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thefastlanefanfic · 7 years ago

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The Neighbors - TWO

Wattpad // Chapters 1-2

Sidenote: I’m so sorry if you’re on mobile lol this is gonna be long as shit (why does the “read more” thing not work on mobile)

5:00 AM on Monday morning came entirely too soon. With the ability to select college courses all in the afternoon for my last semester, I'd been sleeping in until 11 o'clock in the morning. It certainly didn't help that I'd been sleeping past noon the last few days I was at home on my "summer break." There was something about finishing college that made me exhausted. I would have thought I'd be energetic and stoked to greet the days void of research papers and group presentations, but instead, it was like every single all-nighter I ever pulled was catching up to me.

I threw on the new lavender scrubs my father bought for me and proceeded with my morning routine. I made sure I had a lunch packed. Since I was trying to be healthy, I packed a salad with some chicken I'd prepared the night before and some popcorn. I loved popcorn. I printed and filled out all of the grown-up paperwork I had to turn in to the company to make sure I got medical insurance coverage and direct deposit to my bank account every two weeks. I felt like such an adult, having to do all of the background checks, I-9s, W-4s, and whatever other legal paperwork the company had to do before I could officially start work. Then again, I had to call my dad about forty times in the process of filling out the forms because I had no idea what they were asking me. Maybe I wasn't actually an adult just yet.

As I was walking to the front door, I noticed a group of crickets scatter away from the door inside the apartment. I squealed and jumped backwards before I knew what they were. Why were there so many of them in my apartment? I noticed the early morning sun streaming in through a sliver of a crack under the door. I swore to myself. The reason the crickets sounded so close to me last night was because they had come under the door into the apartment. I figured they were just sitting outside my bedroom window as I was trying to sleep.

I used my dustpan to chase a few of the crickets back toward the front door. Some of them had disappeared under my couch. Others were chirping from hidden crevasses in the apartment I had yet to discover. I growled as I heard one chirp that sounded like it was in my ear, but I couldn't find it anywhere around me. I checked my watch. I was going to be late for work. I opened the front door to shoo out the few crickets I could direct out of the apartment. On my front stoop was a small bag. The smell of warm shit filled my nostrils and began to crawl into my apartment, mixed from the humidity already clouding up the atmosphere outside.

"What the-"

I didn't have time or patience to decipher whether the dog crap was an insult directed toward me or just a rude, lazy neighbor who couldn't make it to his own trashcan. I glanced out into the quad to see if anyone was out with their dog. The quad was quiet. Still asleep. I slung my purse over my shoulder and switched my lunchbox to my left hand. In my right hand, I pinched the very tip of the bag between my pointer finger and my thumb and quickly made my way to the trashcan along the sidewalk. I threw the bag into the can and shivered, the smell of warm shit still lingering in the dense air.

"Early shift this morning?"

I nearly leapt out of my skin as someone approached from behind me. I whipped around, my purse swinging with my body and slapping against my butt as I did. It was Wilson. He was in uniform and looked like he was returning from a night shift.

"Or are you just returning home?" He asked.

It was too early for me to be dealing with him.

"Heading out," I said. "First day."

"Yippie-ki-yay! Good luck, even though I'm sure you'll be outstand-erific," he said, winking at me. "Maybe later tonight we can do that dinner date. Early birthday dinner? I know your birthday isn't until tomorrow but I just found out I've got a 16-hour shift tomorrow and I'm not sure I'll be able to take you out on that day. I'm covering for a buddy."

"You know, Wilson, I really just need to stay home and do some more getting settle-" I started, trying to weasel my way out of this "date."

"Oh come on, Leah. One dinner date. Maybe more after that, but only if you fall in love with me first." He snatched my free hand that previously held the poop-bag and kissed it.

I pulled my hand away and fake smiled. "One meal," I agreed, eager to get going. I refused to call it a "date."

"Magnificent," Wilson said, raising his arms to the heavens as if God himself had granted Wilson the permission to take me out. "I will pick you up around 7. Does that work?"

Just then, Harry sauntered into the quad wearing nothing but shorts and tennis shoes. He had a t-shirt draped around his neck and was using it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His hair was sticking straight up into the air. His chest glistened with more sweat. I caught myself before my jaw dropped too noticeably. Harry's eyes met mine and he winked at me, smiling.

"Leah? Dinner tonight at 7?" Wilson asked again.

"What?" I asked, snapping back to reality. Harry was walking past us. I wished Wilson would shut up and leave. "Yeah, that's great. See you later-" I said, turning and following Harry. I called his name before he entered his apartment. He turned and smiled at me again.

"Lee." He wiped his forehead with his t-shirt. The full-frontal view of his bare torso finally gave me a look at the ink that covered every inch of his skin. Each piece of art came to life as his lungs expanded with each deep breath he took.

