ONE
I was twelve years old when I met the Blacks.
I’d just moved to Primrose Way, a suburban neighborhood in Bristle Wave County, California. Bristle Wave was right off the coast, a small, comforting area that travelers ventured to whenever they wanted to hit the pier, walk the beach, or even rent a boat to take out to sea.
My dad had gone into early retirement, so money was far from an issue when it came to staying in our new, high-dollar neighborhood. I’d heard plenty of horror stories about Primrose. Kids from school said people like me, girls with any trace of color, didn’t fit in well. I considered it bullshit gossip. I mean, how would they know if they had never lived in Primrose? And how would they know if they had no pigment in their skin? My father, the man of color, was the one that chose the neighborhood. He didn’t care for the snobby looks or turned up noses.
“As long as you’re in a neighborhood like Primrose, you’ll be fine.” He said this when I complained about moving for the third time that year. Truthfully, all of the moving around was most likely the reason I had no one to personally call my friend. I was a loner, stuck in my house wondering how to go up to the other kids on the block and ask them if they’d like to jump rope with me.
Let’s just say my father was wrong. The girls in Primrose didn’t like me. They were afraid to play with me, and none of them believed I was actually twelve years old because I was one bra size away from being a B-cup.
My mother tried arranging sleepovers, but no one would show up, which left me alone, drowning in a puddle of tears with my face down on a pillow as my mother rubbed my back. Dad didn’t really know how to comfort me, so whenever I cried, he kept his distance.
He’d worked most of my childhood, but now that he was retired, he had no clue how to handle me—not that he didn’t try or anything. He just knew how to make things really, really awkward. Mom worked endless hours as well but, unlike Dad, she hardly managed to spend two hours a day with me. Maybe an hour or so if I was lucky or if I decided to shop with her. I suppose I could have considered myself lucky because some of my friends at Bradshaw Heights Academy only saw their parents once a month. Having busy parents sucked.
Bristle Wave was boring for the most part. My daily routine was to ride my bike through the neighborhood park, come back home and read a book, and then wake up for school. During summer, it was worse.
My parents were hardly ever home—Dad most likely working or playing golf and Mom running her new art studio—so I stayed in the house reading young adult novels by Judy Blume and J.K. Rowling. I thought surely I’d be trapped in Primrose with no friends, no life, and no entertainment until I was off to college—that is, until the day the Blacks moved in.
They happened to move right into the home across the street from me. Mr. Clark lived there only months ago but was sent to a retirement home after falling down the stairs and breaking his hip.
The rumble of a motorcycle caught my ear, and I climbed off my bed, forgetting about the needless algebra homework as I stole a peek out the window. A moving truck parked along the curb, and a black Tahoe pulled into the driveway, parking in front of the garage door.
A woman and a girl climbed out of the Tahoe, the woman fanning the humidity away. The girl looked to be around my age, her nose stuck in a book, hooked on whatever story she was devouring. Ahh, I thought. She likes to read, just like me. Check one.
They entered the house, and a few moments later, the woman came back out, telling the movers where to carry the items as she pointed towards the ash-brick house, shading her eyes with the other hand above her brow.
The men carried a large, brown sofa across the lawn, a few carrying small things like dining and patio chairs and even a small red recliner that the woman made sure was handled properly.
Everyone seemed to be busy—everyone except the man sitting on the loud motorcycle he rode in on. It was rare hearing the growl of a motorcycle in Primrose. Everyone in the neighborhood drove classy cars—Mercedes, BMWs, and fancy Infiniti or Cadillac SUVs. I knew Mrs. Rhodes, their next-door neighbor, wouldn’t be too pleased about that. She hated loud noises, yet she had a small Yorkie that yapped all day long until she came home.
The man sat on his motorcycle, wiping off his helmet with a brown cloth. He wore a fitted black T-shirt and dark wash jeans. His hair was a dark, beautiful, chaotic mess, a few tendrils hanging on his forehead, most likely from taking his helmet off. The haircut suited him. Long in the front, short on the sides and in the back, parted on one side to uphold a classic yet modern appeal.
