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Ever since then, my whole life has been focused on getting ready for a baby. I’ve started taking those comically huge prenatal vitamins. I’ve started doing all the pregnancy-beneficial exercises. I’ve moved into a new apartment with a second bedroom that’s going to be perfect as a nursery. I’ve even already painted that room’s walls a soft yellow because I know I won’t want to expose myself to paint fumes once I’m pregnant.
Every day, I think about my future child. And every time I pass a mom pushing a stroller on the street, I melt. I’ve become completely, utterly baby crazy, to the point of obsession.
And yet, for some bizarre reason, I still can’t click the damn button.
I plop down on my couch, slam my laptop closed, and slump back against the cushion behind me. Maybe this is a sign that I’m going about this the wrong way. Maybe I gave up dating too soon.
Should I put myself back out there? Maybe try dating older guys who are looking for something more serious?
Or maybe I should try the matchmaker route. Matchmakers exist for regular people, right? Not just the rich?
I pick up my phone and search online for matchmakers near me. Only a few options pop up within a fifty-mile radius of Peach Ridge. I tap the first result and start scrolling through the testimonials on the matchmaker’s website. They’re all rave reviews. But of course they are. Why would anyone post a less-than-glowing testimonial on their own business page?
I’ve almost reached the bottom of the webpage when the familiar sound of an acoustic guitar drifts in from next door. The mellow strumming tugs my attention away from my phone.
Is it that late already? I glance at the time. Huh. I guess it is.
Every night, ever since I moved into this apartment, I’ve been treated to solo performances. I have no idea who lives next door—I’ve never seen anyone come in or out, and the only time I knocked, no one answered—but I do know that it’s a man, because sometimes the acoustic guitar playing is accompanied by a deep, soulful voice. The songs he plays are slow and beautiful. I can’t make out the words he sings, but the chord progressions he plays have become etched in my ears.
In any other scenario, I would be annoyed that the walls are so thin. But I love it when he plays his guitar. It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard. What I can hear of the music soaks into me and reverberates deep in my soul.
Even though I’ve never met my neighbor, his music makes me feel as if I know him.
Which is crazy, I know. You can’t get to know someone like that. It doesn’t work that way. And yet…and yet. Here I am, leaning over and pressing my ear against the wall. Closing my eyes. Concentrating. Trying to hear the sound of his strumming a little more clearly. Trying to make out the words.
But, like always, it’s useless. The wall may be thin, but it’s still a wall.
A week goes by and I still haven’t created an account with Seeds of Life. They send me a second email, cheerfully reminding me once again that I’ll have full access to the database once I sign up. But I still can’t bring myself to go through with it. When I get home from work each evening, instead of spending time browsing donor profiles, I do everything but that.
And every evening, the mystery man next door continues to play his hauntingly beautiful music.
On Friday, I come home with two fully packed bags of groceries, an arm wrapped around each. I’m carrying them up the stairs outside my apartment when I stumble on the top step. A curse flies out of my lips as the bags go flying out of my hands.
Groceries splatter everywhere. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Apples. All in a big mess now on the landing. And I’m less than a dozen feet away from my front door.
I close my eyes. Let out a heavy sigh. Then open my eyes, try to shake it off, and start picking things up.
I’m picking up a broken eggshell when I hear a door sweep open. Too ashamed to face whoever is about to see my accident, I stay focused on cleaning up. But then I hear a sonorous voice.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, still focusing on the eggshells I’m picking up. “I’m fine. Just tripped.”
“Let me help you.”
His footsteps come closer, and I finally look up. What I see takes my breath away. The man standing in front of me is tall, tattooed, and bearded. He’s staring at me with magnetically dark blue eyes. He’s wearing a faded black t-shirt and gray sweats.
Wow. This is my mystery neighbor? This is the guy who has been unknowingly serenading me all these months?
I blink at him, stunned. I can’t wrap my head around how attractive he is. But there’s something else about him that’s pulling me off-kilter, too.
Wait a second. Holy shit. Is he who I think he is?
I’m still staring at him as he crouches down next to me and starts helping me pick up my groceries. It can’t be him, can it? That wouldn’t make any sense. He must just look an awful lot like him. A doppelgänger. That’s all.
I force my attention back to the mess in front of me. With both of us cleaning it up, pretty soon there’s only a bag of chips left on the ground. We both reach for it at the same time, and when our hands almost collide, I pull mine back and give a little nervous laugh and stammer out an apology.
“Thanks,” I say as he sets the chips into the grocery bag. “It was really nice of you to help.”
