The toast popped. I slipped it out and lay it on a napkin, smearing a thin layer of softened butter on it. I took a bite before setting it down to finish making my tea. When it was all ready, I gathered it up and took it out onto the back deck, settling in the lovely cushion on the big wicker chair that sat alone out there.

It was a beautiful day. I lifted my face to the sun, sighing as it warmed my cool skin. This deck was part of the reason I’d settled on this house. Its location was good, a nondescript neighborhood that was neither on the poor side of town nor the more affluent side of town. It was one of those neighborhoods where hard working people raised their families. People kept to themselves here. And the houses on either side of mine were empty—a bonus. I didn’t have to worry about anyone putting their noses in my business.

And I liked the mild Tennessee weather. It was nice to have my breakfast on the back deck this way and not have to worry about the summer heat cooking my fair skin.

I sat back and sipped my tea between bites of toast, thinking of the work I had to do today. There was the five-page essay on symbolism in Romeo and Juliet, and the bio-chem paper, but I’d finished that last night. A chemistry paper on the periodic table was due tomorrow. I could get a head start on that. And another English paper.

It was unethical to do someone’s homework for them, but I’d discovered you could make a crazy amount of money doing it. And when a person is trying to fly under the radar, making easy money over the internet is a must. And I figured anyone who could afford to pay my prices was never going to graduate with a legitimate diploma anyway. They’d just find someone else to do the work for them and what good would that do me?

A couple of hours of work and then I could settle down with that new novel that arrived in the mail yesterday. Sounded like a perfect day to me.

I was nearly finished with my breakfast when I heard a door slam. I jumped, always on edge whenever I heard a noise I wasn’t expecting. A dark head appeared over the low fence between my backyard and the one on the left, the house that was supposed to be empty for the foreseeable future. The real estate woman had said it was owned by a local man who was in the military.

I guessed he’d gotten out.

I could only see his head over the five-foot, cedar-plank fence. He was pacing, it seemed, moving up and down the length of the yard. But then his head bobbed up and down and I realized he was doing some sort of exercise. I watched, fascinated for reasons I couldn’t even begin to explain. He was a good-looking man, his jaw slender, his nose narrow, his eyes an intense blue that was almost the same depth as the morning sky. His hair was cut in a military style, a buzz cut that was almost gone on the sides, but slightly longer on the top. It fit the shape of his face, his high cheekbones.

But it wasn’t just that he was handsome. There was something about the expression on his face, the intensity with which he seemed to be looking at absolutely nothing. And his eyes were…I don’t know how to describe it. Gone, somehow.

There was pain in that expression. Pain that spoke to me somehow.

And then I shook myself.

Wild imagination. Too much time alone.

I gathered my things, shoving my napkin in the tea mug. I paused at the back door and looked back over my shoulder, telling myself I was just checking to make sure I had all I needed. He was watching me, something new flitting across his face as our gazes met. We stared at each other for a long second, something passing between us in that unspoken way that sometimes happens. Then he turned away, returning to whatever it was he’d been doing.

A shiver ran down my spine as I turned and let myself into the house.

It was just a look. Nothing more.

But it felt like so much more.

*

“You have to balance the equation, William,” I muttered to myself as I looked over a paper one of my clients had sent me in hopes that I could correct it for him. At least he was doing his own work, to some degree.

An email notification popped up on my screen as I worked out the problem on a piece of paper that I would scan into an email when I was finished. I clicked the link and read through the note, grimacing at the wrong use of ‘your’ in several places. What must these teachers think when these hopeless C-average students suddenly turned in an A paper? But students getting caught was not my problem. It was spelled out very carefully in the contract I made them sign.

My eyes were starting to feel sticky. I took off my glasses and rubbed them, deciding I’d had enough for the day. I’d written four papers and corrected five math papers. That was enough.

I turned off the computer and pushed away from the desk, picking up my glass to take to the kitchen. There wasn’t enough in the dishwasher to run it, so I simply set the glass inside and turned off the lights, crossing to the stairs that led up to the loft where my bedroom lay. I listened to my eighties playlist on Spotify while I worked out on the treadmill. And then I hopped in the shower—the hot water felt so incredible against my sore muscles.

My days were basically the same every day; the same routine. Now it was time to pull on my thin bathrobe and go stand on the balcony that overlooked the backyard for a few minutes, to lift my face to the stars and allow the slight breeze cool my skin. But when I opened the French doors tonight, music flooded in from the house next door.

I stepped to the railing and I could see my mysterious neighbor standing in the middle of the dark yard, the pool of light from his house not quite wide enough to reach him. The music was something hard and grating, some grunge band I wasn’t familiar with. But as I watched, he lifted and arm and the music suddenly changed, the grunge exchanged for an old country song. I recognized the tune but didn’t know the words. He did, though. I could hear his deep voice every few words, could see him swaying slightly to the melody. But then he lifted his arm again and the music stopped completely.

I wondered what it was he was thinking about as he stood there, staring up at the stars. Was he plagued with nightmares from his service in the military? Or was it a lost love he thought about? Was he heartbroken or just broken? Did he miss someone, grief for a loved one who’d passed, or was he too stubborn to go find someone he could have had if he had just been the man she needed?

Maybe I was projecting my own experiences onto him. I was the one who often stood out here on the balcony thinking about what I’d left behind. Lovers and family, friends. A full and hard-won life. I thought about it too often when I first came here. I’d taught myself to push it into the past, to not think about it as often as I had. I wasn’t that person now, wasn’t a part of that world anymore. Whenever those things popped into my head, I pushed them away. And I rarely looked up a familiar name on Facebook or Twitter anymore.

He stood still for a long time, his head tilted to the stars just as mine should have been. I could only see the shadow of him, but that shadow suggested a strong, masculine profile. Broad shoulders and a tapered waist. Muscles that made the shadow of his arms look bulkier than they probably were. And long, full legs that seemed quite capable of just about anything.

My imagination—something I’d once thought was incredibly underdeveloped, but was realizing in this moment was quite well developed—suggested warm, tan skin, long fingers, and power in all the right places. I even found myself imagining things that I shouldn’t, like the way his skin would look against my pale flesh, the way those fingers would feel playing a concerto on my ribs. The way it would feel to wrap my legs around his waist and feel his—

Okay, enough.

I turned and slipped back inside as silently as I’d come out, flipping off the lights before shedding my thin robe to climb into bed. I lie there in the dark, the silk sheets against my nakedness—my one true indulgence—and told myself that it was dangerous to have those sorts of thoughts. Those thoughts led to other things and I couldn’t get involved with anyone, especially a troubled neighbor. I liked this house. I wanted to stay in this house.

I had to keep to myself. That was the only way I was going to survive.