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Sometimes… I rub my eyes. My hands tremble. You can’t think about those things.
I pull my .45 out of its hidden holster and set it on the nightstand. I don’t allow myself to look at it before I stand up, turning toward the bathroom. I feel, as I move toward the shower, like there’s something I should remember. Something from before I fell asleep. Something I did or thought…
I push the nameless worry away. It could be anything. I chuckle, mirthless, and rub my sore temples. I step into the bathroom and I look into my bloodshot eyes. I rub them. I start the shower, strip out of my sweat-soaked clothes.
As I do, something vibrates. My phone…still in the pocket of my pants. I reach down for it, hold it to my eye, and wait for it to unlock and present the source of the buzzing.
A text—from Dove, of course.
‘So? How’s it going?’
I wipe the steam off the phone’s screen and blink down at the message. Set the phone down on the sink counter.
How’s it going? For some reason, the more I think on it, the more I want to laugh. How’s it going?
Oh, it’s going fucking great.
I think of all the possible replies, and I do laugh.
I’m still laughing as I step under the hot shower, avoiding the stinging spot in my hair, soaping up my body, prodding at sore muscles. As I bathe, my mind wanders: a predictable circuit of pain, weakness, and craving. I tell myself there’s nothing wrong with offering to show her some new hand-to-hand.
As if that’s all it is.
As if she’s just anyone.
As if I’m the guy next door.
Guilt twists in my chest, but I ignore it.
What’s the point of guilt on top of guilt? There is no scenario in which I’m what I seem to be. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. So what if I go show her some new moves? It doesn’t change a fucking thing.
* * *
Gwenna
I get home from speech therapy and the grocery store at 4 p.m., and get a text from Barrett at 4:30.
‘6—your yard?’
I save his number and reply, unable to keep a silly grin off my face. ‘Sounds good.’
After spooning a dollop of chocolate mousse out of a plastic cup full from the grocery store bakery, I walk into my room and do something ridiculous: I get a long, luxurious shower before donning black leggings, my favorite hot pink sneakers, and a gray long-sleeved shirt. I pull my hair up into a bun so he can’t use my long tresses against me. Then I spend a few minutes standing in front of my bathroom mirror.
This is low-key, I tell myself. I lean forward and look into my own brown eyes. Just sparring. No big deal. I try to bunch my lips together, watch the left side of my mouth fail. I put on red lipstick anyway. I put on mascara.
Maybe I have a crush on him. It’s not as if it’s going to kill me. I can keep my expectations low. Or not.
I blink down at the handwritten notecard taped to the bottom corner of my bathroom mirror. It’s a quote attributed to Edgar Allan Poe that reads: “There is no exquisite beauty…without some strangeness in proportions.”
Jamie dug the quote up for me on Tumblr, I think, sometime in 2013, right about the time my obsession with “The Raven” flared.
I debate the merits of wearing mascara. If he noticed, he might know I put it on for him. But he probably wouldn’t. And if he did? Do I really care? Can I not handle my neighbor knowing I find him attractive? Did I not just call him hot right to his face, playing Old Gwenna for that moment?
I brush on some mascara. Then I sink down onto my fluffy bedroom rug, pull out my fishbowl full of colored marbles, and start stretching.
Don’t ask me why, the marbles make this whole thing interesting enough that I can actually do it: stretch. Not just pre-workout, but for fun and relaxation. I read somewhere if you hold something in your left hand—especially if you squeeze—your mind will be less anxious. So when I’m stretching here in my room, I always hold a marble in my fist.
As I stretch, my mind wanders. I can see him standing on his porch in loose jeans and that sexy as fuck undershirt. I can almost feel the firm warmth of his arms. His slightly hair-fuzzed arms. The dimpled smile. The sharp-browed, keen but sleepy eyes.
