by Emilia Finn
Why am I sort of stalking my neighbor?
Fucked if I know, but it’s become a fun game that I’m not ready to give up. And it’s working, because the more I force her to see me in the hall, the less she jumps every time we come face to face.
Grinning, I kick rocks along the sidewalk as I go, drop my head low and use the brim of my hat to fight the glare coming off the streetlights, and only a few minutes after leaving my apartment, I step into the Italian restaurant and glance around as the bell at the top of the door announces my arrival.
A hostess waits at the podium-like desk with a pen at the ready and her reservations book open, but I shake my head and snatch a menu from the wall holder instead. I move aside as other couples filter through the glass door – Pinocchios is the fanciest restaurant in town, which explains snooty-patootie’s reservation book.
With one eye on the menu, I leave the other scanning the room, only to grin when I lock onto a pair of midnight-black eyes.
I smile for the bored dog as he lays on his paws beside his radiant owner. His long ears flop and touch the floor, his eyes flicker from my feet to my hat and back down again. But Nora’s back is to me. She doesn’t see me study the slender column of her neck, the tight muscles at the back of her shoulders, the severe arch of her spine.
I let my gaze wander past her to the tweedster – at least he took his coat off – and frown at the muscle that the poo-brown monstrosity hid. He’s not a hundred-pound English Lit teacher’s aide, like I’d stereotyped him to be in my mind. There’s no soul patch on his chin, no overbite like I hoped.
Dude is kinda handsome.
Fuck him!
I let my gaze move over his black shirt, over his hand wrapped around a wine glass, his other hand balled and resting under his chin. For a moment, our eyes meet. He affords me a fast study, but then he’s gone again, and sucked back into her the way a date should be.
Glancing down at my watch, I frown at the 7:20 and wonder if tonight is the night my betting comes to an end.
“Sir?” The hostess calls my attention once she’s done with the couple that came in behind me. “Can I get your order?”
“Yeah.” I plop the menu back in the holder and step toward the desk while I reach back to get my wallet. “Large pepperoni pizza, please. And a Coke. To go.”
“Sure, that’ll be just fifteen minutes.”
I sit in my doorway, one leg bent, the other propped against the frame, and rest my back against the opposite side. With my pizza box laid out on the floor just inside my apartment, I take my fourth or fifth – fine! My sixth – slice, and tip my head back to catch the oil that drips from the melted cheese.
My watch reads 8:15, and fuck Dawson’s Creek for ruining my winning streak against myself.
I sip my Coke between bites of cooled pizza, and though I’ve worn a scowl ever since a quarter to eight, my grin creeps up at the sound of heels clicking against concrete stairs.
Galileo’s collar jingling.
A breathy sigh – not of physical exhaustion, but something much more psychological.
I count her steps, and just before she rounds the final flight, I clear my throat to warn her that I’m here.
I hate that her steps falter, that her breath comes out on a squeak. I hate that Galileo’s carefree prancing stops, and instead, he turns into her guard dog.
“4B is in the house,” I call out. “Unarmed. My Freddy Kruger outfit is with the drycleaner, and the Scream mask hasn’t been scary since the nineties.”
Her footsteps restart, though Galileo’s prancing is long gone as she rounds the final corner and our eyes meet.
She’s annoyingly pretty. Like, not the stunning-and-she-knows-it pretty that I see at the racetracks every weekend. There’s no mini skirt, sky-high heels, or enough makeup to choke a horse. Nora’s beauty is much more subtle. Her cheeks are left a natural creamy color. Her eyes, a gentle, milk-chocolate brown, with a little shadowing from cosmetics. Her hair was neater when she left an hour ago, combed and styled in front of a mirror, but now it shows a little movement from the breeze.
“Hey, 4B,” she greets me tentatively.
I grin. “Hey. Nice date?”
Shaking her head, she drops her purse-holding hand low by her thigh, and sighs as she drags her way up the stairs.
