5
________
Melissa
I stepped out of the shower on Saturday night and dried off on autopilot. I’d been in a funk for days. My mind kept going over and over Granny chewing out Connor and the way he’d looked at me when Granny told him about Damien.
There were two types of people in this world, I’d decided. And I could sort them out based on the way they reacted to my fiancé’s story.
Trusting, good-hearted people immediately sympathized with my plight. People like my parents, who I could tell were quietly concerned, but supportive. People like Natalya. She’d cried with me, taken on helping with Granny, and had even taught Buster and Sarge to not pee on everything and to sit and stay.
And then there were people like Connor. He had seen the truth right away, because he was cynical, and pessimistic, and understood what was wrong with men. It was because of his criminal nature, I was sure. People who did suspicious things were naturally suspicious of others.
There had to be a sinister reason for all the cars coming and going from Connor’s house. Scalping tickets? Cooking drugs? Selling organs? My mind was going wild with possible answers. Then there was the fact that I’d never seen Connor’s roommate. As far as I could tell, the guy came and went at odd hours. They were both probably doing weird illegal things. Good. I’d make them move far, far away after I found out what they were up to.
I yawned. Tomorrow, I’d do some investigating. The real kind, not the fake investigating I did with Granny. Buster was waiting for me when I climbed into bed in my most comfortable pajamas. I turned off the lamp and rolled over, hugging him closer as I tried to fall asleep. It wasn’t sad to go to bed at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. It was sensible. Connor was the sad one, even though I could hear what sounded like a party going on next door. It was probably a drug dealer party.
But were the other drug dealers as good-looking as Connor? No way. Not possible. That was the last thought I remembered having before shooting up out of bed with a start.
Buster was awake too. He cocked his ears and gave a little whine. Was that? Yes, it was the sound of bongo drums coming through the wall. Bongo drums! How did I know? We did a six-week unit on them in music class in the sixth grade. We watched videos of people playing the bongo drums. We made home-made bongo drums out of oatmeal containers. If you were really, really good in class, you could get a turn on the real things. Then my brother wanted a set, and because it was Christmastime and my parents were out of their minds, they bought him one. Even at age twelve, it had been bongo overkill, and ever since then, when I got really stressed, the bongos would play in my head.
But this was no anxiety-induced illusion. It was right next door. I threw off the covers and slid into my slippers, not really sure what I planned to do, but knowing I couldn’t listen to that racket all night. Maybe Connor was doing it on purpose. Maybe he had mined my background to find the exact thing that would torture me because Granny had been mean to him. Newsflash: Granny was mean to everyone. Well, everyone except me.
Buster followed me out the door, giving me a don’t-leave-me-whine, so I picked up the little guy and warned him to let me do all the talking. Sarge was still passed out on the floor. As guard dogs, these two failed.
I channeled all my bad thoughts about Connor into determination as I marched over there, starting with the memory of him watching us empty the U-Haul and not daring to step outside. He had probably been afraid someone might get ideas about him being friendly, or decent, or assume his nicely-built body could have real-world use. Jerk. Gym rat. Hot loser.
I knocked firmly and waited. The drums continued, but I heard someone shushing someone else, and then the door opened.
It was Connor who answered, of course. He leaned on the door frame, casually taking me in, and then cocked his head. “Can I help you?” No remorse. No regret. He was happy I was annoyed. Happy, happy, happy.
Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, dum, dum went the drums behind him. Between my rising anger and the ceaseless rhythm, my brain conveniently dropped everything I’d planned to say. I stared past Connor at the blond guy sitting behind the bongos in a wife-beater tank top. His face was the picture of bliss, like he could drum forever in his own personal heaven. He had a microphone trained on the drums. That’s why the sound had pulsed through the wall like they were right next to me. A few people sat around him on folding chairs, bobbing their heads along. I needed to pack up and move immediately before this weird vibe infected my side of the structure. No,theyneeded to move I reminded myself, and take their drums and stupidity with them.
“Is that your roommate?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s Rob. Look, if you wanted to come in, all you had to do was ask.”
That’s what he thought I wanted? I stood up straighter and leaned into Connor’s face. “You think that’s why I’m here? That I’m angling for an invitation from you? The turn-down-your-music lady, with no makeup and my slippers on, holding a dog, is dying to get in? Ooh, can I get an invite to your super lame party? Bongo drum solos that never end are my favorite!”
Somewhere in my speech, the drums had stopped, but my volume had remained the same. Loud. I didn’t realize it until it got eerily quiet, and then several people booed me.
“She’s gonna call the cops,” someone whispered amid all the glares.
Connor ran a hand through his wavy dark hair before giving everyone a calm-it-down wave and stepping out onto the porch with me. He shut the door firmly behind us.
“Look, I get it. You’re forevernotsingle. Natalya and your granny cleared that up for me. I’m sorry I invited you in. I am not coming on to you, and I won’t in the future. You can count on it.”
Forevernotsingle. That again? It was all too much, and at that moment, my tear ducts decided I hadn’t been humiliated quite enough. I hid my face in Buster’s fur so Connor wouldn’t see me pulling it together, but when I looked up I could tell I wasn’t fooling him.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, reaching out as if to touch my shoulder and then drawing his hand back when Buster gave him a warning yip.
“You’re the worst neighbor ever,” I said, but with no heat this time. My anger had lost a fight with my embarrassment. I’d never been booed before. If anyone deserved to do some booing, it was me.
“Are you sureI’mthe worst?” Connor pulled out his phone and checked it. “It’s ten-thirty on a Saturday night. I promise we would’ve been done and my house silent by midnight.”
“It’s good to know you have standards.” Ah, anger might have left me, but I still had sarcasm.
“Um, you also crashed my roommate’s debut concert to kick off his album release. I know bongo drums aren’t your favorite.” He bit back a laugh. “But some people like them. Some people even try to be supportive of their friend’s endeavors.”
