Portia Moore - He Lived Next Door

by Unknown

  “Let’s just say you get back with your wife, and everything starts going well again. You’ll always think about that night she had, the time she betrayed you.”

  Suddenly images of Chassidy kissing her agent, taking her clothes off for him, hit me like a dump truck. I feel my blood boil at other images of him touching her in the places I have, images of them making love.

  “But…” Her word breaks through the images, and I’m back. “If you had the same indiscretion, you’ll both be on an even playing field.”

  I imagine kissing Kira, making love to her, and it feels so weird, my skin heats up.

  “You can’t hate her for doing the same thing you did, and her guilt would be almost non-existent. It would almost be a fresh start for both of you.”

  I feel dizzy. I lean back to look at Lucy, her beauty, the confidence radiating off of her, and I see something else, something that makes my stomach tighten.

  “You’re saying that I should have an affair?” I ask, my throat so tight I have to force the words out.

  “Not an affair. What you’re describing doesn’t seem like an affair as much as a brief indiscretion,” she says so casually, easily, confidently I can’t help but feel stupefied. “I know it might sound ridiculous to you at first, but if you get past society’s view of right and wrong, what is there anyway? Who gets to decide right or wrong?” She laughs. “When you really think about it, you’ll see how much sense I make.”

  I stare at her and wonder if she’s propositioning me.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear what your friend said to you,” she says as if reading my mind.

  “Kira?” I shake my head. “That would be stupid. She knows my best friend. It could get really messy.”

  She grins, and I wonder why I’m entertaining the thought of sleeping with someone else.

  “You’re right. Maybe someone you’re not so connected with. Maybe… a beautiful stranger?”

  I choke on the last of my drink. Did she just proposition me?

  “Possibly?” she says pointedly.

  I silently scold myself. I have to be drunk, because I can’t believe I just said that out loud. She picks up her purse, pulls out a silver card case, and retrieves one from it. She then pulls out a pen and writes something on the back of it.

  “This is how you can reach me,” she says, standing from her seat and giving me a full view of the body I’ve been trying not to imagine. It’s all that I imagined and more, and I make myself look away. She places the card in front of me, leaving me with her lingering perfume. “To talk… or more.”

  She places a soft kiss on my cheek, then walks away. If the card wasn’t in front of me, I wouldn’t believe it. Did that really just happen? Did I get propositioned by two different women on the same night? I should feel fantastic—she’s beautiful and what she said makes so much sense—but I feel drained instead, a headache forming.

  I signal the bartender for a glass of water and look at the card between my fingers.

  “A cup of coffee?” The bartender with the attitude is back, but when I look at him, he’s smiling. It’s sort of a pitying one though.

  I was going to order another drink, but coffee actually sounds pretty good. A few moments later, he’s back with a cup and a few packets of sugar and cream.

  “Thanks.” I grab the coffee and down a few sips. My thoughts are foggy, and things seem to be moving in slow motion. I look at the card again, still not believing what just happened. Did it happen? Of course it did. Three glasses of whiskey for me isn’t a record. I stand from the barstool, but my legs are wobbly

  “You okay, man?” the bartender asks.

  “Maybe I should finish this cup before getting up.” I try to chuckle as I sit back down. I gulp the coffee. “Long day.”

  I think back to how all of this started and how I got here. I feel like I’m dreaming, because this just can’t be real. What I’d give for this whole day to be a dream.

  “I used to want to be a bartender. I used to want to be a lot of things,” I tell him.

  “You meet a lot of interesting people tending bar, that’s for sure.”

  I realize suddenly that the bar is practically empty aside from me and an older woman sitting in the back and looking as miserable as I feel.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but do you and Lucy know each other?”

  He stops wiping the bar and laughs. “Not in the way you probably assume.”

  Sort of presumptuous, but with a woman who looks like her, I guess it’s hard not to associate her with sex. I got the feeling she wouldn’t be offended by that.

  “How long have you been married?” he asks.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “How did you know I was married?”

  “Your ring.”

  I look at the band I’ve never taken off. After everything that’s happened today, I wonder if it really has a place on my hand. I try to remember if Chassidy had hers on, if she bothered to take it off while she stepped outside of her vows to me.

  “And the fact that married men are usually Lucy’s type,” he says in a matter-of-fact way.

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Marriage doesn’t seem to mean much these days.”

  “You can say that again,” he says.

  “Are you married?”

  He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t believe how many I see get broken from this side of the bar though,”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Most people don’t think how badly a single action, one decision, can change everything. It’s a trick,” he says evenly.

  I look at him. He seems young, but there’s something to him that I can’t really put my finger on. “A trick from who?”

  He leans on the counter, both elbows planted there, and his eyes narrow as if he’s contemplating what he’s about to say next. “The devil.”

  I would think he’s joking except for the deadpan look on his face. I can’t help but laugh and down the rest of my coffee. “The devil? You’ve got to tell me what you’ve been drinking tonight.”

  But his expression doesn’t change. “Believe it or not, he’s real.” He shrugs before whistling what sounds like “Renegade.”