It was never like me to take full notice of anyone, but there was just something about this man that had me curious. He didn’t seem to match the woman I assumed was his wife. She ran around like a chicken with her head cut off, telling the movers right from wrong. He seemed too laid back for her, but by the way he looked at her—watched as she swished her hips to get to the door in her snazzy high heels, I could tell he loved her.
Completely.
Utterly.
From this angle, he looked tall, with a chiseled face, high cheekbones, and a bone-straight smile that he revealed when his wife walked out the door. She sighed as she walked towards him and stepped between his legs, wrapping her arms around his neck. She held him close, sighed some more as she gazed into his eyes, and I could understand why. That man was absolutely breathtaking. From head to toe, he was perfection.
I continued watching the little family, curious as to where the girl went. I assumed she was in her unfurnished bedroom, nose still buried deep in her novel. I instantly wanted to meet her. I wanted to know what she was reading. I hoped it was Judy Blume.
Collecting my house key and sliding into my favorite pair of Sperry’s, I hurried down the stairs where my mother stood in the foyer, chatting on her cellphone while she peered out of the window. I wasn’t the only one being nosey.
When she heard me coming down, she turned and asked, “Where are you going, sweetie?”
“I’m going to meet the new neighbors.”
“Oh. Tell me how they are,” she whisper-hissed as I swung the door open. I nodded and shut it behind me, standing on the porch. The family was no longer in sight. The movers were bringing in some more of their larger belongings.
I was being impatient. I wanted to meet the girl across the street first before any of the other prissy girls in Primrose got to her. Not that I needed a friend, but I wanted one. I wanted someone that had similar interests and reading was a huge one for me. So, I walked across the street, up their driveway, and courageously knocked on the front door.
It opened right away, and to my surprise, it was the man from the motorcycle and the girl’s father, I presumed. “Well,” he said, slowly revealing a full smile. “Who do we have here?”
“Uh… hey.” My cheeks turned rosy red, my chest going hot. I wasn’t expecting him to answer the door. “I—I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Chloe Knight. I live right across the street”—I looked back and pointed to my house—“and I was wondering if I could meet the girl that went inside?”
The man raised a brow. “The girl? You mean my little Isabelle?”
“That’s her name?”
“Mmm-hmm.” One of the movers walked past him and me. The man looked down, gesturing back. “Come inside. I’ll go get her.”
My throat became thick, so I didn’t say anything. I just bobbed my head and followed the man inside. The house felt full and they hadn’t even set up yet. Boxes were stacked in every corner, furniture piled high in the den and living room.
“Sorry about the mess,” he teased, raising his brows. “Just moved in and all.” He held his hands out, giving me a shit happens kind of shrug. I forced a smile, unsure of how to respond, and he noticed, stopping in his tracks before walking up the stairs. “I guess I should have told you who we are, huh?” He scratched the top of his head. “I’m Theo Black. My wife’s name is Janet, and I’ve already told you my daughter’s.”
“Cool.”
He pressed his lips to smile, and after informing me that he’d tell Isabelle I was downstairs, he was taking the steps by twos, calling for his daughter. I took the time to look around the home. A few tables were in place, and next to one of them was an open box of photo albums.
Glancing back briefly before focusing on it again, I reached forward and opened the album. The first few photos were of Mr. and Mrs. Black, but as I flipped through some more, there were baby photos of the girl. She wore a lot of pink and yellow. She had rosy, chubby cheeks. She looked like a happy baby.
I noticed then that Mr. and Mrs. Black were very young when they had Isabelle. They looked to be in their late teens, early twenties. It was strange because they seemed so happy and content. While her parents seemed hip, cool, and lively, mine were nearing fifty, bitter towards each other, and mostly miserable. Hell, they hardly spoke to one another. And don’t get me started on our awkward, scheduled dinners.
My parents decided to have a child once they’d established careers and traveled the world. By the time they were ready to settle, they were thirty-six. It was a decent age but, unfortunately, Mom was considered high-risk when she carried me. I figured it was the reason she never had more children.
