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Fuck.
I should just ignore it. Go to bed, ignore his bullshit, and ask Hattie in the morning.
I should call Brad and see if he can add a separate router.
I should go to a nearby business and beg to use their wifi.
But . . . my own curiosity is out to get me.
Why does he want me to come over so bad?
It’s a new escalation, more than just taunting and annoying me.
But . . . why?
I wait long minutes, five, ten, fifteen passing as I stare at my computer, occasionally trying passwords to no avail before I say fuck it.
He wants a face-off, he’s going to get one.
Twenty-Four
-Ben-
The shop closed at four,and for the two hours between my close and the closing time of Libby’s, I sit at my desk wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
Lola has lived next door, officially, for four weeks.
In those four weeks, she has consumed my mind and overtaken every moment of free time.
When I sit down with paper and pen, it’s her I see on the paper.
Braids.
Freckles.
Delicate bones.
Fuckingcupcakes.
It’s her and it's taking over my consciousness.
Last night I dreamed about her.
She’s sneaking into myunconsciousness too.
I need a solution. I need to fix this shit. I need . . . to get her out of my system? Or get myself into hers, maybe.
Except she is somehow ignoring and avoiding me with such finesse that I haven’t seen her in two weeks.
So tonight, in a moment of weakness, I pushed.
The router to the internet of the building was flashing at me, a beacon of ideas, and I finally fell into the trap.
I changed the name and the password, making it unable to be misinterpreted, and then waited.
I knew there was a fifty-fifty shot that this wouldn’t work, that she’d find a way around it or ask Hattie or call the landlord, but it was worth the try.
And when I hear a pounding at my apartment door, I can’t help but smile.