"Leah," I corrected him, laughing as though it didn't really hurt me that he couldn't seem to remember my name. ""Like, Lee-uh. Lee-uh," I repeated. I sounded like an idiot. "How are you?"

"Great," Harry said. "Nothing like an early morning run."

I faked a laugh. "Yeah."

"Do you run?" Harry asked.

"Not if I can help it," I answered honestly, chuckling to myself. Harry raised his eyebrows and nodded, the look on his face indifferent to whether I really ran or not. There was a glimmer in his eye that made it look like he was almost laughing at me internally or just really enjoying the conversation. One of those, or he just was being overly polite and wanted to go shower off the sweat that was flowing gently over his toned torso. "I mean," I said. "I should probably start..."

"Not a bad habit to pick up," he said, wiping just below his messy hair with his t-shirt one more time. "I can see how it's not for everyone though. You headed to work?" He looked me up and down in my lavender scrubs and smiled as though I was a four-year-old child dressed up for the job I wanted in the future. To be fair, that's about how I felt. I couldn't believe I was about to have my own adult job.

I nodded slowly, enjoying the way the words rolled off his tongue and dripped off of his lips before I snapped out of my trance and shot a look at my watch. "Oh shit- I'm actually going to be late."

"Good luck-" Harry said, turning and using a key to open his front door as I sprinted across the quad, holding my purse tightly to my hip. I slid to a halt with a sudden courage to ask:

"Harry, are you doing anything later tonight?"

He had disappeared into his doorway but the door was not yet closed. He reemerged and shrugged. "I'm not," he called to me. "Sounded like you made plans with Wilson, though."

The hopeful smile that had spread across my face disappeared as quickly as it came. "Oh, yes. I forgot."

Harry smiled and shook his head. "Maybe another time, Lee. Get to work."

"Leah," I corrected him once more.

He merely laughed and closed his front door.

I was tense arriving to work because I was a few minutes late. I rushed into the main foyer of Sunshine Days Nursing Home and nearly slammed into the front desk.

"Leah Fitzpatrick here for work. It's my first day."

The middle-aged, overweight receptionist was wearing some Winnie-the-Pooh scrubs, though the way she had snacks and drinks and cheap romance novels scattered all over the desk made it seem that she didn't actually work with any of the patients personally. The only spills her scrubs were catching were from her 64oz mega-drink soft drink cup she'd picked up from a truck stop and the ketchup swirled onto a half-eaten pizza that was laying in the empty receptionist chair beside her. She peered over her glasses at me. I found it hard to meet her eyes since so much dead skin and eye goop had congealed in the corners of her glasses where the bargain-brand frames met the bridge of her pale nose. Her red, short, curly hair matched the cheap red lipstick that had found its way to her front teeth.

"You're late," she said.

"I just got a little held up at home. My new apartment... the bolt lock was giving me problems," I lied.

I could tell the receptionist wasn't buying it. She cocked her head at me and looked at me. I was almost waiting for her to say, "Mhmm. Really?" I was relieved when she didn't.

"There are people here who work a night shift and it's really fucking tiring. Have you ever worked a night shift?" She snapped.

I shook my head.

"It's really fucking tiring. People are going to be mad if you refuse to get here on time. They want to sleep. Don't you like your sleep?"

I nodded.

"Then get here on time. It's really fucking tiring to work a night shift."

"Okay..." I said. "I got it."

The receptionist sat back in her comfortable swivel-chair and placed a fat hand on her chest like she'd been personally attacked. "If you're going to have a problem with coming to work on time you may as well quit now. Do you need to turn around and walk out those doors or are we going to agree that you come in at five o'clock?"

"Six," I corrected her.

She gasped at me, again offended that I would even open my mouth.

"Six is what the email said. I can show you," I said, pulling out my phone.

Clearly not wanting to be proven wrong, the receptionist held up a hand to me and shook her head. "Just be on time next time, okay? We don't have patience for people who don't take this job seriously."

"Jesus, Martha, cool it," a cool voice said from a hallway behind me. A woman in her 30's approached me and the receptionist slyly. She looked too clean to have worked a night shift. I wondered if she was working the day shift with me. Still addressing the receptionist, she said, "You were late on your first day because you spilled a Chick-fil-a milkshake down your front and had to go back home and change."

Martha's face flushed red.

The new woman leaned on the counter and looked at me. "Leah?"

"Yes," I said, extending a hand, relieved that someone spared me from the unwarranted wrath of the receptionist.

She shook it. She was a plain looking woman with brown eyes and brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She was wearing no jewelry or makeup, but still had a subtle beauty about herself. "Nicolle. I'll be showing you around these next few weeks. Or until you pick it up on your own."

