Chapter Four
Oliver
“Before we start working on the new script, we need to punch up the next episode,” Emily, the senior head writer, announces to the loud groans of the entire seven-person team. “I know, I know. We need jokes, guys. We can do it.”
I especially hate this because I didn’t get any sleep last night. I woke up three times from the same dream. Dalton was chasing me up the stairs, trying to claw my eyes out because he wanted the roof all to himself.
Sounds hilarious, I know. But waking up to the memory of glowing eyes and an angry, bloody face shouting at you stops being funny after the first couple of times.
“What’s happening in the next episode again?” Robbie asks.
“Romila was about to stumble upon Ed's secret. I wrote that one. It was transcendental, that's what Oliver said,” Sophia reminds everyone.
I try to remember and nod aggressively. I’m a born people pleaser. Going overboard with compliments is my jam. “Yeah, of course.”
“Didn't she stumble upon his secret in the last episode?” Malik chimes in.
“Yes, we’re writing a paranormal show. She can almost stumble upon his secret more than once, Malik,” Sophia snides.
Emily claps her hands. Everyone turns to her. “It was transcendental, sure, but let's make it fun,” she says. “Pick up your scripts.”
It starts with Edwina, Romila, and Candace talking about prom.
"They end up going dress shopping, there's a dress-up montage, blah blah blah," Emily skims. "Let's look at when Romila goes to surprise Ed, but is about to discover his secret."
“Again,” Robbie rolls his eyes.
Romila is slowly walking around Ed's house, planning to climb up to his window.
While Emily recites the line, my mind is already on the next page, trying to come up with suggestions. Being the newest, youngest, and least experienced writer in the room, I'm always worried these successful, funny people will realize I shouldn’t be here.
I turn the page, glancing over the dialogue while Emily continues.
She places the ladder under his window and starts climbing.
Suddenly, she notices a large shadow in the window. Much larger than Ed. The shadow moves and leans forward on its hands, almost crawling. Her feet stop.
Here. Ed is trying to cover up whatever he was doing. Maybe I can insert a lame joke. Lame jokes always work in these episodes.
She sees glowing eyes.
Maybe he can have his laptop open, and he pushes it away as soon as Romila walks in.
Suddenly, the shadow is gone, and she can almost make out Ed sitting on his bed. Romila blinks a couple of times, doubting what she saw.
Romila thinks he’s watching porn, but maybe a page with Twilight fanfiction is open on the browser. That would be funny.
Romila climbs up, worried and confused. When she is at the window, she sees it's open. She climbs inside and finds Ed sitting on his bed.
I nod, determined. Sophia squints at me.
“So in this scene, maybe he immediately opens his laptop and sits in front of it to distract her, knowing he kind of screwed up. But his sister was using it right before this, and she left a Twilight fanfic open?”
“We can definitely do something with that,” Emily says. “Oliver is bringing all the punch-up energy today. Come on, guys. We need the whole team on this.”
“Suck up,” Sophia snarks, but she’s smiling.
I absolutely adore this team. I hope this weird werewolf teenage drama never ends.
***
By evening, I’m mentally exhausted but antsy. So, I bake. It's a great way to get rid of some of that extra energy. I’m not sociopathic enough to go for a run. And rooftop walks are officially on my ‘don’t even joke about it’ list.
After my second batch of cupcakes is out of the oven, I carefully ice the first with chocolate. Halfway through, my brain supplies the reason why I made so many. If unexpected guests show up, I won’t be unprepared.
My hands still.
It’s not just for Matt, alright? I love baking, and I want to see him licking the frosting off my cupcake. I mean, I want to thank him for being nice.
There. That makes sense. I go back to icing.
When my door is extremely un-knocked by 8 pm, I pace around the living room.
Maybe I should take the cupcakes over to Matt? No, that would be weird. The guy just came to check on me.
Wait, he could be working one of his shifts, right? I do a mental calculation of his weird hours. Yeah, that’s above my pay grade.
I look at the cupcakes covering my entire kitchen counter. Maybe I can use them for some sly detective work again?
I've never seen anyone on drugs react the way Dalton did. Not in any movies, TV shows, and definitely not in real life. Maybe I can go around, talk to a few neighbours? If they’ve seen him behave that way before, I’d definitely feel better, less lonely and terrified.
I desperately need some sleep, but the idea of closing my eyes and seeing Dalton’s angry face again scares me.