Galileo jogs up ahead of her until he stops in front of me, and sniffs the pizza on my breath.
“No pizza for you, bud.”
He sniffs again.
“I said no.”
He licks my hand.
“Galileo, sit.”
He drops to his ass with a heavy slap, and makes his owner sigh.
“I love my dog very much,” she crests the top step and pauses with a hand on the railing, “but sometimes I hate him, too.”
“I’m sorry.” I drop my half-eaten slice back into the box and sit up taller. “I don’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.”
She begins walking again, and stops in front of her heavy door. She blocks my vision of the handle with her body, unlocks what she thinks I think is a standard wooden door, and opens it wide so she can step through.
“Come, Galileo.”
“Did you have a nice time?” I lift my Coke, and take a long swig while she steps aside for her dog to race through. “Your dress is nice.”
“Were you watching me when he arrived?”
Grinning, I nod. “Yup. Was he as douchey as he looked?”
Pursing her lips, she only nods.
It’s strange that my brain insists I should be happy. Fuck knows why, but it has a mini celebration in one corner, with maracas and sombreros, because Joshua Jackson is a douche and will never get a second chance to date this woman. But the rest of my brain focuses on the forlorn look on her face. The loneliness. The sadness.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” I offer.
She only shrugs and moves past her door. “Now I get to watch a movie before bed, and not share my ice cream.”
“Solid silver lining.”
Her scowl turns into a sweet smile, which in turn gives way to a simple, single, breathy “ha” before she turns away on those sinful heels, and inches her door closed. “Goodnight, Tucker.”
“Hey, Nora?”
My heart races as she stops closing her door, and instead opens it a couple inches again.
“Mm?”
“What movie you gonna watch?”
She shrugs. “Something cheesy, I think. I don’t wanna use my brain tonight.” With a gentle smile, she tips her chin in goodbye, and closes the door with a soft snick.
I give her five minutes after the sound of her shower comes on. Five minutes to wash the stench of mint breath spray, girly perfume, and tweed from her body, and while she’s gone, I race into my apartment on impulse, and undo all of the hard work I’ve put into organizing and cleaning.
I tug cords from the wall, I shove my couch out of the way, I scratch the floors – sorry, landlord! – as I move the wooden cabinet, but only minutes after she disappeared, I close my front door and duck across the wide hall to hers.
Bringing my fist up, I tap gently. It’s after eight – closer to eight-thirty – it’s dark, and she doesn’t do well with people in her space.
“Nora?” I press my ear to her door, and knock again. “Hey, Nora? It’s just me.”
I don’t hear her move. I don’t see her, or smell her. There’s no reason to know she’s near. And yet, my mind conjures an image of her standing exactly how I am, but on the opposite side of the door.
“Nora? Can I speak to you for just a sec?”
“What do you want?” Her voice shakes, and damn if that doesn’t put a knot in my stomach. “It’s late, Tucker. You know I’m not opening this door.”
“Just for a minute?” She’s right there. Two inches away. “I’ve earned a tiny portion of trust, right? I’m an inconsiderate neighbor, but I’m not gonna attack you or anything.”
She scoffs. “Lovely qualifiers.�
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“Nora? Open the door. I promise not to rush in. I literally won’t step over your threshold.”
“Tell me what you wanna say now. I can hear you.”
“I wanna show you.” I tap the tips of my fingers against her door. “Please?”
Silence.
I had no clue silence could be so loud until I met this woman. And shit, but have I actually met her? She told me that she knew my name, and I told her that I knew hers. But have we been pleasant enough to say nice to meet you?
I’m not sure.
Finally, like I’m Joshua Jackson from the kingdom of tweed, after a minute and a half of silence, she releases the locks and cracks the door open. Her makeup is gone, her hair is wet. She lost the two or so inches of height her heels gave her.
But her eyes… ten minutes ago, they were exhausted, sure. But they weren’t terrified.
“Can you step back?” she whispers. “Go all the way back away from my door.”