She put her hands into the front pockets on the shirt of her green scrubs and walked back down the hallway she'd originally emerged from. I followed, finding nothing but administrative offices and break rooms. "You can put your stuff here," Nicolle said, motioning toward a single wall of tan lockers once we'd reached the room the furthest down the hallway. There was a table in the middle of the room with a few coffee cups, food wrappers, and magazines spread across it. A cell phone was plugged into the wall, charging. An old, square computer monitor was in the corner of the room I figured no one ever visited - the top of the computer was coated in a thick layer of dust. As the outdated "Windows" icon bounced from side to side of the monitor screen, it seemed to shake dust particles onto the rickety-looking desk it was sitting on. "Don't let Martha scare you," Nicolle said as I shoved my purse and lunch into a locker that reeked of old perfume. "Martha was engaged and basically got dumped for a skinny girl. It sucks. I'd be pissed if that happened too. But Martha then proceeded to gain another 200lbs after her fiancé left her. Whole thing was a mess. She just hates anyone she thinks is prettier than her." Nicolle stretched her arms over her head and yawned.

I wanted to feel bad for Martha, but because of the first and only encounter we'd had so far, I couldn't make myself feel for her.

Nicolle crossed her arms over her small chest. "We don't do a whole lot of training here for newbies unless you feel like you need it. You're fresh out of school though, right? You should have a better grip on physical therapy and art therapy and meds than any of us."

I laughed. "It's been a month since I've had to crack a textbook so I wouldn't mind a refresher of the meds. The rest I think will come naturally."

"Don't worry about the medicine so much. We have a registered nurse who sorts out dosages and brings the meds to you for whichever client you're with at the time. You just hand it to the client and make sure they don't spit it out or choke."

"Sounds easy," I said.

Nicolle laughed. "Easy unless you're working with Mr. Lewis. He'll spit until he has no more saliva if it means he doesn't have to take his meds."

For the day, I basically shadowed Nicolle. She was 35. Married to a guy she'd dated since high school. She kept assuring me that she loved the guy but proceeded to talk about all of the problems they were having and how tired of him she was. She droned on about how she went out with some of her single friends a week ago and was hit on by a tall, handsome cowboy. "I should have gone home with him. Spiced up my life a little bit. There is never any excitement anymore," she said to me as we carried lunch trays down the hallways from room to room. Before I could give her my opinion, she spoke to the old man in the room we'd entered. "Mr. Davenport, salmon today."

The old man she addressed merely turned his back to us and continued to watch The Price Is Right on his television. He curled his lip like he was disgusted as Nicolle placed the tray of food on a table beside him.

She rolled her eyes at me and motioned toward the door. In the hallway, she said, "He's a chef. Has a daughter who's a chef too. He says her name is Kennedy, I think. She lives in NYC. Dating some famous boxer. Mr. Davenport talks about her all the time, but she never calls or visits. I can't tell if she's actually real or if he's just crazy. He claims he won't call her because he put her up for adoption when her mother died during child birth. I just think Kennedy's a figment of his imagination. Anyway, the food is never good enough for him but he'll eat it if you just leave it for him."

By the time I got to take a lunch break, I was exhausted. There was something about the slow day that made me more tired. I felt like I wasn't really doing a whole lot, but making small talk with some old people who were mentally aware enough to recognize I was a new staff member, and other old people who weren't mentally aware enough to recognize that I was NOT, in fact, their grandchild. One woman in particular kept calling me "Elizabeth," who Nicolle later informed me was the baby girl the old woman miscarried in the 1930's. Really, it all made me sad. It just made me think of my father.

During group art therapy time, I sat with a table of four elderly women and watched as they painted aimlessly on their own canvases. Really, three of them were painting. The fourth was tugging at the uncomfortable smock that we'd distributed to everyone to keep their clothes from getting paint on them.

"Shelley, I don't like this fabric," the old woman croaked, addressing my new coworker across the room.

Shelley sighed and crossed her legs as she helped one of the elderly at her own table. She scratched under the heap of blonde hair on the top of her head, which I guess was supposed to be a messy bun. "Lydia, we've told you, we are keeping your other clothes from getting dirty."

The old woman looked at me as if I was supposed to contradict Shelley and give her permission to take the smock off. I smiled at her as politely and sympathetically as I could, but didn't say anything. In the 8 hours I'd been there, I didn't feel I knew any of the clients well enough to ask anything of them or order them around.

"This damn place..." Lydia muttered under her breath, turning to face the muted TV that had some low-budget soap opera playing. Her stiff, grey hair stayed perfectly in place as she huffed and puffed in her chair. Her overly-exaggerated actions almost made her look like an annoyed teenager who had just been told "no."

