But fake boyfriend material? Yeah. I can see that. I'm probably perfect for it. Old enough to scare her parents, rough enough to make them worry, forgettable enough that when this is over she won't think twice about it.
The thing is, I knew this was coming. Not this exactly. I didn't know she'd walk across the lawn and ask me to pretend to be something I've wanted to be since the day she moved in.
But I knew I was going to say yes to her eventually.
Whatever she asked. Whenever she asked.
Because I've been gone for her since the first time I saw her struggling to carry a box up her porch steps, hair falling out of her ponytail, glasses sliding down her nose. She'd been wearingoveralls like she'd stepped out of a painting about wholesome country living, and she'd been humming something under her breath.
I'd been getting my mail and I'd frozen, envelope in hand, just watching her. She hadn't noticed me. She never did back then.
I'd wanted to help. Wanted to walk over, take the box, carry it inside for her. But I couldn't make myself move. Couldn't make myself cross that invisible line between her world and mine.
So, I'd just stood there like a creep until she got the box inside, and then I'd gone into my house and told myself to get a grip.
That lasted about six hours.
By nightfall I was already listening to her. The sound of her door closing. Her footsteps on the porch. The way she'd hum to herself when she thought no one was around.
It got worse after that.
I started noticing everything.
The way she double-checked her locks at night. The yellow curtains with bees on them that appeared in her window. The fact that she took her trash out every Tuesday evening at exactly seven o'clock, like she had it scheduled on her phone.
The light on her porch that burned out two weeks ago.
I'd fixed that at two in the morning, standing on her steps with a replacement bulb I'd bought three days earlier, just in case. Just so I'd be ready when she needed something.
She never knew.
And I told myself that was fine. Better, even. I could keep an eye on her, make sure she was safe, and she'd never have to know that her neighbor was completely obsessed with her.
Except now she knows I exist.
And she's going to let me touch her.
Put my arm around her, she'd said.
*Maybe put your arm around me once or twice.*
Like it's nothing.
Like I haven't been thinking about what it would feel like to have her tucked against my side for three months.
I go inside and head straight for the shower because I'm still covered in grass clippings and sweat and I need to do something normal before I lose my mind entirely.
The water is cold. I make it cold on purpose.
It doesn't help.
I keep seeing the way she looked standing in my yard. Those pajama shorts that showed off her thick thighs, the kind I want wrapped around me. That oversized shirt that somehow made her look smaller and more touchable. Her hair falling out of its ponytail, messy and perfect.
And her face. She'd looked nervous. Embarrassed. Like she thought I might laugh at her. Like I could ever laugh at her.
Like I'm not spending every second of willpower I have just keeping myself from walking over there and telling her I'll be whatever she needs me to be. Fake, real, anything in between.
I brace my hands against the shower wall and let the water pound down on my shoulders.