For a while, I thought that was the key to happiness—living your life first with the one you love and then creating a tiny being that you will love unconditionally for the rest of your life. Apparently, I had the wrong mindset because as I studied the Black’s pictures, I realized I didn’t even have any of my own to compare them to. If I did, I had no clue where they were other than the few small frames on top of the fireplace and beside the sofa. All for show, of course. But through all their photos, they seemed genuinely happy.
“She’ll be down in a minute.” Mr. Black’s deep voice startled me, and I snatched my hands away from the photo album, cheeks tinged red. “Sorry,” I whispered quickly.
“Don’t be.” He walked around me, picking up the photo album I’d violated. Flipping past a few pages, he finally came across one and laughed. “This is Izzy when she was two. Completely naked, playing with her toes.” He showed me the picture, leaning towards me. His arms brushed mine. I don’t think he noticed or cared, but I did. How couldn’t I? It was almost like I’d been shocked—it was electrifying.
I stepped aside, smiling with him. “She was adorable.”
“Still is,” he sighed.
Footsteps sounded seconds later, and the girl came rushing down. When she reached us, she put on a large grin, flashing pink braces. “You wanted to meet me!?” she practically shrieked.
“I—uh, yeah! I wanted to say hi and introduce myself to the new neighbors.”
“That’s so cool.” She extended her arm, holding her hand out. I did the same. “Isabelle Black, but you can call me Izzy.”
“Chloe Knight.” I beamed.
“So nice to meet you.”
“You too.” We shook hands, and instantly, I freaking loved Isabelle. “Hey, were you reading a Judy Blume book earlier?”
She let out a girly gasp. “Oh my gosh! Yes! I love her!”
“I do too!” I squealed. “I can spot that blue cover from anywhere!”
“No freakin’ way!”
“Your mom is gonna flip shit if she hears you talking like that,” Mr. Black said, putting the album on the table.
Isabelle put her hand on her hip. “I wonder where I get it from.”
He chuckled, and I laughed because he used a bad word right in front of us.
“Hey, how about I show you the rest of my books. I have almost all of Judy Blume!”
“Okay!” Isabelle grabbed my hand and led the way up the stairs, passing by her mother who was telling two of the movers how to set up the bed in the master bedroom.
“Oh!” Mrs. Black’s eyes expanded when she realized there were two girls instead of one. “Who’s this?” she asked, green eyes bright.
“Mom, this is Chloe. She lives across the street. I’m showing her my Judy Blume collection.”
“Oh really? A new friend already! See, I told you this neighborhood wouldn’t be so bad.” Mrs. Black smiled, revealing dimples. She was a really pretty woman. Strawberry blonde hair, full pink lips, and a body I hoped I would get once I finally blossomed. She didn’t even look like she’d had a child. It seemed she was still considering having babies.
“Hi,” I said, waving.
“Hello gorgeous girl.” She reached for one of my curls. “Your hair is beautiful. Did you do it?”
“I did!”
“You did a great job, sweetie. Maybe you can teach Izzy how to style her hair, huh?”
I shrugged, looking at Isabelle’s frizzy, black mane. “Hmm, maybe.”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Can we go now, Mom?”
“Go on. But please be careful, Izzy. You have a lot of fragile stuff in your boxes.”
“I know, I know.” She reached for my hand again. “Come on!” We ran down the hallway, stepping into a room with a bunk bed. The walls were already painted a light shade of pink, the fuzzy white rug on the ground making the color pop.
Isabelle showed me her collection of books. A large box was filled to the brim, piled high with novels, and not just Judy Blume. That day, Isabelle became my best friend, and I didn’t even realize it. We connected and bonded, laughed and talked about books and Disney movies until the sun sank.
It was the most fun I’d had with anyone in a long time. I no longer felt lonely with Isabelle right across the street from me. Her room was the room on the second floor, only a few inches to the left of where my bay window was.
At night, if we couldn’t sleep, one of us would blink a flashlight to see if the other was awake, and if we both were, we’d turn on our night-lights, talk through the walkie-talkies we went half on, and giggle about silly things. Most times, it was books, but sometimes it was boys.