I got lost in the soap opera for a moment. There was something about watching those shitty actors on mute that made it seem like they might almost be good at acting for a second. I felt something wet land on my arm and drew my attention back to the table where Mrs. White had accidentally flicked green paint onto my new lavender scrubs. I pursed my lips and sighed. It was only a small blot of paint, but they were my brand new scrubs. I tried not to be mad. I knew my face probably showed nothing more than indifference. I was good at hiding emotion when I wanted to.

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," she said to me, glancing down at the table where she'd also dripped paint. "I'm so clumsy these days..."

I stood up. "It's okay, Mrs. White." Almost immediately after rising to my feet, behind me, I heard some kind of liquid splattering on the wood floor, like someone had poured their water straight onto the ground. I turned to see another woman, Miss Jane, with her elastic-waisted pants around her ankles, her Depends diaper around her knees, and her bare butt hovering just over the side of an empty vase beside the doorway to the community room. I gasped as I realized that she was mistaking the vase for a toilet. Though she was aiming for the vase, she was really getting half of her pee into the vase and the other half of it on her shoes and the floor.

"No, don't!" I blurted, a natural reaction to Miss Jane's mistake. The old woman jumped, my outburst having scared her. She stumbled backward and tipped over the vase. I could hear the urine in the vase slosh before the vase hit the floor. It was like it was happening in slow motion. It was another natural reaction for me to stoop down and try to stop the vase from tipping completely over, but I was too late, and the vase bounced onto the floor, showering me in warm old lady piss. I stood slowly, held back a gag, and shuddered. In the corner of the room, my coworker Shelley merely cackled, still scratching under the heap of hair tied up on her head.

"Not the first time that's happened. Next time, let her finish peeing. Easier to clean up if you don't knock over the vase," Shelley said, looking nonchalantly at the old man painting beside her.

By the end of the day, I was defeated. Done. Grossed out. A little depressed. How could I do this job? How could I last more than a week? How did Nicolle and Shelley work so long in a place with people who couldn't go to the bathroom on their own or even remember who their own kids were? I knew what I was getting into by taking this nursing home job... but then again, I didn't.

I wheeled into the parking lot at my apartment complex and dragged my body from the front seat of my car. No sooner had I set my feet on the pavement did Wilson come bouncing jovially around the corner of the quad. He was decked out in his cop uniform.

"I've been waiting for you!" He said. He had to have been staring out the window of his apartment until I drove up. Unless maybe he was standing outside the quad waiting for me too. I wondered how long he'd been waiting. His blonde hair was slicked back so tightly that it didn't move as he bounded toward me.

I had forgotten about our dinner. I wanted to groan. It was times like these I wished I had the power to make myself vomit on command. If I could have one super power, it would be to vomit whenever I wanted just so I could weasel my way out of hanging out with people.

"Can I take a rain check on dinner? I've had a hard day... my stomach is hurtin-" I started.

"No escaping your birthday! Your dad told me you're not much of a birthday person but I'm going to force you to dinner!" Wilson said, locking my small wrist in a tight clasp of his fingers and pulling me toward his cop car.

I silently cursed my dad for telling Wilson about my birthday at all. "Wilson, I just really am so tired- I mean, I'm covered in pee and-"

"No excuse is going to get you out of this. Your daddio said you would try every excuse in the book so I'm not buying it."

I was trying to find a way to free my wrist from his grip without making it seem like I was whipping my hand away from him, but he was not letting loose.

"I made reservations for 7:00 and it's 6:45! We have to get there," he said hurriedly, opening the back door to his cop car. "Let's get to bangin' on all cylinders."

I hesitated, suddenly the only thought occupying my mind: "Wait... you want me to ride in the back?"

"Awkward, I know," Wilson said, uneasily sighing and laughing at the same time. "You can't ride in the front unless you're a cop."

"I didn't know that was a thing..." I said slowly.

"It's a thing. Big thing. Big thing," Wilson said. He looked impatiently at the watch on his wrist and bounced his knees. "We gotta get going though so jump in! The back is not that bad, I promise. It'll be fun. A good party story later in life. Tell your friends like 'hey, I rode in the back of a cop car once.'"

I stared into the black back seat where a gate was going to keep me from properly communicating with Wilson. The window was also barred. I looked over my shoulder at the blue low-rider I'd first seen him in the day that my father helped me move in. "We can't take that car?" I asked, pointing at it.

Wilson bounced on his toes. I could tell he was getting more and more annoyed with me as each second passed. Maybe I could piss him off enough to make him ditch his own date. He inhaled sharply. "I'm on call so we have to take the duty car. It's fun in the back! Don't worry."

