Chapter 3 #2
And structure matters. It keeps me from unraveling completely. It gives me something to hold onto when my mind veers into the dark on a random Tuesday before I’ve even had coffee.
But the best part isn’t the view or the privacy.
It’s my neighbor.
Lina.
I won’t admit it to anyone. Not even my therapist.
Lina Lafferty is a saint disguised as a person. A little nosy, yet somehow warm enough to make an entire hallway feel less like an empty corridor and more like someplace meant for living. On good days, she knocks, asking for sugar—always with a hopeful smile and a story tucked somewhere behind it.
I know it’s an excuse. I think she knows I know. And I still invite her inside, hand her the sugar, and listen, because she seems alone. Too lonely. Life choices, she said. Things you need to do for family that at the end . . . weren’t.
Mrs. Lafferty is the type of person who remembers birthdays without trying, who waters plants that aren’t hers when someone’s out of town, who waves at everyone like she believes the world responds to kindness. The entire building loves her.
Mrs. Lafferty is someone so nice, but lonely. I hope someone visited while I was away. Maybe tomorrow I’ll knock on her door, asking for something or another with the excuse that I don’t have groceries. That’s a problem for another day.
The sedan eases to a stop. The driver shifts the car into park, and I’m still staring ahead, thoughts spinning around me like someone took the snow globe of my life and shook it without warning.
“We’re home, sir,” he says softly, like I might need the reminder.
I want to tell him that I’m not “Sir,” just Alec. I don’t. Instead, I open the door. Cold, crisp air rushes in, carrying the scent of the bay. The breeze moves across my face and settles me better than any breathing exercise my yogi ever forced on me.
I step out, boots hitting the pavement. Another step. Then one more, and the door shuts behind me, cutting off the violins.
But I don’t move toward the lobby.
I stand there, taking in my reflection in the glass, daylight stretching across the windows behind me. The city keeps moving, unaware. And I realize my mind hasn’t stopped unraveling since the runway—talking, spiraling, running circles around itself.
Not exactly the triumphant return of a man who has his life sorted out.
I inhale slowly to take a moment where I remind myself I’m here and safe. I take a step forward when the driver calls out, “Sir? Your bags?”
Right. Yes. Bags. I didn’t even notice when he dragged them out of the trunk and beside me.
“Yeah,” I say, waving a hand. “I’ve got it. Thanks.”
He nods, rolls the window back up, and drives away, classical music fading with him.
Suddenly, I’m alone.
Instead of relief, something else moves under my ribs—restless and uneven, a shift pressing at me from the inside out. Like my place is waiting for me to step inside and face something I’m not ready for.
Like the city itself is pausing, as if it expects something from me.
I drag in a breath, then another, trying to get my lungs to behave. After a couple more, I walk toward the entrance. The lobby door glides open automatically.
And that’s when I hear it, the disturbance nearby.
Laughter.
It’s bright, a little wild, and so startlingly out of place that my body goes stock-still. It floats from behind the concierge desk, followed by a voice that’s entirely too cheerful for . . . well, for any hour of the day as far as I’m concerned.
“. . . no, Mila, sweetie, we do not press all the elevator buttons. I know they’re shiny. It’s very rude to press them all at the same time.”
I stop walking.
What the fuck?
Who’s pressing them, and why is there a child in this building? The board would combust. Mrs. Lafferty would write a three-page letter in cursive about it. So . . . it’s probably a visitor. It has to be.
Then they step into view.
A woman in a pink polka-dot raincoat, a camera bag strapped across her chest, red hair piled into a bun with strands curling everywhere, refusing to behave.
There’s glitter on one sleeve—actual glitter.
She looks exhausted, like she’s survived a marathon made of errands and caffeine, but she still radiates something warm that reaches across the lobby without permission.
She’s probably one of those people who apologize to furniture when she bumps into it.
Someone who could walk through a storm and somehow make it less miserable.
