Page 1 of The Man Next Door
1
The sun is shining so bright, it’s blinding. We’re lost in the woods. Not lost in the literal sense, but lost in childish abandon. I’m ten years old again. I’m wearing dirty sneakers and frayed jean shorts. I marvel at the rainbow streamers at the end of my handlebars, flailing in the summer wind.
I’m deliriously happy. Jenna and Mackenzie are ahead of me, and they’ve let me ride with them. I wonder where we’re heading. I’m sure it’s somewhere exciting. Jenna says there’s an old abandoned treehouse not far.
I close my eyes for a second and tilt my head up to the sky, soaking up the warm sun. I wobble on my bike and my heart runs away from me, but I quickly regain control. Jenna’s long dark hair blows in the wind, and Mackenzie’s curly red locks bounce as she skates over recesses in the rough trail. We’re having a blast.
In a fraction of a second, the sky turns dark. Jenna stops dead in her tracks. Her back tire spits gravel at my face, and I can’t seem to get the flat chalky taste out of my mouth. My heart is pounding.
Her skinny freckled arm extends to the trees. “Look.”
I turn to the dark eerie forest and spot a rainbow baseball cap. We get off our bikes and my limbs are so heavy, I can barely walk. I don’t want to go further. I know what I’ll see… my best friend.
Izzie is as beautiful as she’s always been. Her golden blonde hair splayed around her porcelain face. A cupid’s bow mouth, and wide blue eyes stare up at the sky. Her jean shorts and her favorite Adidas t-shirt are covered in blood. I reach for her neck. I want to touch the red choker necklace she wears, a choker of red and blue bruises. When I reach her, she disappears. Her face decays and collapses until there’s nothing left but a skull in my hands.
I wake with a start.
My pulse races and I struggle to catch my breath. I clutch my duvet and stare at the coffered ceiling of my bedroom. I just need a minute. I turn my gaze to my bookshelf. My favorite stories and knick knacks soothe me; the wooden elephant I got in Kenya and the decorative plate I picked up in Mexico are my favorites.
I glance over at the clock on my bedside table. 6:45 AM. It’s still early.
I blow out a breath. It’s been months since I’ve had the dream. Or nightmare, rather. It’s always exactly the same. It never changes, yet every time, it terrifies me. The blood, the vacant look in Izzie’s eyes, her beautiful face turning to skull in my hand. It always leaves me so shaken.
I know there was no blood, and that when her lifeless body was found, she had not turned into a skeleton, yet this is the scenario my subconscious sees in the middle of the night, every now and then, usually in times of stress.
Eighteen years later, Izzie is still with me every single day.
I decide to stay in bed until my alarm clock goes off at seven. I’ve had a terrible sleep, thanks to the racket next door. Mrs. Flores has gone on a six-months-around-the-world trip. It’s been her lifelong dream, and I won’t deny that I won’t miss her. She knocks at my door at all hours of the day to borrow stuff. And when she’s not doing that, she’s blasting her television. I know she’s older and probably has hearing problems but it’s still annoying as hell. She told me she was leasing her loft, and that I should expect new neighbors this week.
The new tenants have obviously moved in and unfortunately, they’re not any quieter than she was. Apparently they like to move their crap at eleven o-clock at night.
God, and that nightmare did not help. I must be stressed. Of course I am. In approximately two hours, I will be sitting across from Melanie Adams, vying for a position at Warden Social Services. And jobs don’t come easy these days. I should know. I’ve been looking for a decent one for the past six months.
The familiar ear-assaulting beep of my alarm clock jolts me into action. I bounce off my bed, eager to find the perfect outfit for my interview. I walk over to my closet and flip through my office wear, stuff I haven’t worn in half a year. The red silk blouse brings back bad memories, Michael’s spindly hands rubbing my shoulders. I flick it on the floor. I’ll need to add it to my donation pile.
I settle on a flowery blouse with a scarf tie at the neck, elegant, upbeat and professional. I pick out a grey pencil skirt, praying it still fits. Being unemployed has left me with too much time on my hands, too much time to bake and watch Netflix and binge on junk food. Those Doritos and cupcakes have caught up with me.
I’m thrilled when I manage to zip up the skirt, albeit with a little effort. Thankfully, the Spanx I’ve worn has helped the situation. Now for the hair…
A simple up-do with a clip and basic makeup will do the trick. Jeez, when was the last time I put on makeup? My friends always look amazing; Gretchen and Mischa in their flawless little skirts and blouses, and Claudia with her long flowing dresses and shampoo commercial hair. I usually look homeless compared to the lot of them.
But today… not bad, I think with a final assessment of my reflection in the mirror. I dab on some pink lipstick, and am startled by a loud knock on my door.
Startled and annoyed.
I glance at the Bulova watch Daniel gave me on our fifth anniversary. I don’t have time for this. It’s probably one of the girls. Occasionally one of them will do a pop-in.
And I’m not just about to open the door without knowing who is on the other side. I quickly peek through the peep-hole. Nope… not one of the girls. A man. A young man.
He probably wants something from me. Or he wants to assault or rob me. I’m cynical I know, but it’s no wonder, growing up like I did, seeing the things I’ve seen.
I study him for a long beat and he knocks again, a little too loudly. He seems harmless enough. And I have Daniel’s old baseball bat by the front door. He wanted it back initially but he let me keep it when I pointed out that I needed it, being a woman,alonein the city. Yes, alone because he chose to leave me for his young secretary. So cliché, I know. And I know.… it’s notsecretary, it’sadministrative assistant.
I unlock and open the door very cautiously. At first, we’re both speechless. I’m caught by his eyes, as blue as the sky. He offers me a tentative smile, and it draws me in immediately. There’s just something genuine about it, something good.
I’ve always trusted my instincts, and for the most part, they’ve never led me astray.
He extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Noah Parker,” he says. “I’m your new neighbor.”