I sighed heavily. There was no way this guy was letting up. "Can I change first? I'm covered in pee-"

"Good golly-wolly," Wilson laughed harshly. "Your dad was right. You really don't like your birthday-" He nearly pulled me into the back seat like I was a criminal. He slammed the door in my face, nearly crunching my foot in the process. I gawked at him, though he couldn't see me inside the tinted, barred window. He jogged around to the drivers' seat, and before I could protest dinner any more, flew backward out of the parking lot and onto the main street. He was speeding like crazy.

We came to a red light and he hummed angrily. I watched in disbelief as he flicked on his police siren and forced the cars to part like the Red Sea. He drove recklessly through another red light at an intersection, but all cars halted for him to speed through since he had his lights on. Meanwhile, he didn't seem to notice me sliding around all over the back seat.

We arrived at an Olive Garden. Wilson had to come let me out since my door wouldn't open from the inside. A family of four eyed me suspiciously in my nasty scrubs as I crawled ashamedly out of the grimy back seat of the cop car. Wilson didn't address me as he aggressively took my arm and pulled me into the restaurant. He shoved through the waiting crowd by the front door and tapped the bell at the hostess' desk obnoxiously. The hostess, who saw him approach and was going to speak to him even before he dinged her bell, froze with her mouth open. I tried not to laugh as I watched her face, a fake smile spreading from cheek to cheek as she kept her cool with this rude customer.

"Table for two? The wait will be about 45 minutes," she said.

"Reservation for Kilmer at 7:00. Sorry we are late. This one wouldn't stop bitching-" Wilson said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at me.

The hostess peeked over Wilson's shoulder at me. I made the classic "what-the-hell-is-this-dickhead-talking-about" face at her and she seemed to immediately read me. I was too tired to fight this. And by this, I meant Wilson as a whole. I had already accepted that this was going to be a disaster date I would talk about four years from now.

We sat at the table and ordered food. I watched Wilson's face as he handed his menu to the busty, blonde waitress who wrote down our order. His eyebrows were tightly drawn together and his jaw was clenched. Almost like a flip had switched, his face relaxed with a single blink and he smiled at me. "Happy birthday."

"My birthday is tomorrow," I said rudely, crossing my arms across my chest.

Wilson sighed heavily and relaxed in the booth seat we were in. "My, my, my. You are a little jokester, aren't you?"

I felt like he was trying to play off the fact that I was NOT, by any means, having a good time.

The waitress plopped down a basket of bread between the two of us. Wilson grabbed a stick and shoved half of it in his mouth. I watched as crumbs scattered down the front of his officer uniform, all blue this time instead of tan. He chewed with his mouth open, flecks of spit flying my direction and landing on my arms and hands. I crossed my arms across my chest as if it might actually help protect me from the flying spit. It didn't.

"Let me get a Miller Lite. Bud Lite. Whatever beer you have that's light," he said to the waitress, half of the bread still in his mouth.

"Aren't you on call?" I asked. "You shouldn't be drinking."

He winked at me. "I won't tell if you won't."

I sunk my head into my hands. "Good god..." I sighed, mainly to myself. Wilson ignored me.

We sat in silence after that. Wilson tapped his short, stubby fingers along the table and clicked his tongue as he looked around at the other dinner guests enjoying their carb-loaded meals in the yellow lighting of the restaurant. I didn't ever know it was possible to go from hero to zero so fast. Not that Wilson was ever a hero in my book, but he seemed like more of an asshat than ever. I was praying to God Wilson wouldn't get called into work for some kind of backup. I was dying to escape this dinner, but after three beers, light or not, I was terrified thinking about what kind of damage this careless cop could do when he wasn't in the right state of mind. Each time he ordered another beer, I would give him a death stare and tell him, "I don't think that's a good idea."

Each time, he ignored me and drank his next beer faster.

He motioned for the waitress to come to the table once more. Without him asking, she brought him another mug of beer and placed it in his outstretched hand.

“I really wish you wouldn’t drink another,” I said to Wilson, unable to look this asshole in the eyes anymore as he cupped his fourth mug of beer in his hands.

“Listen, if you’re going to be my girlfriend, you need to be less controlling. I can’t believe this is our first date and you’re already trying to control me,” he said, lifting the rim of the glass cup to his lips and sipping the beer.

There was such a drastic difference between how Wilson was talking to me and treating me now as opposed to how he had been with me in front of my father. I wanted to believe that he was just playing a role to appease my father and give me a good first impression that day, but even earlier this morning, when he asked me to dinner, he seemed to be a totally different person.

“What did you do today?” I asked him.

He sighed in annoyance. “I’ve been on call all day,” he told me, putting to rest any thought that I had about him maybe just having a rough day. Whether he had a good day or not didn’t give him the right to treat me like he was.

