slice at him. “Exactly.”
“So you have the electric screwdriver for someone who is, apparently, not a big fan of home improvement,” Neil said. “What else?”
“A guy gave his girlfriend a first-person shooter video game, because he knew she wouldn’t actually want it and would give it back to him.”
To his credit, Neil looked shocked. He really was a good guy. Why was he single? She’d heard about dates he’d been on, but nothing ever seemed to come of them. Maybe because his parents constantly interrupted him with inappropriately detailed play-by-plays of their unending arguments.
He ignored the most recent chime of an incoming text message. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t budge.
“I think I’ll start with a story from a guy friend of mine," Helen said. “For Valentine’s Day he was once given a little shepherdess figurine and never could figure out why his girlfriend thought he would want something like that.”
“What guy doesn’t?” Neil said with his trademark dry wit.
“I’m so relieved, because I got you a shepherdess figurine.”
He fist pumped and mouthed, “Yes!”
She scrolled through her column notes. “I’m debating between the guy who got a set of sequined throw-pillows, and the one who gave his vegetarian girlfriend a subscription to the Steak of the Month Club.”
“Steak of the Month Club,” Neil voted. “Drives home the ‘take a minute to think about who you are giving the gift to’ point perfectly.”
True enough. “I’m trying to decide which generic gifts to mention: helium balloons, heart-shaped box of chocolates, or those teddy-bear-inside-a-balloon things that people on street corners sell off the backs of their trucks?”
Neil grinned, just as she’d hoped he would. “On street corners.” And then he was laughing again.
“Right? If you’re in a serious relationship with someone you know puts a lot of stock in Valentine’s Day, and you buy a present that screams, ‘I bought this at the intersection on my way home,’ you probably won’t get the reaction you’re hoping for.”
“What about flowers?” Neil asked. “They’re a pretty generic gift, but I think most women love them.”
“Most do.” She quickly highlighted “teddy bear balloon” in her notes. “Personally, I think they’re a little ridiculous.”
“Why?”
The earnestness of his tone drew her gaze to him. He looked almost worried. Was he planning to buy flowers for someone on Valentine’s Day? She couldn’t think of anyone he’d mentioned a lot lately. And she saw him on his balcony pretty much every night.
“Most women like flowers on Valentine’s Day,” she reassured him.
“Why don’t you?” He leaned forward, watching her closely.
She slumped against the back of the couch. “The cost of flowers on February 15th is like a quarter of what it is on February 14th. It’s just crazy that shops charge so much more on the one day when guys are pretty much required to buy something from them.” She shrugged. “The practical side of me can’t get on board with that.”
“Hmm.” Either he was re-evaluating his own feelings about Valentine’s Day price gouging, or he was contemplating how weird she was.
“Come on. You gotta admit it’s a pretty sweet arrangement for flower sellers.”
“I guess so.” He didn’t seem convinced. “But maybe that’s one reason flowers are such a big deal on Valentine’s Day, because it’s a bigger sacrifice than usual.”
“Maybe.” She still didn’t like it. “Isn’t that kind of like saying, ‘I will measure the depth of your love by how much money you spend on me’? That’s kinda sick.”
“Hmm.”
“Is that a, ‘Helen is pretty smart. No wonder she has her own advice column,’ hmm. Or a, ‘How do I get this chick out of my apartment? I think she might be a weird-o,’ hmm?”
He grabbed another slice of pizza. “Why can’t
it be both?”
“You know, for an accountant, you’re pretty funny.”
As the evening went on, they joked their way through her column idea. To the flood of texts he continued to receive, he gave only a few generic responses. By the time the pizza grew cold, she was ready to write, and he, more likely than not, was ready to have himself legally declared an orphan.
He pulled out his accounting homework, as usual, and they both got to work. She was comfortable around Neil in a way she wasn't with very many people. He didn’t get on her case when her thoughts jumped all over the place, or complain that she was too jittery. She couldn’t remember the last person who’d been so patient with that aspect of her personality.
Fate had been kind of a jerk to her over the years. But she thanked it regularly for bringing him to the apartment next door. She wasn’t as lonely as she'd been before he'd become her neighbor. She had someone to talk to and laugh with, someone who liked spending time with her and didn't grow frustrated with her quirks and her constantly distracted mind. His friendship was arguably one of the best things in her life. She didn't know what she'd do without him.
Chapter Three
Maybe Valentine’s Day wasn’t the best timing for confessing his feelings for Helen.
She, Neil had discovered, had very specific ideas about the holiday. She wasn’t a fan of boxes of chocolates, because they were a fall-back for guys who couldn’t think of anything more personal. She objected to flowers on a supply-demand economics basis. Anything bought on a roadside, last-minute, was out of the question. Non-traditional gifts only worked if they were really personal and fitting.
That was a lot of pressure.
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