With a deep breath in and a long exhale, I gather my composure and plaster a smile on my face as I approach my elderly neighbor. She’s a widower in her late eighties, and her large tabby cat named Gertrude is just as ornery as she is.
I know she doesn’t mean any harm, but she’s incredibly nosy and insists that my boyfriend is secretly coming in and out of my apartment. She keeps warning me I need to make him stop before she reports it to the apartment manager, concerned that I’m violating the lease agreement. News flash—I have no boyfriend and haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, and that only lasted a few weeks.
“Mrs. O’Donnell, it’s so nice to see you again. How are you doing today?”
Even though it isn’t nice to see her, I make sure I remain respectful.
“That boyfriend of yours was here again today while you were out, Arabelle.” She grasps Gertrude tighter as Gertrude tries to wiggle out of her arms. “You know if he’s not on the lease, he’s not supposed to have a key.”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Mrs. O’Donnell, I don’t know how many times I have to say this, but I don’t have a boyfriend. I promise you no one has a key to my apartment.”
She huffs. “I know what I saw, Arabelle. There’s a man coming in and out of your apartment. He’s been doing it for a while now. And after all the times I’ve told you about it, you’ve still done nothing about it.”
“That’s not possible, Mrs. O’Donnell, because I don’t have a boyfriend. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.”
I don’t have time to deal with this nonsense. I don’t have a boyfriend, and no one is coming in and out of my apartment.
I would know.
“If you’re not going to abide by the rules, Arabelle, I’ll just let the office manager handle it.”
“You do whatever you need to do, Mrs. O’Donnell.” I dismiss her threat because I have nothing to hide. “Try to have a nice day.”
As I unlock my door and push it open, she huffs once more, muttering something under her breath, before her door slams shut.
Once inside, I lock the door and drop my keys into the bowl on the table. For a long time, Mrs. O’Donnell has claimed that I have had some man sneaking in and out of my apartment, and I have no idea who she’s talking about. I have no boyfriend. Hell, I don’t have any friends besides Dale, and he doesn’t have a key.
“She’s crazy, or maybe she has some type of dementia,” I mumble as I make my way to my bedroom. “Or she’s just lonely and needs someone to talk to. I know how that feels.”
I enter my bedroom, drop my duffel bag at the foot of my bed, and then make my way to the bathroom. In less than fifteen minutes, I’m in and out of the shower, feeling refreshed and ready to take a quick nap so I can finish the rest of my day.
I wrap myself in a towel, walk out of my bathroom, and stop dead in my tracks as soon as I see it perfectly placed on my pillow. A single long-stem red rose along with an envelope.
“What in the hell?”
How did I not see it? Or did he put it in here when I was in the shower?
I slowly walk to the bed, grab the black envelope, and remove the card with shaky hands. I furrow my brows. I’ve been able to deal with the flowers and cards being left at the theater, outside my hotel room, and even at my apartment door in New York. The attention is flattering. But this is something different. He’s been inside my apartment.
From the shadows, I’ve watched, but in the shadows, I can no longer remain because of the desires of my heart.
I drop the envelope and rush back down the hallway toward my door, not caring that I’m wrapped in nothing but a towel. I fling the door open, rush across the hallway to Mrs. O’Donnell’s apartment, and knock on her door. When she doesn’t answer, I knock a few more times, a little louder, just in case she can’t hear.
The door slowly opens. “Arabelle?” She looks me up and down with her eyes as wide as saucers, but then they narrow. “Why are you in nothing but a towel, child?”
She looks down both sides of the hallway, I assume, to see if anyone else has seen me standing basically naked in front of her apartment door.
“Mrs. O’Donnell, can you please tell me what the man looks like you think you’ve seen come in and out of my apartment?” I ask, ignoring her question about my towel.
She huffs. “He’s your boyfriend, Arabelle. Shouldn’t you know what he looks like? Unless you have more than one?”
She gives me a look full of judgment and disdain.
How many times do I have to tell her I don’t have a boyfriend? And I definitely don’t have more than one.
“Please, Mrs. O’Donnell, this is important,” I plead, attempting to hide my annoyance. I have to remind myself of her age and that I need her help. There’s no point in pissing her off just so she’ll slam the door in my face. “What does the man look like that you think you saw?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Tall. Dresses very well. Other than that, I can’t tell you anything because I can’t see that well anymore. And he always has his head turned anyway from the door. So, I can never see his face.”