Beside her stands a little girl with a pink umbrella, rubber boots, and enormous eyes, taking in everything at once.
The woman looks up—and freezes when our eyes meet.
I freeze too.
It’s not because she’s beautiful, though she is. It’s . . . everything else. She looks alive in a way I haven’t been in years and filled with something impossible to pinpoint at this time. Something I’ve never had, if I’m being honest.
Hope?
Optimism?
I study her, and I think it could be actual sunlight in human form?
Whatever it is, I want nothing to do with it. I feel like Dracula about to turn into dust because she’s way too bright.
Her smile appears instantly—automatic, warm, so bright it feels aimed directly at me. “Hi. Sorry—we weren’t blocking anything, were we?”
I stare.
Words. I need actual words.
Nothing happens.
She tilts her head. “Are you okay?”
No.
Not remotely.
I haven’t been okay since before the world was created.
The little girl studies me with a level of suspicion I reserve for overly enthusiastic life coaches. “Maybe the mouse caught his tongue—like that story you read to me once.”
My brow creases. She looks like a small child but sounds like she’s been negotiating with bureaucrats longer than I’ve been alive.
“He could be broken,” she adds with complete seriousness.
My jaw drops. “I’m not—”
“Mila,” the woman whispers, mortified, leaning down. “Remember, we talked about keeping our thoughts to ourselves? And we don’t call people broken.”
The girl shrugs. “But he looks stuck, like my Elmo when it stopped dancing.”
Phenomenal.
My ego has already left the building, and I’ve been compared to fucking Elmo.
The woman straightens and steps forward, offering her hand. “Sorry. She’s been awake since five . . .” Her eyes flick over me, as if calculating something. “New York time. It’s been a long day. I’m Mara.”
Of course she is. Mara. A name that fits her—bright and full of life, like a patch of sunlight after months of gray skies.
I stare at her hand.
I should shake it.
Introduce myself.
Behave like someone raised by actual humans.
Instead, I mutter, “I live here,” which might be the most embarrassing sentence I’ve said this year. “Are you visiting? Because the building has a no children policy.”
She raises an eyebrow—one that says she’s heard far worse from far grumpier men. Before I can backpedal, toned down just enough to feel disarming, still carrying that unmistakable spark that seems built into her.
“We’re not visiting,” she says lightly. “We’re . . . it’s complicated.”
Mila brightens instantly. “We’re neighbors now.”
I blink at them. “You . . . moved in? Here?”
“Tempo—”
“Stop saying that word, Mom,” Mila groans, dragging out the syllables like she’s being personally victimized by vocabulary. She practically slides down her raincoat in dramatic despair.
Mara sighs. “Fine. It’s not permanent. Better?”
Mila rolls her eyes so dramatically it’s hilarious. And I would’ve laughed—actually laughed—if I wasn’t too busy having a miniature existential crisis over the fact that these two rays of daylight are now living in this building. Temporarily or not.
“The point is that we’re moving here.” Mara straightens, her raincoat shifting with the motion. “Unless there’s an official form somewhere that says joyful people and children are prohibited.” She glances down at Mila, who beams up at her. “And if that exists, good luck trying to evict us.”
Mila leans forward again, her small face scrunched in intense concentration as she inspects me. “He looks worse than earlier. Should we help him or just go for food?”
Mara’s eyes widen, but instead of scolding her daughter, she gives me a sympathetic smile—sweet, apologetic, carrying a silent message any sane person would read as: You poor man.
Brace yourself. We’re not going anywhere, and this little goblin is going to make your life miserable before she steals your favorite shirt.
She takes Mila’s hand and starts toward the exit. Halfway there, the little girl turns, lifts her umbrella like it’s a wand, and calls out, “Goodbye, Mr. Neighbor.”
They head out, and I’m left standing in the lobby with my pulse trying to climb out of my throat.
Maybe I’m wrong, and she’s a magical girl who’ll curse me in some way or another if I don’t do what she says. Either way, I’m doomed.
Fucking doomed.