Chapter 5
Danni
I shove a foam pillow between my bum and the driver’s seat to protect my bruised derriere. Before pushing my Kia’s Start button, I peek up at Chance’s living room window. The mini blinds are closed. I’m pretty sure he’s not spying on me. Not sure why he would be.
Not sure why on earth I wound up on a date with my arrogant neighbor who blares country music at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. This Sunday morning. You’d think he’d be tuckered out by all the chest puffing and train rattling he did last night.
What are the odds? Did he comb the internet obsessively before choosing Wild Oaks? Or did he just grab a map and jab it with a thumbtack? Does it matter? Is fate more significant if it’s random or planned?
I spent hours poring over the internet before I decided to move here. I checked Google Maps, Google Earth, crime maps, remodeled downtown flats, suburban apartment complexes. Rent in Charleston can be steep. Luxury apartments abound with tennis courts, coffee bars, courtyards, and poolside hammocks. I’d love those amenities but the rent doesn’t fit my budget.
After hours of research, I settled on Wild Oaks Apartments, a reasonable thirty-minute drive to work, depending on traffic. I lucked into my marshland view. The previous tenants backed out of their contract and my name was first on the waiting list. In less than a week, I packed up my Fishers apartment in Indiana, rented a U-Haul, and moved to Charleston. No moving guys, no driving buddy, no help. All me.
I never had time to feel lonely. My job at JetAero started the day after I drove down, and I quickly made friends, naturally gravitating to Morgan and Kayla, who are Charleston-transplants like me, in their mid-twenties, and single. They live together in an apartment on James Island, splitting the rent to make it reasonable.
It’s twenty miles to their place, about thirty minutes driving time. Traffic in Charleston is light at ten thirty on a Sunday, and likewise on US 17 as I head southwest into James Island, which is a relatively small town on the other side of the Ashley River that’s bordered by tidal creeks and marshland.
Before meeting up with my friends, I make a quick stop at Mama J’s Kitchen to pick up our food. The quaint diner is decorated with variegated wood paneling, fifties-style furniture, and hanging lights. Behind the counter, a bountiful display of fresh breads, bagels, and pastries beckon hungry stomachs and eager taste buds. The gal behind the counter wishes me a good morning before handing over my food. My bagel breakfast sandwich with bourbon bacon jam makes me want to skip to my car, but I can’t because skipping hurts, so I limp instead while the sun shines down assertively–not too hot yet, just the perfect amount of sizzle on my arms.
Unlike downtown Charleston where mature oak trees provide a canopy for the road, the trees along Folly Road are young, less impressive, giving the cityscape a feeling of impermanence. A ten-minute drive leads me to Saltmarsh Pier Apartments. I turn in and peel off to the right, following the winding road between three-story siding-clad units that sit on the edge of the marsh.
Squeals and grabbing hands attack me when I enter the apartment. Morgan takes the food, and Kayla grabs the drink tray. We shuffle past the gas fireplace into a dining area with floor-to-ceiling bay windows that provide generous sunlight.
“Mine. Yours. Yours,” Morgan says as she peeks at the wrapped sandwiches. “Mine. Mine. Who got the fruit bowl?”
“I did.” I grab the Styrofoam container.
Morgan stands a little taller than me, her blonde hair wavy and her skin flawless. The slight bump in her nose and thinnish upper lip make her gorgeousness more relatable.
“Where’s my hash brown patty?” Kayla asks.
“Here.” Morgan drops a circle of hash browns into Kayla’s outstretched hand.
Kayla is a head shorter than me. Her black, wiry curls defy taming and her pronounced hourglass shape turns heads. She’s wearing high-waisted workout shorts that show off her thicc thighs (as she calls them), and her tight T-shirt accentuates her voluminous chest.
“Where are we eating?” I ask through a mouthful of pineapples and grapes.
“Living room,” Morgan says. She ushers us that way.
I settle onto the plush couch across from the fireplace, Morgan claims the cushion next to me, and Kayla chooses the side chair in front of the picture window.
“Oh my,” Morgan says after her first bite. “This is amazing. I was so hungry.” She devours another bite.
“What did you guys do without me last night?” I spear a grape and pop it into my mouth.
“We were lost. Totally lost,” Kayla says.
“She’s lying,” Morgan says. “No Endangered Person Advisories were required. We were here trying to decide on a movie, wondering how we can have so many freaking channels but nothing good to watch.”
“ Spinal Tap ,“ I say before noshing on my sandwich.
Morgan and Kayla look at me blankly.