“Sure.” I skip back half a dozen steps. Lifting my hands, I swallow and study the two inches of her body through the gap in the door. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“Didn’t scare me,” she croaks out. “You just…” She swallows. “You’re putting my routine out of whack. What’s up?”
Smiling – at first, it’s fake, but then the real thing comes – I turn to my door and open it all the way up. I push it until it bounces off the wall, then I step aside and show her the TV I’ve set up just six feet away.
Clueless remains paused at the opening credits, the remote sitting by the pizza box. And though Nora only watches me with a frown, I slide back down to the position I was in when she got here. I rest my back against the doorframe, my leg bent against the opposite side, and though I know my ass will be painfully sore twenty minutes from now, I settle in and hit play.
“What are you doing?”
I pick up a slice of cold pizza and take a bite. “So, I was gonna watch this movie tonight. This mindless, mind-numbing chick flick. And hell, then my neighbor said she was digging a movie just like it. So here we are, and do you want a slice of pizza?” I pick up the box and set it on the floor in the hall.
Galileo’s ears perk up. His eyes widen.
I merely stare into his eyes and shake my head.
“Tucker, I…” She remains standing in the gap of the door. Pouty lips, a tiny sliver of bare skin between the pyjama pants she changed into – pink tartan – and the cream tank top. She wears fuzzy socks on her feet, and water droplets fall to her tank and leave behind dark stains.
“You can sit in your apartment.” I take another bite and grin. “I’ll stay in mine. There’s a little pizza left if you want it, but be careful, because Galileo is three seconds from swiping it.”
“He won’t take it,” she murmurs. “How’d you know I like this movie?”
“I didn’t.” I turn to her with a smile, victorious when her door inches open. “But I know now. Every girl in the history of the world likes this movie. It’s exactly what you ordered.” I pat the floor. “Sit. Hang out.”
“I’m not coming over there.”
“It’s okay.” I bring my hand back to my lap and pretend I don’t see her inching her door wider and wider. It’s slow, discreet – scared – but she does it anyway.
Eventually, she slides along her doorframe and drops to her ass, but unlike me, with my legs splayed out and relaxed, she hugs her knees and pulls Galileo in close.
“So…” I hedge. “Who keeps setting you up with these dudes?”
Her eyes flicker from the TV to me in surprise. “Hm?”
“I’ve lived here for five or six weeks now. Every single Friday night so far, you’ve left on a date, then come home again not long after. You take Galileo, then you stomp back upstairs rarely more than an hour later. An hour means the date flopped, which means whoever is setting you up has shitty taste.”
“Evie.” Smiling, she lays her head against Galileo’s, who lays his head on her knees. “You know Evie Kincaid, right?”
I nod. “Evie Conner now, no?”
She breathes out a soft laugh. “Touché. Conner. It’s still so new, I forget she changed her name. So, Evie and I have… history, I guess you could say. In high school, she and I didn’t get along.”
“You didn’t like her?”
She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. “Not really. She was loud and crazy and everything I wasn’t. Ben was my friend…” She frowns. “My best friend, I guess. And when we hung out, it was quiet and peaceful and nice, ya know? But then she’d turn up and give me headaches.”
I take my Coke and sip. “I can see that. She’s pretty out there.”
“Yeah, well… my defense mechanism, I suppose, was to hate her. Anyway, she and Ben are together, and we all had a falling out because Ben was my friend, but her man. She didn’t like me, I didn’t like her, and that basically made for a few miserable years.”
“And now?” I study her as she slowly, subtly unclenches herself. She’s like a fist, balled up tight. “You’re her friend now?”
A tiny smile forms over her lips as she watches my TV. “Now, Ben is out, and Evie is my best friend. It’s funny how, before, she was everything I wasn’t, and that made me mad. Now, she’s still everything I’m not, but instead of hating that about her, I appreciate it, and I try to learn to be as brave as she is. Instead of wanting her to be quiet like me, I let her fill in the gaps I can’t.”