Giving the neighbors sweets is a kind, neighbourly thing to do, right? Besides, I've been procrastinating on visiting a lot of people anyway. I’ve interacted with almost everyone in the elevator, lobby, and once on the roof. It wouldn’t hurt to get to know them better.
That decided, I plate four of the cupcakes and take them to the eighth floor.
I'm not being nosy. I’m just getting to know my neighbours, starting from the first apartment on the top floor. It's just chronology.
The door opens immediately after the first knock. Beck, a lean, muscled guy with thick blonde hair running down his shoulders and a barbell piercing in his left eyebrow, never fails to stop and talk to me whenever we run into each other.
I internally groan. Did he have to be the first apartment?
The loud commentary coming from the television tells me I’m clearly interrupting something important. He glances at me, looks back at his television, then back to me. A slow smile spreads across his lips. His eyes assess me lazily.
“Hey, there,” he says.
I put on my best smile. “I got cupcakes.”
“Is that a euphemism?” He looks at my cupcakes.
Yeah, I’m not flirting back. One complicated neighbor relationship was more than enough for me.
“No, I brought real cupcakes.” I hold up the plate.
He snorts out a laugh and tilts his head. “You brought cupcakes.”
“I thought it was high time I got to know my neighbors. Your apartment is the first.”
“Huh, I would think I'd be the last,” he says, his smile somehow getting wider.
“Maybe I started upside down,” I say, with an ‘oops, silly me’ expression.
“Sure you did.” He opens the door and gestures me in.
I walk into what looks like the most clichéd definition of a bachelor pad. A large leather couch sits in the middle of the living room, with a giant television right in front of it, and two barcaloungers sit on either side.
There’s an open pizza box on the floor. The kitchen on the right looks exactly like mine, but instead of cupcakes, it's filled with dirty dishes and a couple more pizza boxes. The unused stove has dust gathering on it.
Beck sits on the couch, his eyes flitting between me and the television. The television wins, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. I want to know about Dalton, but not enough to lead this guy on. Definitely not enough to sleep with him.
I sit on one of the barcaloungers. He clearly chose football over me, and I’m weirdly okay with how quickly our love affair ended.
“I’ve passed your door so many times when I visited Mr. Smith,” I start while he watches the game.
He leans back and looks at me. “Wait, the creepy guy next door? You talk to him?” His face narrows in disgust.
“A couple of times,” I say vaguely.
“Really? He never talked to me. I may have greeted him once or twice, but the guy honestly seemed wacky.”
I make my most interested face.
“But hey, man, if you were friends, I'm not judging you. Like you do you.”
“I wouldn't say he was my friend. Did you see him do anything weird?” I prompt.
He’s back to looking at the television. I almost feel insulted now. Should I have worn my nice shirt instead of my cupcake-batter-covered, “Go Away, I’m Writing” T-shirt?
“Weird how?” he asks, absentminded.
“You said he was wacky,” I remind him, keeping my voice neutral.
“I mean, he didn’t, like, get out much. And the couple of times that we accidentally opened our doors together, I would smile, and he would, like, glare at me until I went back or out.
He was a scary dude,” he says, shaking his head.
“And all those muscles? At his age? My guess, he works out, like, the entire day. His apartment must be just gym equipment and protein powder.”
I nod.
“But you’ve visited his place, right? Did he work out a lot?”
“Yes,” I say confidently. How else would he have all those muscles?
“Do you work out? Because you’re wearing the hell out of that T-shirt,” he leers at me.
“Not if I can help it,” I awkwardly joke.
He laughs.
Well, that's a nice ego boost. But worth the cupcakes? Weirdly, yes. I’ve been feeling off my game lately.
“So, maybe I'll see you around,” I say, getting up.
“What, you're leaving already?”
“Yeah, many houses to cover, cupcakes to deliver.”
I start walking out. If he saw something, he’d have definitely shared.
“Did he give you his number by any chance?” No harm in asking.
Beck looks at me, suspicious. “No, why?”
“Oh, I just wanted to check if he’s fine. Haven’t seen him around lately.”
“Right. Nah, man, he was a loner who wanted to be left alone. I would give him what he wants if I were you,” he suggests ominously.
“Right.” I rush back outside.
On cue, my stomach grumbles, reminding me that it’ll stage a riot if I don’t get a move on.