“It’s a movie. We should watch it. ‘As you can see, the numbers all go to eleven.’” I employ my best English accent.
They still look confused. Understandably.
“It’s a comedy my sister and I used to watch. My mom had it on VHS. Among other things. Her VHS library could put a public library to shame.”
“When you say library, I think you mean archives,” Morgan says.
I nod with my mouth full.
Kayla pushes up her glasses, the black frames matching the rogue curl on her forehead. “I take it back,” she says. “I think we would have been just as lost if you were here.”
I shrug and take another bite.
“Never mind what we did,” Morgan says. She wads up her sandwich wrapper and moves on to her grits. “What did you do? How did your date go?”
Laughter shoots a piece of food up my nose and I dissolve into a coughing fit while my friends wait patiently for me to finish. As I’m wiping my eyes, Morgan asks, “That bad?”
“So bad,” I choke out. I dab my eyes with my napkin.
Morgan leans toward me, her beaded bracelets jangling on her wrist. “Tell us everything. I want to laugh too.” She stands and wanders into the kitchen. “Preferably without choking myself.”
“I’m your comic relief. I get it.”
“Your date is our comic relief,“ Kayla corrects.
“You are so much more than comedy.” Morgan reappears with a water bottle. “Didn’t I predict your date would be a train wreck?”
“I’m not sure train wreck covers it. He used an avatar.” I grab my phone, open MatchAI, and pull up Chance’s profile. “See this guy?” I angle my phone toward them. Morgan walks over and squints at the screen.
“I could overlook a lot for that,” Kayla says.
Morgan concurs. “He’s hot.”
“He doesn’t exist. He’s AI-generated.”
Kayla gasps.
Morgan’s eyebrows nearly touch her hairline. “Your date uploaded a fake picture of a fake person?”
“Yes.”
Her eyebrows plummet to normal resting position. “What does the real Chance look like?”
“Look at this picture and think opposite.”
Morgan settles onto her heels and crosses her arms. “Short, fat, bald fifty-year-old with advanced rosacea?”
“No. Dark hair, dark eyes.”
“Short?”
“No.”
“Advanced rosacea?”
“No.”
“Horrible dresser?”
“No.”
Kayla bypasses Morgan’s questioning and gets to the point. “Is he hot?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s a jerk.”
“Is he hot?” Morgan presses.
I spin around—carefully—stretch out my legs and prop my head on a throw pillow. My gaze rests on the blue and turquoise Mark Rothko print above the couch. “Maybe.”
Morgan walks over and sits on my shins, her pelvic bones drilling into my legs. “Ow. Your butt bones feel like Chinese throwing stars.”
“There are benefits to being thicc,” Kayla says.
Morgan stands. “Move your chicken legs.” I bend my knees to give her room.
“How could a date with a hot guy be a train wreck?” Morgan asks.
“Trust me. It was. For one, his profile picture was fake. For two, he knows he’s a ten.”
Their jaws flap open.
“He’s a ten?” Kayla gasps.
I shouldn’t have said that. “It doesn’t matter. He was rude, arrogant, stuck-up, rude. Did I already say stuck-up?”
Morgan leans back against the couch. Her expression turns thoughtful. “But,” she says slowly. “He’s hot.”
“So,” I say.
“A few dates. Some knee-buckling kisses. A make-out session or two. It’s not like you’re agreeing to marry him.”
“I don’t find arrogance attractive.”
“Depending on the face it’s attached too, I may be able to put up with it for a few dates,” Kayla says. “Can I have his number?”
“No. Trust me. Any make-out session with him would be self-serving. On his end.”
“I might want to be the judge of that,” Kayla says.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be so shallow. It’s not all about looks. You don’t know the worst of it yet.”
Morgan perks up. “There’s more?”
I mentally fast forward through the date, skipping the part where his lips almost turned me into a puddle on the dance floor, pausing by the paddlewheel. “He’s a player.”
“How do you know?” Kayla asks.
“He’s on a dozen dating sites, and he admitted he just goes on dates to hook up.”
Morgan’s blue eyes narrow. “He told you this?”
“Pretty much. He was ogling a blonde girl behind me while we were eating dinner.”
“How rude.”
Kayla nods in agreement.
“And...”
“There’s more?” Morgan clasps her hands in a mix of disgust and glee, my train wreck of a date providing oodles of rubbernecking entertainment.
“He followed me home.”
“What?!” Morgan shouts. “He’s a stalker?”
“No. He’s my neighbor.”
Morgan and Kayla gape at me.
