I finish the glass of wine I’ve been nursing all night and roll my eyes. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Right,” Wren retorts. “You’re the only woman I know that would turn down a man taking care of her.”
I set my wine glass in the kitchen sink and lean against the counter. “That’s not it, and you know it. I friend-zoned him, and I don’t want to give him the wrong idea.”
“Friends take care of each other too,” Wren smirks.
I huff, crossing my arms. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Of course I am. Watching you struggle with your obvious attraction to Henry is the highlight of my week,” she responds, bouncing Milo lightly on her hip.
I let out a shallow groan and hang my head. Before I can answer Wren, our heads tip up toward the ceiling as it creaks under the weight of who I assume is the hot professor we’re talking about.
Wren’s voice lowers, and she whispers, “Can he hear us?”
“I have no clue,” I answer truthfully. Some days, I hear him shuffling around upstairs, but other days, I don’t hear a peep. The duplex made a lot of creaking on its own, so it’s possible that I’ve been confusing footsteps with the sounds of an old house. The only clear sign I had that he was home was the well-loved silver Toyota Prius parked outside.
“Let’s just assume he can’t,” Wren surmises. “And it sounds like he’s leaving anyway.”
She was right. I hear the soft patter of his infamous loafers coming down the side of the house, where the steps from his apartment lead right to the gravel driveway. I wonder what he’s up to on a Sunday.
“So, you’re going to be spending a lot of time with him,” she states with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Before I can reply, Milo decides he’s had enough of our adult conversation and wiggles in Wren’s arms until she surrenders and sets him down. His tiny legs carry him to the overflowing toybox I keep in the living room. I let out a deep sigh when he starts taking out each toy and throwing it on the ground. I don’t know why I even bother cleaning them up.
“Not exactly. The writing group he’s leading meets every Wednesday night. I’ll be there, but we won’t be spending time together.”
Wren raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “This is classic forced proximity. There’s bound to be some tension.”
Now I’m the one raising my eyebrows at the reference that’s clearly gone over my head. Wren grunts and throws her head back in frustration before explaining further. “It’s a classic romance novel trope. You and Henry are going to be at the same place every week for the next few months. That’s forced proximity. It’s basically a setup for something to happen. Something’s bound to spark.”
More like friends to lovers, I want to say, but I keep it to myself. “We’re not characters in a romance novel, Wren.”
She laughs, not catching onto my lack of patience for this conversation. “Maybe not, but you have the perfect setup. You have mystery, intrigue. He’s the brooding writer type.” She pauses with a teasing grin. “And now forced proximity. It’s perfect.”
“Right, except there’s still one major flaw in your theory: we’re just friends.” I attempt to sound convincing, but my distaste only fuels Wren’s motivation.
“Oh, please,” she mocks sarcastically. “Friends don’t caress each other’s faces. Just wait. You’ll be working one night, and you’ll look up and catch his heated gaze from across the room. And then you’ll share a passionate embrace against some dusty old books, and it’s on.”
I snort. “You have a wild imagination.”
“Mhmm.” She shrugs before taking a sip of her wine.
“It’s funny you mention romance. Apparently, my mysterious neighbor has written two romance novels.”
Wren’s ears perk up at the fun fact. “See! It’s fate. What’s his last name? I’ll look up his novels.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. Which is the truth. I finally broke down and decided to do cyberstalking, but nothing came up when I looked up Henry Cooke. At first, I wondered if he was one of those off-the-grid guys who avoided social media at all costs, but then Google also failed me. I thought I’d at least find his name listed under the faculty of the school he worked at, but I came up with nothing.
Admittedly, I wasn’t sure what college he taught at, but I figured something would pop up if I looked up New York City College and his name. I still came up empty.
“Okay then, I need you to be my lookout for the next five minutes. His mailbox is next to yours, right?”
“Wait, Wren,” I protest. Before I can stop her, she’s already out the door. I run over to the front door and peek outside to watch her commit a crime.
Milo must notice all of the commotion because I feel a tinyhand tugging at my pant leg. When I look down, his arms are reaching up toward me. I sigh and pick him up so he can join in the fun. Or whatever Wren is doing.
A few seconds later, she nonchalantly pops back through the door like she wasn’t just snooping on my neighbor.