“So the loudmouth fighter is your best friend. And she keeps sending shitty dates your way because…?”
She exhales a soft laugh. “I figure she thinks I need a little excitement in my life. She’s happily married, and I’m over here happily single, and we already know she’s obnoxious. She thinks she’s right, and being alone can’t possibly be fun.”
“So she sends a new dude each week?” I nod and go back to watching the movie. “I guess I see her logic.”
“You agree with it?”
“Not necessarily. I’m…” I consider. “Impartial, I suppose.”
“Explain.”
I laugh. “Um… okay.” Why does this feel like a therapy session? “I think everyone needs excitement in their lives. A little adventure, something that makes them nervous. But I don’t think a person needs a lover for that.”
I turn back and study her as she studies me.
“Like, I’d consider skydiving an adventure,” I elaborate. “Wouldn’t you?”
She nods. Swallows. Nods again.
“But you can do that with your girlfriends. In fact, I bet if you asked, Evie would totally jump out of a plane with you.”
Smile gone, Nora’s body tenses a little. “I’m not going to skydive.”
“No? Scared of heights?”
She shrugs.
“Alright, well, swap skydiving for bungee jumping, or performing in a talent show, or fighting at Evie’s tournament. Anything that gets your blood pumping.”
“I’m not doing any of those things. No chance in hell.”
I bark out a fast laugh. “What is something hair-raising for you, that you would do? Ride a skateboard?”
She shakes her head.
“Sing for a crowd?”
She shakes again.
I frown. “Go to a party?”
“Absolutely not.”
After a moment of loaded silence, she exhales and says, “This.”
“This?” Still frowning, I look around. “Huh?”
“This.” She points at me, at the TV, then she wraps her arms around Galileo and breathes him in. “Me sitting out here… this is kinda hair-raising and scary for me.”
“But you’re doing it.” I smile and try not to focus on the pain in her admission. “And you’re doing it on your own,” I add. “You didn’t need Evie or a date for this.”
“I’m feeling kinda brave right now. Probably gonna regret this tomorrow.”
I scoff. “I’m flattered.”
“Why aren’t you out?”
“Hmm?” I let my eyes wander along her tartan-covered legs, and back to her eyes.
“You’re usually heading out about this time on a Friday night. Instead you’re here, and you look like you’re done for the day.”
“I am. Done,” I qualify. “I normally head to the tracks on weekend nights, but I don’t feel like it tonight. So I’m gonna stay in and watch Alicia Silverstone fall in love with her brother.”
“Tracks?” She ignores my attempted joke and focuses only on the thing that would surely terrify her. “Like… horses? Dogs?”
“Engines.” I lift my hands – stained and callused from work – and smile. “Cars and bikes.”
“Racing?”
I nod. “I tend to go out each weekend, work on some engines, make a little cash, have a little fun.”
“You fix the racing engines when they break?”
“Sometimes, for my friends. Not for just any dude that asks, though. I have better things to do with my time.”
“But… you fix engines for money, no?”
I shake my head. “I fix engines for a little cash, but I race for the real money.”
Her eyes open impossibly wide. “You race? Are you insane? What if you crash? What if your car explodes? What if something goes horribly wrong?”
“I ride, for starters. So my non-existent car can’t explode.”
“That’s worse!” she screeches. “You ride a motorcycle?”
I nod.
“You don’t wear safety gear either, do you?”
I snort at the contempt in her voice. “I wear a helmet.”
Her eyes narrow at my evasion. “Don’t come to me when you fall off and lose all your skin on the road.”
“I race on dirt, anyway, so it’s not so bad. Ya know, if you’re looking for adrenaline-fueled activities, I could take y—”
“There is zero chance in hell I’m going there with you,” she drawls. “Like, less than zero percent. There is more chance of you giving birth to puppies than there is of me going anywhere with you at night, let alone to a freakin’ racetrack to watch people crash and explode.”