Malcolm
The sun sets every day.
People think it’s this big, romantic gesture, but it’s not. Not to me, anyway. To me, it’s just a sign that I haven’t finished everything I need to do yet. To me, it signals that I’m behind on yet another project, behind on another thing I need to complete. The sun setting just means I’ve failed again and right now I’m tired of failing.
Still, I sit on my porch every night and watch that sun set. I can’t explain why I torture myself this way. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been the same since Lindsey died. Maybe it’s because I haven’t really properly grieved for her. I should be okay with death at this point in my life. I’m 27 now. I’m old enough to know better. I’m old enough to understand that part of loving someone means letting them go when it’s time to say goodbye.
But I can’t.
Tonight is the worst it’s ever been. I won’t let myself cry out here in public, out where my neighbors could see if they were paying any attention to me. They aren’t, which is good. I still don’t want to cry, though.
It’s been a year since she died.
It’s been a year and somehow it seems like it’s been both an eternity and no time at all. When I close my eyes, I can still hear her laughing. I can still hear her giggling and running and being silly. I can still hear her whispering my name.
“Excuse me,” a quiet voice says, and I open my eyes and jump to my feet.
“What the hell are you doing on my porch?” I growl at the intruder.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly.
She.
It’s a woman.
It’s a her.
She’s tiny: petite, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. “I was just going to ask if I could borrow a flashlight. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m sorry,” she says again, and then she turns to leave.
Fuck.
Me.
I was so absorbed in my thoughts and my own misery and pain that I was rude to someone who was simply stopping by for help.
“Hang on,” I tell her. “I’ve got one inside.”
“Thanks,” she says, but her voice is quiet now and I know she wishes I would have just let her leave. After my outburst, I don’t blame her. Still, I don’t want to be known as the neighborhood asshole. I dart inside, grab the flashlight I keep by the door, and come back out.
“Here,” I hand it to her.
She takes it and nods. “I’ll bring it back as soon as I’m done.” She turns to leave, but once more, I stop her.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” she says slowly. Then she jerks her head toward the run-down two-story house next door: the one that’s been abandoned for five years. “I just moved in this morning.”
I didn’t notice because I was at work. There was a rumor that the house had sold, but until now, I didn’t really believe it. I look over at the house. There’s no car in the driveway and there are no lights on inside. No wonder I didn’t notice anyone was living there.
“I’m Malcolm,” I tell her. “Nice to meet you.”
She hesitates, but then she almost whispers her name.
“Cordelia.”
“Are your lights out?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “I didn’t notice earlier because, well, it was daytime, but now with the sun setting…” Her voice trails off.
“Might be a problem with your electrical box,” I say. “The house was empty for a long time.”
“That’s what my realtor told me,” she agrees. “I’m going to try to mess with it and see if I can get it figured out. If not,” she shrugs. “I guess I’ll call someone tomorrow. Not that I want strangers roaming around my house,” she adds, but that part is almost a whisper. She seems nervous and anxious. It’s just her electricity. There’s nothing to be afraid about. Suddenly wanting to make up the fact that I was a jerk to her, I spontaneously offer to help.
“I could take a look if you want me to.”
“No thanks,” she says quickly.
Too quickly.
I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s just that,” she says, pausing. I know she’s trying to figure out the best way to word this without sounding mean or harsh. “I don’t know you,” she finally says. “I appreciate the offer, but I…I don’t know you.”
Then she turns and leaves. She scurries up the steps to her front porch, pauses at the door, and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t turn and look at me. Not once. Instead, she opens the door with a tug and goes inside. After a minute, I see the flashlight shining randomly through the windows.
Interesting.
My new neighbor is going to be an interesting one.
I lean back in my seat and pick up my drink, sipping it as I look at her home. She’s a bit peculiar and a little bit skittish. What brought her to Perfection, I wonder? What made her decide to move here? Perfection is a beautiful place if you’re a shifter, but most people prefer to move to places like Honeypot or Dragon Isle. Perfection? It’s not exactly a boom city.
“Met the new girl, did ya?” Harold, the older shifter who lives next door, appears at the bottom of my steps.
“What is this, ‘Visit Malcolm Day’?”
“Don’t be fussy,” Harold climbs my steps slowly with the help of his cane. I don’t move to help him up. He’s much too proud for that sort of thing, and we both know it. Instead, I scoot over just a little so he can join me on the porch swing. He sits carefully and we both stare at the setting sun for a few minutes in silence.
Harold has been my neighbor for a very long time and there’s something about him that’s a bit fatherly. He’s affectionate and kind, but gentle when he needs to be. We’ve spent summers helping each other build porches and repair fences and paint walls. One of the best things about Perfection is that it’s truly a community in every sense of the word, and Harold is one of the best men here.
“Met her this afternoon, did you?” I ask finally, breaking the comfortable silence. I shouldn’t be curious about her, about this stranger. I have a good life. I have a quiet life and I really don’t need a woman running around in it. Women make things messy. I don’t need messy right now. I need stable.
I need quiet.
I need to be alone while I sort out my life.
“I did,” Harold says. “She’s quite the sprightly little thing. A bit skittish, too, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Skittish? Seems like a strange word to describe a young woman. What does someone like her have to be afraid of?”
“Never know,” Harold shrugs, glancing over at the house. “Must be something bad for her to move into a place like that.”
“The house isn’t that bad,” I murmur, but Harold shoots me a look that says we both know I’m lying. The house the girl bought is in complete disrepair. It’s falling apart and if she hadn’t purchased it, chances are the city would have condemned it soon enough. Then it would have been bulldozed or simply knocked down and left in piles.
“She’ll be safe here,” Harold says quietly, and I know what he’s thinking. Everyone on this street is a shifter. Oh, we don’t advertise it. That’s the sort of thing you don’t want too many people knowing about, but shifters? We look after our own, and Cordelia is definitely one of us.