  “I’d think the devil, if he exists, has more important things to do than make people screw outside of their marriage.”

  “That’s the trick. He makes you think you’re unimportant, that your actions don’t matter, that your life is meaningless. He doesn’t want you to know how valuable you are.”

  I can’t contain my eye roll.

  “Besides, it’s not like the devil does all of his own dealings. He has workers, just like God does.”

  I laugh, feeling like I’ve fallen into an episode of Supernatural. Chassidy used to love that show.

  “You mean demons?” I ask, trying to hide my sarcasm. “You’re saying that the ‘devil’ or his ‘demons’ force people to cheat or do bad things?”

  “No, they can’t force you to do anything. However, they can create the right circumstances so that it seems as if you don’t have a choice. They can give you the right nudge, but it’s a trick. You always have a choice, there is always another option. It may not be the easiest, but there’s always an out.”

  “Resist the devil and he will flee?” I say sarcastically, mimicking the words my grandmother always said when I was young.

  “There you go,” he says excitedly.

  “So if you believe in the devil, then you must believe in God.”

  He nods.

  For a moment, I debate with myself, I don’t know this guy, but I’m surprised that someone like him speaks with such conviction and confidence, especially while working in a place like this. I don’t know why I’m entertaining his words—maybe it’s the alcohol—but if he wants to spout off about the devil, I’d like to know about his God.

  “Why doesn’t he answer prayer?” I ask, my voice even, but I look him in the eye to let him know I’m serious.

  “God always answers prayer, but people refuse
to see the answer when he doesn’t give them the one they want.”

  I shake my head at his crap answer.

  “I can see God saying no to people who ask to win the lottery, to be famous, or to kill their boss.” I laugh bitterly and fight the stinging in my throat. “But why does he say no to a man who begs for his child to live? Who asks for God to save his marriage?”

  The bartender come out from behind the bar and sits on the barstool next to me. “I can’t say why his answers are what they are.”

  I frown. Of course he can’t.

  “His plan is bigger than us. We only see a microscopic part of it.”

  I sigh, staring into my empty cup.

  “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

  “No worries, man. You’re a bartender, not a priest. And I’m not sure if I even believe in this stuff anyway… no offense.”

  I stand, my legs no longer wobbly, and I don’t feel heavy or weighed down. The feeling that my brain was inside someone’s squeezing fist is gone too. I don’t feel as if I’ve had a drink at all actually. I scratch my head at how strange this day has been. I glance at the bartender, who’s wearing an amused smirk.

  “Thanks for the bedtime story”—I glance at his tag—“Elohim.”

  “Is that Greek?” I ask and he grins.

  “Hebrew.”

  I start to walk away, but before I hit the door, I turn back and see him walking toward the older woman sitting alone in the back of the bar.

  “Just in case you’re right, if you happen to talk to the big guy anytime soon, can you mention that I could really use his help?” I say with a shrug.

  He nods with a small grin. “He’s already heard you.”

  As if he’s one hundred percent sure.

  People sure are bold in New York.

  Bold and crazy.

  Chassidy

  When I was younger, I’d sit on my father’s porch steps and look at the sky. San Diego was so different from Chicago. The sky was always clearer, the people seemed happier, and the weather was almost always perfect—at least it was when I visited.

  My dad’s house is gorgeous, with large open rooms, warm bright colors, and modern furniture that you didn’t have to be afraid to sit on. His house always felt alive, lived in, happy… and I hated it for that. When I was younger, from about six to twelve years old, I always looked forward to going to see him because I wanted to live there forever, except I didn’t want to not have my mom. There were so many days I wished Annette didn’t exist and that my parents would get back together and this could be our big, comfy house. I felt guilty for that because Annette was always so nice.

  She treated me with nothing but kindness, as if I was a daughter straight out of her womb. Then Stephanie came. My adorable little sister. My dad mailed pictures of her to me, making sure I saw her before my next visit. My mom, who usually kept her comments to herself about my dad’s new life—aside from the snide, biting remarks—even commented on how much Stephanie looked like my dad and how we’d probably favor each other.

  At thirteen, you think the entire world is against you, and I felt like I didn’t belong in my father’s life, like I was a stain on a white sheet. I was jealous that my perfect little sister would grow up in his perfect house in the perfect city with both of her parents and I had the short end of the stick.

  I didn’t think about how even though my mom was far from perfect, she was amazing and loved me to pieces. I didn’t think that I was lucky to still have a dad who loved me and wanted to be a part of my life and made an active effort of doing so, that I had a stepmom who didn’t resent me and treated me like her own.

  I didn’t see how good things were for me then, and I think back to just a few months before today. A few months ago, even though I had lost two of the most precious things in my life, I still had my husband, he still loved me, I still had my health, both of my parents were alive and well, and I had a career that people would kill for. I didn’t see any of that. I never see things until it’s too late. I hate myself for crying, for being weak and feeling sorry for myself. I know I don’t deserve to feel sorry for myself, I deserve this pain, this wake-up call, but my father and my family don’t deserve this. My dad’s a good man. Where my mom could run cold and pessimistic, my dad had always been warm, optimistic, and kind with a great sense of humor.