He polished off his fourth beer and signaled the waitress for another.

I leapt to my feet. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

Wilson just stared up at me.

I turned and made my way through the tables, the murmur of private conversations surrounding me as I turned my hips to squeeze through chairs and people. I walked back to where the kitchen was and met our waitress as she was rounding the corner of the kitchen with another beer in her hand.

“Don’t you have an alcohol serving limit?” I asked.

She blinked at me and began to stutter.

“He’s on call for work. For police work,” I explained, trying to make her feel bad.

“I mean, he’s the customer though… I didn’t know he was working. Anyway, what he chooses to drink is up to him.” She tried to push past me with the beer, but I put my hand on her shoulder and pushed her back.

“He’s not going to arrest you if you cut him off, you know,” I said.

She gasped at me. “That’s not what I thought would happen anyway-“

“So you’re just going to over-serve him alcohol to boost your tip?” I asked. I knew my tone was rude but I didn’t care. This was important. A few other waitresses had protectively gathered around the one who had been serving us.

“What’s the problem?”

The waitress inhaled sharply. “She just couldn’t find the bathroom. It’s this way to the left,” she told me, pointing a finger past me and waiting for me to try and bring up the alcohol issue again.

I glared at her, turned on my heel, and nearly ran to the bathroom. I pulled out my phone and googled the number of the Easton Police Department. I locked myself into a bathroom stall as the phone began to ring.

“Easton P. D., how can we help you?”

“Listen, I have a problem-" I said, running my finger over the latch on the bathroom door.

“Ma’am, let me transfer you to emergencies-"

“No! No,” I blurted. “This is about one of your employees. He’s on call right now. Officer Wilson Kilmer. He’s-"

“Oh… Hold on, sweetheart. I’m going to have to transfer you anyway.”

“What?” I asked. “To who??”

“Please hold.”

The phone began to ring again before I could speak to the receptionist anymore.

“Chief Moore speaking, who is this?” A voice sounded as quickly as the ringing had begun.

“Um, my name is Leah and I’ve got a problem with one of your officers. Officer Wilson Kilmer?”

The other end of the line was silent for a moment. “What has he done?”

“Nothing yet, I suppose. We’re at dinner and he said he’s on call and he’s just been drinking a lot. He’s intoxicated I think and I just want to make sure he doesn’t get called in. I don’t want him hurting someone because of a lapse in judgment caused by the beer,” I explained hurriedly.

“What?”

“I asked him to stop and even told the waitress to stop serving him but-"

“Is he wearing the uniform?”

I nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Where are you?” He asked.

“The Olive Garden on… uh…. I don’t know… I just moved to Easton like, three days ago. I’m so so sorry-”

“Miss, please. It’s okay. Thank you for the call. We’ll take care of it.” The line went dead.

I walked out of the stall and saw an older woman watching me in the reflection of the mirror as she wiped the water off of her hands. I knew she’d heard it all. She merely nodded at me once and smiled before throwing away her hand towel and exiting the bathroom. I walked to the sink and threw water on my face before peering at my own tired reflection in the mirror. God, this had been a long and eventful day.

When I walked back to the table, I was surprised to see Wilson throwing our food into to-go boxes. The food must have just arrived. He looked rushed.

“C’mere, Leah, come on. We’ve got to go. I called you a cab. I’ve got to go to work. They just called me in-“

“What??” I asked, shocked for a moment before I had the idea that maybe he was being called into work by the chief to get his ass chewed.

He grabbed his uniform jacket and threw some money down onto the table. He grabbed both of the boxes of food and pulled me by my wrist through the restaurant and out the door. As we walked out, another cop car turned slowly into the parking lot.

“James,” Wilson said seriously, coming to a halt as James pulled up in front of us and stepped out of the car. James had a cautious, and yet seemingly unnecessary, hand hovering close to the gun on his hip. James was also young, with short brown hair covered by his police hat and dimples so deep that you could fall into them if you got too close. He smiled faintly at me.

“Wilson-“

“James. What’s the problem?? Robbery?? Murder-“

“Hey, man. Why don’t you jump in the car and I’ll tell you on the way to the station?” James said, almost like he was talking to a confused child. He looked at me and blinked slowly.

Wilson didn’t even seem to remember that I was standing there as he sprinted around the front of the cop car and dove into the front passenger seat with both my dinner and his.

James instantly turned to me and lowered his voice. “Miss, we want to thank you for the call. I’d just be careful around him from now on.”

On, I was planning on it. I was planning on staying far, far away. I meant, as far away as I could while still living next door to him. James stepped back into the police car, closed the door, and sent one more sympathetic look my way as he drove away with Wilson.

