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I’ve lived here for six weeks. I’ve barely had any interaction with him, and even then, half of those were not good. Yet here he is, saying he’s better just because he’s near me. I’ve never made anyone better, so this is confusing.
“Where were you?” I ask him.
He’s quiet before he answers, and then he says, “Charlotte.”
Charlotte must be where he’s from.
I did look him up on social media, but only the orchard. It never occurred to me to do an internet search and learn more. Juliet said she thought he came from money. Well, what kind of money? Charlotte is a huge financial city, and it’s home to several banking centers.
“Is that home?”
“No. It used to be. Home has been here for the past five years.”
“I see.”
And I do. Visits with my family back in New York always leave me feeling exhausted and less than who I know I am, too. It’s stupid really, how much we allow other people to influence us, especially those who call themselves family.
“Yeah.”
His fingers brush against my skin again, like this tiny connection somehow makes him feel better. So I roll over onto my side, facing away from him, and scoot in his direction just a little until his hand touches my back.
It’s warm.
It’s nice.
Tomorrow, when the sun is out, and we’re both thinking more clearly, I will have to revisit these last fifteen minutes. Him wanting to come here. Me allowing him in. Him wanting to touch me. And me liking when he does.
15
BRIGGS
The sun peeking through the curtains is what wakes me. It’s blinding, bright, and disorients me because I always sleep with the room-darkening shades closed. Squinting, it takes me a moment to remember where I am, and that’s when I feel the heat of her body burning down my entire right side.
Immediately, my heart rate picks up, but I can’t discern if it’s because I’m in her bed and she’s next to me or if it’s because I’m mad at myself for showing up here in the first place.
I mean, what the hell was I thinking coming here?
She called it. She said I would be mad at myself this morning, but I’m not sure yet if I am. And for reasons I don’t understand, I really did want to be with her last night.
Today, now, that’s a different story.
When I look over at her, she’s facing away from me, but she’s curled up on her side. She’s scooted all the way over onto my side of the bed to press up against me. I don’t know if she’s the type who gets cold and drifts toward heat or if she just normally sleeps in the middle of the bed and ended up next to me. My eyes trail over her essentially bare shoulder, sans the tiny strap of her top, and I take in the long length of her neck. She really is a beautiful woman, and with that thought, I squeeze my eyes shut and mentally smack my palm against my forehead.
She’s my neighbor.
I don’t know why all I wanted was her or really why I’m even thinking about this. And now I just made things uncomfortably complicated with her.
Neighbors don’t seek out each other for comfort in the middle of the night. Neighbors don’t slip into each other’s beds. Neighbors definitely don’t lose self-control when it comes to physical touch. Why did I so desperately need to touch her last night?
Shaking my head, I slide out of the bed. She rolls to her back, and I can’t help but stand here and stare at her again. Her shirt has risen up just a little, her hair is wild and all over the pillows, and her face looks different. Different, I realize, because she’s not scowling at me and being a harpy.
Quietly sighing, I slip back into my clothes, shoving the tie in my pocket, and I make my way down the stairs. I didn’t notice it last night, but she’s doing something with the space under the stairs. She’s got a drop cloth on the floor, a hole cut into the wall where I’m assuming she’s going to put a door, and there are a bunch of tools on the ground. From there, I can’t help but pause to stare at the painting in her living room. While I have mixed opinions on what I know of her so far, from the cello-playing superstar and the rich New Yorker to the woman who buys a mountain house to live in alone, I can see how the garden’s brightness and colors suit her. Given that her front porch and her house are overrun with plants, I guess she wants a garden like this one day too.
I also glance toward the plant where I hid the cricket chirper and smirk to myself because she still hasn’t found it. It’s right there. She’d find it if she moved the leaves and looked for it. Meanwhile, it probably needs new batteries. I’ll have to run over here and change them the next time she’s gone.
The cool air hits me the second I open her front door, and I deeply inhale the scent of the mountain. It’s always grounded me. It reminds me that I’m no longer in Charlotte, and apparently, I need that.
What an absolute shit show the whole day was, from the meeting topics to the men in the room who I’ve lost respect for over the past several years, and then to my brother. Even after the drive home, I’m still processing the fact that I’ll have to see Adele at every family function going forward. I’ll also have to see my brother’s smug face as he actually thinks he one-upped me by marrying her.