“Huh?” Kayla finally manages.
“You know. The neighbor I’ve been complaining about. The one who leaves his clothes on the railing and his trash by the door.”
“The one who blasts country music at all hours of the morning and night!” Kayla confirms.
“Yep.”
“You hate him,“ Morgan says.
“Exactly.”
Morgan settles back and pulls her feet onto the cushion. “You went on a date with the guy who happens to also be the neighbor you hate... That’s epic.”
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
“It’s serendipitous,” Kayla tries.
I grab my phone, pull up Google, and type in serendipitous. The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way. “No. That’s not the word I’d use either.”
“I have to see this guy,” Morgan says wistfully. “You need to get a Ring doorbell so we can spy on him.”
“Being a ten does not make up for being a jerk. There will be no spying on him. None whatsoever. He hates me even more now than he did after our date.”
“Did you yell at him for playing his honky-tonk too loud?” Kayla asks.
“Sort of. Before our date, I took his trash to the dumpster for him, and while doing so, slipped and fell violently on my behind, which prompted me to write a nastygram on a Post-it and tape it to his door with extra-strong packaging tape.”
Morgan cackles while Kayla peers at me through her glasses, her expression vaguely amused.
“It’s not funny. Look.” I stand and pull down my shorts just enough for them to see the massive blue and purple bruise covering three-quarters of my right butt cheek.
Their combined gasp sucks more air than a jet engine.
“Oh my gosh,” Morgan says. “Danni! Does it hurt?”
“Only when I move.”
“He did that to you?” Kayla asks.
“Sorta. I mean. Taking his trash to the dumpster was my idea, but I wouldn’t have had to if he wasn’t such a slob.” I ease myself onto the couch.
“You win,” Morgan says.
“The prize for the worst date ever?”
She nods. “You’ll laugh about it someday.”
“I’ll laugh about it now,” Kayla says, chuckling.
“It’s okay. I blame Christopher.” Christopher, our boss. The one who gifted me the tickets that led to the date that led to the disfiguration of the junk in my trunk.
“He’ll want to hear all about it tomorrow,” Morgan says.
“Should I lie?”
“No,” Kayla says. “He needs to know your date injured your derriere.”
“I’m not showing him my bruise.”
“Definitely not,” Morgan agrees. “He used to work in HR. He’d probably write you up.”
We continue chatting about work, about the team-building events coming up, whether or not we’re going to partake, although I’m not sure we have a choice. Christopher planned them and he’s writing our annual reviews. One of the performance metrics is our willingness to be a team player, to participate in the growth of other team members, and to contribute positively to team dynamics.
After an hour of random chatting, the trauma on my backside throbs its way to my forehead. The inflammation wears on me like a low-grade fever. I excuse myself so I can go home and rest.
Relief descends on my shoulders when I enter my apartment, my happy place, my haven. Two large bookshelves hug the left corner of the living room, my chaise lounge in front of them. A copy of The Silent Patient sits face down next to a half-melted Bath & Body Works candle, waiting for me to pick up where I left off. But before I do, I need ten minutes of nature gazing while nursing a Sprite, my mom’s medicine of choice for sore throats. My throat isn’t sore, but I could use some medicine. And my mom. She passed away two years ago, and every memory of her—even the good ones—comes with a sting.
I wish I could call her and tell her about my horrendous date. We’d giggle together, talk about my first and last date with Gerald Garner who threw up on my shirt as he leaned in to kiss me. That was my worst date ever, but last night’s takes a close second.
I grab a can of Sprite, exit my apartment through the sliding glass door, and settle onto the hanging egg chair that I found at Big Lots. With my heels anchored on the deck, I push myself gently to rock away the ball of sadness in my chest. This will pass. It always does.
I pop open my can, take a swing. When my eyes meet the horizon again, I see him.
Without a shirt on.
My stomach lurches and my muscles become liquidy and warm. I watch him hang his wet clothing along his balcony railing, something I know he often does, but I didn’t know he did it half-naked.
I. Don’t. Even. Blink. I just cringe inwardly as the Sprite fizzes, pops, and bubbles loudly in my can.
After laying out his clothes, he turns to go inside.
He sees me.
We lock eyes.
We both sneer.
My heart races like Seabiscuit’s hooves on a race track. This does not affect my sneer in the slightest. I successfully maintain my expression until he re-enters his apartment. And then I flop back, my arms noodle-y and weak.
I will not tell Morgan and Kayla that I swooned, for the second time, over Chance. What I will tell them is that my haven has been compromised. And I am not amused.