At that moment, the taxi arrived. I hadn’t even thought about the fact that Wilson literally called me a taxi to drive me home. Not even something more clean and modern, like an uber or a lift. There was something about just looking at the rusty, yellow taxi that made me feel dirty - well, dirtier than I already was. I climbed into the cab slowly, avoiding a splash of grey mystery goop on the faux-leather seat and trying not to lean too far back. There was a rip in the seat behind my back, and I was nervous that if I relaxed too much, I'd be sucked into the trunk by some taxi-demon. I was hesitant to even pull the slick, greasy seatbelt across my still pee-stained scrubs.

The driver coughed so hard that I was worried a lung was going to hit the windshield. It was obvious he'd just polished off a cigarette, the smell lingering despite the car's open windows.

"Where to?" He croaked.

I almost couldn't remember my new address. "Marble Park apartments," I finally told him after racking my brain. He tried to make small talk, but I was too busy running over the events of the day to have a conversation with him.

When we got to the apartments, I paid the cigarette smoke-ridden cab driver and dragged myself out of the torn-up back seat, accidentally dragging my hand through the mystery goop I'd tried so hard to avoid the whole 20 minutes home. I groaned and wiped whatever the sticky residue was onto my pee-stained scrubs and sighed heavily and almost sing-song-y as I rounded the corner of the quad. It was dark outside, all except for the three, dim porch lights that were bright enough only to illuminate the three feet of porch there was for the first-floor apartments. The lamp post in the middle of the quad was also dimly lit.

I used the entirety of my body weight to open the front door to my apartment. I immediately dropped my purse, pulled my shirt over my head and pulled my pants down to my knees, using my feet to push them the rest of the way off of my legs. I walked straight back to my bathroom and didn't even wait for the water to turn hot before I had slumped against the shower wall, letting the water flow over my skin which felt like it had a thick layer of grime on it. Grime from being coughed and sneezed on. Grime from being peed on. Grime from Wilson's spit. Grime from the cab. It was like I could feel it coming off in layers as I dragged a bar of soap slowly over my skin.

I hadn't washed my hair because I liked to wash it in the mornings. I threw it up in a messy bun on top of my head. The bun looked way better than whatever mess Shelley had created with her own hair, if I did say so myself. I wiped the mascara off of where the steam from the shower had made it bleed down my cheeks. Took my contacts out. Threw on my glasses. Put on some old, purple sweats I had. Pulled on an old bralette. I walked into the kitchen of my apartment and opened the cupboard. Without giving it much thought, I snagged a bag of popcorn kernels, threw it into the microwave, and pressed the "six" button. I knew it wouldn't take that long, but I would stop it when the popcorn had popped. I stood, leaning my bare stomach against the cold, fake granite of the counter and stared blankly into the microwave. A ring from my phone snapped me out of my trance.

"Hello?" I answered.

There was no reply.

"Dad, are you there?"

I began to walk around my apartment, searching for a clear signal. I could hear bits and pieces of something my father was trying to say - probably just checking in on me - but I couldn't get a full sentence from him.

The call ended. I was standing by the window at the front of my apartment. I typed out a quick text to my father:

Couldn't hear you. We can try again tomorrow. I've had a long first day. Love you - L.

As I sent that text, I scrolled through some of the other text messages I'd been receiving from old friends for my birthday - Impersonal and brief "Happy Birthday!" messages that didn't bring me as much joy as they did in the past. Getting caught up in the messages, I didn't realize that my popcorn had begun to burn. The smell filled the apartment, and I scurried to tear the smoking bag out of the microwave. Smoke began to cloud the ceiling. I burned my finger on the top of the bag where the smoke was coming out and dropped the bag to the floor. Swearing, I hurried to the window and threw it open to prevent the single smoke detector in my apartment from releasing a shrill alarm and disrupting the peace of my new neighbors.

As I stood at the window, I rubbed my eyes with my uninjured fingers. I examined the part of my finger that stung from the burned bag of kernels.

"Alright?"

I nearly leapt out of my skin. I thought for a moment someone was standing in my apartment, but I finally realized that Harry was standing just outside the window. I hardly noticed him since it was so dark outside and he was still dressed in all sorts of dark colors.

"Fucks sake-" I exclaimed. "I- I- I'm okay. I'm fine. You scared the hell out of me-"

"I'm sorry," Harry laughed, coming a little bit closer to the window. The light from my kitchen illuminated his handsome face. It also allowed me to see that he was holding some sort of green gardening can. "I was just putting a little bit of plant food in Miss Jones' plants. I do it every week or so. Helps 'em stay alive," he explained.

"At night?" I asked.

"What?"

"At night? You feed the plants at this time of night?" I repeated, raising my wrist to look at a watch I realized wasn't there only after I'd checked the imaginary time.