We grew up with each other. We were closer than I ever thought possible. She’d become a sister to me. We gossiped. We watched girly movies and listened to the Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, and TLC. We’d sing our hearts out, dancing in my bedroom or hers until we were exhausted.
We hardly ever fought, and if we did, it was about stupid things like what boy was hotter at school or which friendship bracelet we would buy from Claire’s. Izzy and I were inseparable. And somehow, Mr. Black became closer to me to, but not in an unconstructive way.
Mr. Black helped Izzy and me with our homework and even took us to softball practice whenever my mother couldn’t. Mrs. Black worked a lot at her bakery in Los Angeles, which left Mr. Black at home, caring for his daughter.
Not that Mrs. Black was a bad mother or wife, she just needed to be busy now. I’d heard from Izzy that her parents had struggled at one point in their lives, when she was seven and Mr. Black was in between jobs, trying to become a car technician, run his own business. They lived with Mrs. Black’s mom in Los Angeles for almost three years.
Mr. Black was a good man—better yet, a great man. He’d take us to the park and to the movies, buying us all the candy and buttery popcorn we wanted, but when Izzy and I felt we were too old to hang out with him at the park (because let’s face it, teenagers didn’t like to be seen with their parents), he’d have no problem dropping us off at the mall and even giving us money to spend.
Things were great. My life was great. I had someone I could call a friend, someone I could consider a sister, maybe not by blood but by spirit and character.
From how I described the Blacks, you probably wonder just how I fell for Izzy’s Dad. Let’s just say it was very… unpredictable. It was something that just… happened—perhaps a simple crush that soon blossomed into something full and real and unique. I had always tried denying my feelings for him. I never wanted anyone to see, but there were certain things he said and did. Things that drove my young mind and body crazy.
Like the night when Mrs. Black wasn’t home and he was drinking in his garage, listening to some R&B music. He moved his hips, dancing and twirling Izzy around playfully. She giggled, and I sat on top of a cooler in the corner, watching them bond. But then the song changed, and he flicked his fingers for me to join him on this one.
I shook my head and waved my hands in a no way kind of gesture, but he insisted, marching forward and grabbing my hand. He tugged me up, and I landed against his chest. He twirled me with a swift, charming effect, laughing as he held me close. I tried so hard not to fall victim to his touch. I tried hard to fight the chills he gave me, wanting badly to ignore the galloping of my heartbeat.
But his smile was too perfect.
And his natural scent was so comforting.
His lips were only a few inches away, and I’m not sure if he noticed, but my stomach was rubbing against his crotch. It was harmless. I was sure because he held Izzy the exact same way, but to me it meant the fucking world to be so close… so intimate.
His laugh was hearty when he caught my embarrassed gaze, and I giggled when he finally released me and teased me about having two left feet. Izzy joined in on the laughter, telling Mr. Black that I’d always been a horrible dancer.
It was true.
I was glad they caused a distraction. I didn’t mind being teased, as long as neither of them took notice of my true feelings. God, I could remember that day so clearly.
I can also recall the time when I was sixteen and had just gotten my car and license. Just like any other teen, it was one of the most exciting times of my life—that is until I blew my tire going into the second week of driving.
I was stranded on the freeway, and it was freezing that day. As I shivered inside my coupe with my cellphone glued to my ear, I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry because my dad wasn't home and Mom wasn't answering her phone. Neither were there to help me, so with heavy tears, I called the one person I knew was always around and also happened to specialize in cars.
Mr. Black. He answered, and after I sobbed into the phone, he told me to calm down. I mean, maybe I was being a bit dramatic, but only because it'd never happened to me and I hated the feeling of being stranded. Between sniffles and tears, a small glimmer of relief ignited as he told me he was on the way.
When he pulled up in the Tahoe, I felt my heart swell in my chest. He parked the truck and walked to my car. I sat in the driver’s seat, and he tapped my window with his gloved knuckles, a faint smile playing on his lips as his head moved sideways.
His smile was comforting and silently whispered so many things, the main one being that everything was going to be okay and blowing a tire happened to people all the time. His smile gave me the reassurance I needed and the safety I longed for. He never failed to let me know that if I ever needed anything, he was only a phone call away.