  I’ve been sitting outside of the hospital, looking at the sky, for what feels like hours. The sky is so dark but sprinkled with stars, and I let out a low groan, my fists squeezed together.

  “Is this my punishment?” I shout, angry tears streaming from my eyes. “Did you do this to my father because I didn’t listen to you? Is this payback?”

  “This isn’t a punishment, Chas.”

  I turn around and see Carter, his hands deep in his pockets.

  “It isn’t? It just so happens that my dad gets in a terrible car accident after I almost sleep with Davien?” I ask incredulously. He walks toward me, and I scowl at him.

  “Can we sit down. Please?” he says, his eyes soft and his tone pleading.

  I can’t help but comply, but I don’t want to seem like an insane person talking to myself. “Can people see you?” I ask quietly.

  He lets out a small chuckle. “Of course they can.”

  “Yeah, because you being invisible would be ridiculous,” I say sarcastically. I take the Kleenex he offers and dab my eyes.

  “Why haven’t you gone in yet?” he asks quietly.

  “Because I don’t want to break down in there. I can’t handle hearing that my dad’s dead or he’s about to die. Not yet. I just need… I don’t know what I need.” With a sigh, I rest my head in my hands. I’m so tired—tired of thinking, of being. I just want to give up. I’m tired of feeling hopelessness and grief. “Is he going to die?”

  I glance at Carter, expecting him to say that he can’t talk to me of such matters, but he smiles softly.

  “No, not yet.”

  Elation spreads through me, a smile breaking across my face. I’m so happy that I hug him. “Thank God…”

  I realize what I just said when he gives me an amused grin.

  “You know what I mean.” I sigh with a shrug.

  “You know, Chassidy, most people don’t believe because they don’t see, or they ignore the small signs they’re shown. You’ve been given a sign straight from the divine, and you choose not to believe based on what? Arrogance, anger, bitterness?” For the first time, his voice has an edge to it.

  “I obviously don’t refuse to believe now,” I say pulling on the zipper of my jacket. “What am I supposed to do with knowing! I’m still angry. I am beyond angry, even more than I was before. To know that there is a God and he let my babies die… that he took them from me before they drew their first breath… he did it to me twice.”

  His slightly hardened expression softens.

  “Do you know what that feels like, to deliver a dead child and still have hope enough to conceive, only to lose again, to experience that pain twice? Why, why does a God who claims to love me put me through that? Why does a God who loves me and is good, refuse to give me a child, to give my husband a little boy with his eyes and smile, a little girl who will jump in his arms? Tell me that, Carter. Ask him why!” My body’s shaking so badly. He holds me, but I feel like I can’t stop.

  “Loss is a part of the human experience. Everyone suffers… even his own son did.”

  “Then I don’t want to be human!” I shout. I stand and walk away from him.

  “You know what else is human? Joy, love, passion, strength, resilience. Without pain and loss, those things would be nothing! You still have a life worth living, a husband and family who love you. Letting go of your pain does not diminish the impact of the loss.”

  I turn back toward him.

  “You didn’t realize how much you loved Bryce until you almost lost him.”

  My heart slams against my chest. I nod, finally catching my breath and reining in my emotions. “I ha
ve lost him. I know it. I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve your… intervention.”

  “Chassidy.” He walks toward me.

  I wipe my eyes, and when he looks at me, the warmth that I used to feel from him feels multiplied.

  “I’m here because Bryce prayed for you.”

  “He what?” I ask, unsure of what I just heard.

  “He prayed for you. He asked God to save his marriage, to save you, to help take away your pain, to give you both a bond that couldn’t be broken.”

  I sit back down on the bench, realization overwhelming me. My supply of tears continue to refill whenever I think it’s empty. “And I messed up… all of this time, you’ve been trying to warn me, to stop me, to help me. Now it’s too late.”

  “Sometimes the mistakes you make are for a bigger purpose. If you can make it through this, your bond would be unbreakable. But you have to let go of the pain and the anger. If you don’t, you and Bryce will never heal.”

  I look at the man I met in the stairwell months ago. I thought he was cute and nice and was just supposed to be the hot guy next door, but he’s turned out to be so much more. So much more.

  “Can you make him take me back?” I ask jokingly but with a hint of seriousness.

  He smiles at me. “We can’t mess around with free will. If we could, it would have made my job with you a lot easier. You should go in and see your dad. He’s up now.”

  I nod and grab my bags. I turn around to ask him to help me, but he’s gone.

  “At least I’m not crazy,” I mutter.

  I make my way to the information desk and give my father’s name. The clerk directs me to the fifth floor. As the elevator rises, I think about everything that’s happened over the past few days. How my life went from mundane and hopeless to seemingly out of control. How I thought I was alone and that Bryce didn’t care, then I found out he was praying for me. I wouldn’t call Bryce a spiritual person. He went to church when he was young, but it seemed more out of tradition than anything meaningful. When I was pregnant with Logan, he didn’t mention having him christened or anything.