Harry laughed awkwardly. "Eh, well, yes. She doesn't know I do it. At least, I don't think she does."

I stood and stared at him, becoming more consciously aware of my appearance and clothing (or lack thereof) and the fact that he'd probably been peeking in the window the whole time I'd burned my snack and been chasing some kind of cellular service. For as much as I wanted to be creeped out, my stomach was fluttering. He wasn't creeping in my window. He was feeding Miss Jones' plants. Her goddamn plants.

I walked out the front door and stood to the right side of my porch, leaning over the banister toward Harry's silhouette. He watched me only for a short moment before he returned to shaking some of the small pellets of plant food into the vases on the ground and the plants hanging from Miss Jones' porch. I wanted to ask him something. Tell him something. Have him ask me a question or anything to get us involved. However, I stood for a few minutes in silence, in the dim lighting from my kitchen and the small light in the middle of the quad, and listened to the plant food pellets tap against the sides of the plants' bowls and vases.

When he'd run out of plant food, Harry sighed softly. "Good night, then."

His feet brushed weightlessly against the grass as he began to walk away.

"Harry," I called quietly, almost as if I was whispering it to myself.

He stopped. I saw the black shape of his body turn toward me, his figure becoming more visual as he stepped closer into the small amount of light from the kitchen again. He stood and waited without saying anything.

I had a sudden wave of confidence wash over my body. I stood up straight, sticking out my chest even though I know he couldn't really see my perky breasts in my bralette. I took a deep breath, but just as quickly as the confidence had come, it went away. "Um-" I started. My inner self was begging me to say something. Anything.

"Come inside?" I said. I asked. I whispered. I basically breathed it. I wondered if he even heard me. I felt like an absolute dumbass. Should I repeat myself? What if he said no? It was late. Surely he would say no. What was I inviting him in for? Burnt popcorn? I didn't know what part of me was asking him into my apartment, but could only imagine it wasn't for a cup of tea and small talk. What did I think was going to happen? He was going to just lean in and kiss me and-

"Sure."

"What?" I asked.

"I'll come in. Let me take a look at your finger," he said.

Like that morning, I had to keep my mouth from falling open. I turned around abruptly and opened my front door for him. He followed me inside. He moved so quickly and so silently that I just about jumped out of my skin again when I turned around and he was standing only eight inches from me. He gripped my hand and extended my fingers, like he had the day I was moving in. This time, however, I let him look, even though there was nothing there anymore. No evidence of any serious damage.

"I think you'll survive," he told me after evaluating the non-existent injury. "Your heart line here is showing some pretty interesting stuff, though," he said, dragging a long finger along one of the creases in the palm of my hand.

"What?" I asked, kind of laughing to myself. I'd never much believed in palm-reading or horoscopes or anything like that, but it was always interesting to read about and learn about. "What does it say?" I asked him, looking down at my own palm.

"It's about your love life," he said. "Did you have a good date tonight?"

"No," I gushed, looking up into Harry's eyes. I laughed just thinking about it. "It was a disaster. Does the palm say I'm destined for a long, devoted, and romantic relationship with Wilson? After tonight, I'd rather die before having to spend more time with him."

Harry's mouth curled into a small, almost triumphant smile, but he shook his head. "It says something about a tall brunette kissing you. Unless you object."

My heart pounded in my chest. "Oh?" I squeaked, nearly losing the ability to speak. "My palm is that specific?" I asked.

Harry took a step toward me and began to lean in. "I don't know," Harry chuckled. "I can't read palms."

I lifted my mouth to meet his. I began to instantly feel drowsy, like the room was spinning and I was going weak. Harry wrapped an arm around my lower back and pulled my body more into his. I felt like fireworks were exploding in my stomach. His lips were warm and full. I wanted to sink my teeth into them. Without separating our lips, I began to pull him toward my bedroom, tugging at the hem of his black shirt as we went. Clothes began to litter the living room. I flicked off the lights as we neared the bedroom. For as much as I wanted to look at Harry's handsome face, just the feeling of his mouth, which was making its way up and down my neck, was creating an overwhelming sense of euphoria in me.

He was like a drug, his touch giving me an immediate high. As he pulled his fingernails over my skin, a line of goosebumps followed. His moans as he felt my body were giving me a confidence I didn't know I had. I remember that he was on top of me, kissing down my stomach. I was on top of him, sucking on the soft skin of his neck. His hands were twisting into my hair and I was tugging on his. We were twisting and turning around each other, around the sheets... tangling our lips, our legs, our arms... and before I knew it, the sun was coming up.

I blinked my eyes open. I stretched and turned my neck to look at Harry beside me... only he wasn't there. The sheets were tousled like someone had been there, but any other evidence of Harry was gone.

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