Debugging Love (Matched by Cupid #3)

Chapter 1

Danni

My neighbor left his trash by the door again. We share the same second-floor landing, open to the outdoors, railings on both sides, a roof stretching between our buildings. A critter that sniffs around his door will sniff around mine.

Critter makes it sound cute, like a teddy bear or a unicorn. There’s nothing cute about hantavirus, the plague, or typhus. Also, if I see a cockroach, I will vomit.

My apartment is nothing special on the outside, just one of several identical, white-sided buildings toward the back of Wild Oaks complex, which sits next to a marsh populated with snowy egrets, great blue herons, and the occasional alligator. Inside it’s my special hiding place, my haven, abundantly stocked with books, blankets, and coffee.

However, I don’t love my new neighbor—the one who leaves his trash by his door and blasts country music so loud that it penetrates my bedroom wall, the thud of the bass drum like tiny boxing gloves against my eyeballs as I’m trying to fall asleep.

The trash bags are worse than the music. He leaves them by his door for days. This one wasn’t here when I returned from my morning run which means it’s not infested yet. Which means if I take it to the dumpster, I won’t have rodents knocking on my door or leaving their droppings on my Hello Kitty welcome mat tonight.

I heave out a sigh. Just this once I’ll do his dirty work. Afterward, I’ll tape a note to his door telling him I’m not his janitor and if he keeps smelling up our breezeway with his rotten food, I’m calling the property manager.

With a huff, I grab the bag and lug it to the stairs. The steps are wood, the dark stain worn away by shoes and sand and rain. They’re also wide, so if I fall it won’t hurt as much. As an Indiana girl, I’ve walked up and down my share of icy stairways, enough times to consider how I might slip to my death on these things.

I clutch the railing with one hand, the trash bag in the other, all well and good until my neighbor’s trash bag splits open. My horrified eyes watch the deluge of refuge as it tumbles around me. I fly down the stairs to keep an empty spaghetti jar from shattering on the sidewalk.

If only I could fly, I think, as my feet slip out from under me. I say hello to my Boho Beach Hut beaded sandals before slamming down on my right butt cheek.

I’ve never squeezed a human out of my pelvis but I’m pretty sure my gluteus maximus is contracting in preparation for childbirth. The pain knocks the breath out of me. I lie back, eyes squeezed shut and gasping for what feels like five minutes before the fire in my rear starts to recede. (No diarrhea jokes. This is serious.)

I literally busted my butt because my neighbor can’t clean up after himself. He owes me worker’s compensation. And money for laundry because something wet is oozing through my trousers. Not a good look for my date with Chance.

I sit gingerly and grab the handrail. As I pull myself to my feet, a wiry-haired guy walks by, eyeballing my mess. His squatty hound dog lifts its nose and tests the various odors I accidentally unleashed. The guy gives me a confused brow furrow and keeps on walking.

“Thanks. I got it under control,” I mumble to his back.

I limp to my apartment, grab a new trash bag, and commence my cleanup effort.

You can learn a lot about a man by his trash. My neighbor likes Coke Zero a lot . He also likes melons. Various types of melons. Watermelon, honeydew, cantaloupe. His breakfast of choice is Sausage, Egg, kissing emoji Love you.

Love you too. Bye.

I dab on a little more blush, roll clear gloss over my lips, drop my phone into my purse, and then pause in the kitchen, remembering the note I planned to leave my neighbor. After all I went through for his trash, the note is happening, time crunch or no.

I slap my purse on the island and dig through my junk drawer. The only writing utensil I can find is a pen with pink ink. No matter. He’ll get the point. I grab a Post-it and let loose.

I hope this message finds you well. Since you moved in, a couple of things have been bothering me. First, you often leave trash by your front door. I took the liberty of disposing of it today. (You’re welcome.) Kindly escort your trash to the dumpster in a timely fashion to avoid attracting unwanted pests.

Also, I’ve noticed your music can get quite loud, especially while I’m trying to sleep. I understand everyone has their tastes, but please lower the volume, particularly the bass drum. I would greatly appreciate it, as would our neighbors, I’m sure.

And stop leaving your clothes on the railings to dry. This is America. We have dryers for that.

Thanks, your conscientious neighbor.

Satisfied with my assertiveness, I rip off a square of packaging tape and adhere it to the top of the Post-it for reinforcement. Then, I beeline to his apartment and slap my note on his door like I’m Martin Luther during the Protestant Revolution. Wind, rain, Sharknado. It’s not going anywhere.

My right rear twinges as I peer down the stairway. What was a moderate burning has turned into throbbing. I’m sorry, Chance. I need to cancel because I broke my butt.

That weird conversation is never happening. Besides, I’m committed to this date. I’ve had on three and a half outfits, I’ve done my makeup twice, and I’m riding high on endorphins from the nastygram I just wrote.

Stairs, let’s do this.

I descend without incident, each step like a two-alarm fire in my backside. My Kia Sportage waits for me, and I limp there in decent time. When I’m settled in as comfortably as possible given my posterior challenges, I hit the Start button, scratch the back of my head, feel something fall onto my shirt, look down...

And throw up all over my black capris.