Unlike my parents, Mr. Black made sure I was taken care of for the most part. However, I never considered him a parent. To me, he was a really, really great friend.
He opened my door as cars sped by, reaching beside my leg to pop my trunk. "Come on," he said, pulling away and going for the back.
Confused, I climbed out of the car and followed him, watching as he pulled out my spare tire. Propping it on the side of my car, he jogged to his truck and took out a wrench and a case of something, and then he came back in a quick pace, bending down to check out my tire.
"Can't blame yourself for this, Little Knight. Looks like this thing was about to give out way before you ever got the chance to drive it."
"Really?" I asked.
He gestured for me to bend down with him, and I did. "Yep. See that?” He pointed at a jagged piece on the tire. “The tear started right there. Something most likely stressed the rubber. Alright, come on," he grunted as he pushed the tire aside and picked up the wrench. "I'm gonna show you how to change a tire so we can make sure you're never left stranded again."
I nodded, but tears still hung at the edges of my eyes. Mr. Black took notice and sighed, reaching forward to cap my shoulders. Laughing, most likely at my overreaction, he said, "It's alright, Chloe. I'm here. Your car will be fine." Then he flashed me a crooked smile, one that made my heartbeat quicken.
"I feel stupid," I muttered as he used the wrench to unscrew the bolts.
"Don't worry. You'll live. Besides," he shrugged one shoulder, glancing my way, "I've been wanting an excuse to check out your car. A BMW? It's nice as hell, but what were your parents thinking giving you something this fancy for your first car?"
That made me laugh. I swiped my eyes. "I've always wanted one."
"Good taste, but I’d be damned if I ever gave Izzy something nicer than what I was driving."
I giggled at his remark and felt truly at ease as he laughed too.
Mr. Black did most of the work for me but told me to twist the wrench on the last bolt. Apparently, I was doing it wrong, not screwing it in enough, so without much thought, he reached over to help me. His hands wrapped around mine, and he held me in a sideways position, mixing in his strength to twist it. He made sure it was good and tight.
That day, I felt everything. I purposely smelled him, his scent making me want to curl into his chest on that lonely winter day and never move. And his arms, God, so large and welcoming. They were tight around me, tensing as he did one final spin around. The scruff along his jaw grazed my cheek, and my belly rolled, a fire replacing the chill I once endured. I could feel his body heat radiating, blending with mine, and for a split second, I considered us one.
I know he thought nothing of it because he was simply helping me, but I thought everything of the gesture. My heart danced in my chest, my mouth going dry, lacking full sentences as he told me how replacing a tire was supposed to be done.
That was the day I truly, honestly, fell hard for Mr. Black. That was the day he made me feel something I'd never felt before—a rush that was hard to describe. It was quick and sweet and whole. That rush made me lose all self-control, causing an ache within me when I realized he could never be mine and I shouldn't have wanted him to be anyway.
He was only helping, but I took his kindness as something more, falling and crushing hard on a married man. And he wasn't just any married man, he was a happily married man and the father to a girl I considered a sister to me.
So, I made sure my feelings for Mr. Black never showed and were never put on display. I slept on my love for him, burying it in a deep, safe place in my heart. I knew it would always linger and I would always feel my pulse go double speed when he was nearby, but my friendship was important, not only with Izzy, but with Mr. Black too.
In my mind, Mr. Black was a no-no. He was off limits. He wasn't mine. I could never have him. I wasn't even supposed to love him the way I did.
For the most part, I kept my feelings at bay, ignoring the racing of my heart, the fire, and the ache only his presence could conjure. It became manageable. I laid out restrictions for myself. I did it for his family. I did it for him. But most of all, I did it for Izzy.
Through the years, my set boundaries worked. I thought things between Izzy, Mr. Black, and me would remain perfect forever…
But then senior year happened.
Reality happened.
And it was far from gentle.
It hit the Blacks like a speeding monster-truck. It blind-sided them and even myself, ruining all happiness and blurring some of the bond I’d created with their family.