Iwake with a start, cold and drenched in blue light from the standby screen on the television. At first I think that’s what woke me – it’s blaring and I am the kind of girl who stirs at the beat of a butterfly’s wing – but then I hear a voice.
Some guy shouts, ‘That’s not good enough!’
My eyes pop, homing in on the sewing scissors, despite the fact that the voice is muffled enough for me to know it’s coming from outside. From Sleeping Beauty to ninja in less than five seconds, I sit up, leap over the back of the couch, and make like a bullet to the front door.
I know it’s locked. I checked it four times before it got dark. But my fingers find the bolt anyway and push on it. It can’t slip any further into the latch without breaking free of its metal bonds and slamming straight into the wall, but I don’t stop pushing.
‘Three years. It’s been three years,’ the voice keeps repeating. He says it in bursts of two. Quieter the first time, louder the second. ‘Three years. It’s been three years.’
Hush. Yell. Pause.
The voice belongs to Luke. I can’t hear anyone else talking, responding. Curiosity pulls me to the porch window on tiptoes, and with bated movements I peek around the edge of the curtain.
A security light shines on Luke pacing up and down his driveway, talking on his cell. I duck back the second I see him because he’s shirtless, a bare torso covered in mounds of taut muscle. A pair of plaid pyjama pants hang off his hips. He looks like he paced right out of the pages of a magazine. My face heats up. I feel like I just tripped in front of a roomful of people. The thing is, despite the overwhelming embarrassment making my cheeks blister, I want to look again. So I do.
This time, his back is to me. He’s walking down the driveway. Stealth becomes secondary to getting my face closer to the glass.
Hush. Yell. Pause.
His perfectly square shoulder blades jump when he raises his voice. A fist snatches hold of my stomach and squeezes.
Hush. Yell. Pause.
He exhales a sigh strong enough to make the trees bend backwards. Something is tearing him to pieces. He shakes his head, grabs a clump of his hair, and clenches his jaw.
‘I can’t do this right now.’ He ends the call, jabbing his thumb into the keypad.
I think maybe he turns to stone then, because he doesn’t move for the longest time. Just stands at the end of his drive, stock-still, arms hanging heavy at his sides, staring at the ground.
My fingers itch. I wish I could reach out, put a hand on his shoulder, and ask him if he is all right. A side effect of worrying about everything and everyone; I cry at least once a week over things that shouldn’t concern me.
Minute after minute crawls by. My legs get tired. I stop caring about staying hidden and take a seat on the sill. Of course, when he finally does turn around to head back to his house, the first thing he sees is me doing my best puppy-in-a-pet-shop-window impression. He looks straight at me, and I’m forced to reanimate my ninja fu. I throw myself on to the floor, my body crashing against the wood laminate. I’ll have bruises tomorrow.
I stay crouched and as close to the wall as I can. I hope he doesn’t think I was spying. I mean, I know that’s what it must look like. And, okay, perhaps I was a little. But beyond the minuscule amount of curiosity, it was all concern. Oh God. I hope he doesn’t think I just sat there staring because he isn’t wearing a shirt.
My pulse drums out the passing minutes, my thoughts running wild. What must he think? Weird girl from next door, sitting like a flower in the window, watching me. I need to explain that I was worried and evaporate out of existence simultaneously. But I can’t do either of those things.
So instead, I wait. I wait for an entire lifetime, curled up in a ball of cowardice on the hall floor, until a burst of courage manifests in my chest and I check to see if he’s gone. I cling to the sill and pull myself up.
Shit. He’s not gone. He’s got closer. Moved, in fact, to the foot of my porch. I jump back, startled. He’s looking at me, all bare chest and raised eyebrows. I’m not quite sure what to do, but my hand is up and offering him a half-wave.
He lifts his phone, grimaces, and mouths Sorry at me. His signature smile is nowhere in sight.
I wave away his apology, hamming nonchalance like a seasoned Oscar winner, even resting my hand on a jutting hip – a position that feels too odd to maintain, so I let it drop back down almost immediately. He jogs up the porch steps, stands right up to the window. I take two strides back.
‘At least I don’t play the drums, right?’ he jokes in hushed tones, but his voice is strong regardless. It carries, crystal clear, through the glass and straight to my ears. There’s still no smile.
His chin hits the ground and he stares at his bare feet. My breath catches on the window and fogs up the cool glass. It’s not right. Some things are just supposed to be. Like Harry Styles and his floppy hair. Or Captain America and his mighty shield. Luke New Boy Next Door should never not be smiling.
Twitching fingers tap out beats of eight on my thighs. I’m dying to open the door and ask him if he’s okay, but I can’t. I pick idly at a new scab on the top of my leg. Anxiety has created a million reasons why I can’t. My heart is fighting back, but failing miserably.
Open the door. He looks so sad, like a kid lost in a crowd.
Do not open that door. It could be a ruse. There is no one awake to hear you scream.
Open the door. Are those tears in his eyes? Serial killers don’t have sweet smiles.
Do not open the door. Remember the story of the homicidal maniac who used his not-so-broken leg to lure victims? Better to be safe than sorry.
This argument rages inside my head until I can taste fire, and smoke starts pouring out of my ears. When, at last, common sense kicks in, I could spit. Worry is such a drama queen. It takes the smallest thing, makes it so big and bulky that you can’t see the obvious any more.
I don’t have to open the door to ask him if he’s okay.
There’s a tremor in my throat. My voice isn’t confident like his. It’s rarely strong enough to work its way through air, let alone barriers. So, using my finger, I write letters in the steam on the window.
Are you okay? Suddenly, spending three weeks last summer learning how to write backwards (and speak Elvish) doesn’t seem like such a waste of time.
The glass squeaks as I draw the lines, and he looks up. A small, not-quite-at-full-power grin pulls on his lips. His left eye narrows and he gives me that look, the same look you give a crossword puzzle when you can’t figure out an answer.
I curl inwards and my heart tries to thump out the same beat twice. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Or perhaps I should have plucked up the balls to open my mouth instead of doodling on the window. I punish my finger by popping my knuckle.
He nods once, throws a half-wave my way. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he says.
‘You didn’t,’ I whisper, but he’s already turning around.
He makes it back to his driveway in twenty-six steps and one small leap over the boxwood bush that separates our houses.
I zombie-shuffle to the front room and flop down on the couch. I’m more thought than flesh; a thousand questions flop down with me and make the room shake like an earthquake is running right through it. New Boy has been living next door for a week and my circuits are fried from trying to figure out what he’s thinking. I mean, I watch MTV, so I knew this was a thing. Boys and girls: same species, two completely different planets. But this teamed with my super-ability to overthink – it’s just too much. I don’t like this feeling of always messing up. I don’t like that scrutinizing has tripled in productivity since he moved in. I know it’s me, my issue, my problem, which is why I decide I’m going to avoid him from here on out.