I’m not thinking about shit like that this morning though. No, today is Monday, which means I have two whole days ahead of me to paint and play my music and forget that there’s a world outside the walls of my new apartment.
Except for Piano Guy.
The girl I’m subletting the place from hadn’t had much to say about my next-door neighbor, except that he was quiet and seemed nice. I’d sorta gotten the impression that she was just saying whatever she thought I’d want to hear so I’d sublet from her—which I’d already made up my mind to do based on price alone—but I didn’t exactly care. You don’t live in the kind of places I’ve lived without learning to put up with whatever you get in the way of neighbors.
What I hadn’t expected was a neighbor who I never hear a peep from.
Other than when he plays that out-of-tune piano of his.
Not gonna lie, I kinda love it. That first night I’d moved in, I’d gotten a kick out of hearing another piano through the wall, and the impulse to join in had beenimpossibleto resist.
Another piece of my life that’s taken a good turn lately has to do with that reading-obsessed coworker of mine.
Reagan’s turned out to be just as cool as she’d seemed the first day we met. She still keeps her nose buried in the romance novels on her Kindle a good amount of her shift, but the two of us have started talking a lot too. Even though it’s mostly just dumb shit we laugh about, it feels good. It’s been way too long since I’ve had a friend.
The one thing I do wish she’d leave alone is the whole Cute Latte Guy situation. And bysituation, I mean the fact that Cute Latte Guy comes in legitimatelyeveryday, lighting up the place with his totally clueless, shy-as-can-be hunkiness and stuttering over his coffee order. Which I know by heart, anyway.
Really, that’s all there is to it.
Unless you’re Reagan, and then Cute Latte Guy’s daily visits are the biggest damn deal in the fucking world. The girl’s goneand gotten it into her head that Cute Latte Guy and I would make, and I quote,the absolute cutest couple ever, and that he’s not-so-secretly pining over me.
Worst of all, she’s even gone and accusedmeof having some kind ofcrushon the guy. Believe me, Idon’thave crushes. Not on anyone.
No matter how much their sunsetty-hot-pink blushes and sweet-sad grey-blue eyes happen to get this weird-ass fluttery feeling going down in my stomach.
Will Reagan listen though? Nope.
Apparently that’s what comes of reading too many damn romance novels.
I’mfinallytotally getting into the zone with my painting when the sound of a knock at my door makes me jump practically out of my skin, streaking an ugly slash of black right across the center of the canvas.
Shit—
Trying to tell my stupidly racing heart to calm the fuck down, I mop at the streak for a sec with a bit of paper towel. All I manage to do is smear it around.
Fuck.
I hadn’t realized my hands are shaking.
My hands— There’s a splotch of black paint across one of my knuckles.
Trying to breathe slow against the itchy-crawling feeling creeping over my skin, I pick out a clean corner of the paper towel and carefully, so fucking carefully, wipe off the paint from my finger.
My heart’s still pounding right the fuck out of my chest—
Relax. It’s just because you were concentrating. It’s just because you weren’t expecting anyone.
The knock was quiet. Soft. It isn’thim.
He’dstill be knocking. Fuck, he’d probably be trying to bang down my damn door by now.
As long as no one was watching. Wouldn’t want to make a scene like that.
Except he doesn’t have any way of knowing where I am now. And even if he did, Seattle’s a long, expensive trek from Tucson.
There’s not a chance in hell I’m worththatto him.
It’s been almost a year since I got a message from him anyway. He’s moved on, thank fuck.
