Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“I can call you back when you get the groceries in,” Mom says.
“Are you kidding? If we do that, I might not get ahold of you for another five hours.”
She laughs, and as I turn to find the fallen can, I don’t see it where I heard it drop, so I check down the driveway.
“Weird,” I mutter.
I start looking around when—
“Jesus,” I say, freezing in place.
A guy is standing beside me, his face inches from mine.
I recognize that pale face.
The dirty-blond hair.
That black hoodie.
Goose bumps prick across my flesh as the hairs on my neck stand on end. The surprise has activated a primal response within me—heart racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I’m not even breathing.
He must’ve gotten home right after me.
I wait for him to do or say something, but he just stands there, staring with these intense, steel-blue eyes.
Even though he’s half a foot shorter than me, there’s something frightening about the way he stares, as if he’s putting a curse on me with a look.
“Leif?” Mom asks. “Am I back in the car?”
The guy moves his hand, and I pull away before I notice the can of tomato sauce he’s holding out to me.
Oh, fuck.
Catching my breath, I say, “Sorry. You surprised me.”
“Leif, what are you talking about?”
“One sec, Mom.”
He places the can in one of my bags.
“Thank you,” I say as he pulls his gaze away from mine. He offers a quick nod, then spins around and walks back to the Morgans’ place, leaving my head spinning from the bizarre-as-fuck interaction.
What the hell?
I watch as he returns to the Morgans’ before I close the trunk and head into the house. Once I’m inside, I consciously take a few breaths, physically and mentally recovering from the surprise. Mom waits patiently, and as I enter the kitchen, I say, “Sorry. I ran into that guy who’s renting the place next door. What’s his name?”
“Zane, I think.”
There it is!
“Zane, yes. I saw him at the grocery store and was thinking Zander or something.”
“What did he want?”
“He must’ve seen me drop the can, and he picked it up for me.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, which is an odd comment since it was nice, but it was done in the strangest way possible. “Sorry, it was a weird interaction. He stood there, just looking at me. Didn’t say anything. Kind of creeped me out.”
There’s that word again. I shouldn’t say that, especially about a guy who just did me a solid.
“Anyway,” I go on, “what were we talking about? Oh. Linda. Never mind. Can we keep talking about the neighbor being weird?”
I’m pleased when my playful remark earns a laugh.
“It’s only been some nasty comments here and there. But I have to say, I’m glad you didn’t come this trip.”
Tension rises within me as I think about my previous interactions with Linda.
“With everything I’ve got going on, I think my therapist was right about setting a boundary here.”
Mom’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’m so sorry about what she said last time she was over. That was so insensitive. And heartless.”
After learning about my depression and stint in the psych unit, Linda didn’t mind sharing her thoughts:
“Must be nice staying with your parents instead of going to school.”
“I think a lot of these…what is it, Gen Z…use their mental health to cover up for how goddamn lazy they are.”
“Sometimes the parent has to learn to give the kid a good kick out of the nest.”
Which truly, for her, are relatively harmless comments.
I’m glad I don’t have to put up with her, but I feel guilty for not being there for my parents, especially when I know how vicious Linda can be to Mom.
“Speaking of Linda,” Mom says, “she apparently saw your Instagram post. She’s made some comments about your ‘secret admirer’ in that pointed way she has, like she wanted me to know she’s keeping an eye on what you’re up to.”
Fuck. My. Life.
“I didn’t post that I had a secret admirer,” I snap. “I posted that to let whoever sent it know I was onto what they were doing and that it wasn’t cool. And hoping that if one of my ex-friends knew who it was, they’d tell them to lay off.”
The whole subject brings up a series of painful events: The psych unit. My fallout with my friends on social media. The subsequent harassment I went through.
And I’d rather not think about any of it right now.
The conversation shifts to what Mom, her sister, and Dad are navigating between Grandma’s health and her home, and we catch up some more before she says, “And how is everything going with you?”
I hear the concern in her voice. I know she means well, but I don’t love being the reason she’s worried. I’m intensely aware that she would prefer to get ahead of it this time, rather than getting another call at three in the morning where I explain to her why I’m at the police station.