Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Alec
Some people wake up refreshed. I wake up negotiating with my sanity.
There are only three things I need in the morning to stay functional:
Silence.
Coffee.
More silence.
That’s it. That’s the entire list. If anyone ever asked what I need to stay even remotely emotionally stable, I’d just point at my French press and gesture at the quiet wrapped around me like insulation. Which doesn’t make much sense, considering the one thing I love most is playing drums.
I never said my life—or anything about me—makes sense.
The point is, I’m a walking contradiction.
Sometimes I’m calm after banging on my drums for hours.
Other times I meditate—though I don’t enjoy it and probably never will.
I do it because I have to. It keeps a lid on the anger I was born with. Like it came stamped into my DNA.
My friends say I turn into the Hulk when I’m pissed. They’re not exactly wrong. I’m no superhero, and I’m definitely not turning green, but back in the day, losing my temper meant broken furniture . . . or someone unconscious on the floor.
Not my finest moments.
I regret most of it. I regret the collateral damage.
I regret the version of me who couldn’t hold himself together.
I want to believe I’ve put distance between who I was and who I’m trying to be.
I’m nowhere near perfect—not even close—but I’m working on it.
Slowly. Clumsily. One day, maybe when I’m eighty, I might reach the point where I look in the mirror and think, Yeah, that’s a man I don’t mind being.
For now, mornings like this help—the silence, the warmth of the mug in my hands, the illusion that the world can stay calm if I stay calm. If only this moment could last. But of course it can’t.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor, because less than twenty-four hours after the two human sunbeams moved in next door, my peace is already evaporating. It starts with singing. Faint, off-key singing through the wall. High-pitched and fucking cheerful.
It’s enthusiastic in the way only a child with zero awareness of human suffering can manage.
I freeze mid-stride on the balcony, hold my breath, and pray it’s the TV. It isn’t—I don’t even own one. It’s the tiny pink-umbrella demon.
Before I can tell her to stop, I hear her chirp, “Hey, Moooom, if we lived in the rainforest, would our house flood? We should go to the next. Do you know how big frogs are there? Can frogs have feelings? What if a frog cries—can you hear it? Wait, can frogs cry? Why is crying wet? Do plants cry? Their leaves get wet, so maybe—”
I close my eyes. I’m not a bad person. I’m not. But I understand now—very intimately—why monks take vows of silence or move into mountains. There has to be a reason, and this is it.
I try to drown her out by retreating deeper into the house, but nothing competes with Rainforest Frog Philosophy happening next door.
I should go upstairs and practice my drums. Or drink my coffee inside my soundproofed room.
Maybe move in there for the next year. The third option—the one I hate—is moving out. This is my life now, apparently.
Three taps hit my door. The sound is too cheerful and way too rhythmic. Suspiciously close to Lina’s old knock.
“God, no,” I mutter.
I open the door anyway, because apparently I hate myself, and there she is. The She-Devil.
Mara Lafferty—I think? Maybe? I haven’t bothered learning anything about her. I should call Eddie and have him pull some background. Actually, not some. A lot. Enough ammunition to get her out of here.
There are other nephews and nieces who can come and take over, right? Yes. Perfect plan. Go back to your globe trotting lifestyle and leave me alone.
I manage not to say any of that out loud—look at me, that tiny meditation earlier actually worked.
“Yeah?” I say to the red-haired woman in fuzzy socks, holding a mug. Her hair is in a bun that looks like it fought a blender and lost. Mila stands beside her, clutching a notebook the size of a dictionary.
“Morning,” Mara chirps.
She fucking chirps. Like a sparrow. During breeding season.
My eye twitches. “So, why are you here?” This has to be karmic punishment. I should go to yoga. Cleanse my soul. Maybe they’ll disappear by the time I’m back home.
Mila gasps like I just told her Santa punched the Easter Bunny. “You’re not supposed to say that, Mr. Grumpy-Neighbor. You’re supposed to say, ‘Good morning, how can I help you?’”
I try not to glare, but what the fuck? “I don’t recall signing up for customer service,” I mutter, polite enough to count as progress.
Mara winces slightly—like she’s used to being too bright and still surprises herself when it backfires. “We just wanted to bring you something,” she says.
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“This,” she says, holding out a steaming mug.
I don’t take it. I wait, because sunshine people always have an agenda.
“What is it you really want?”
“It’s tea,” she explains, smiling like she invented kindness. “Mila said you looked frazzled yesterday, and coffee can really mess with your chakras, so we thought—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “My what?”
“Your chakras,” Mila repeats, delighted to be the chaos courier. “They’re little wheels of energy in your body and—”
“No. I know what they are,” I growl, not telling her I already have a yogi who talks about them like they’re long-lost cousins trying to reconnect. I point at the mug. “I’m asking why you think my . . . chakras . . . need assistance.”
Mara bites her lip to keep from laughing.
I hate that I notice.
I hate more that it almost makes me smile.
“You looked like you were about to explode,” Mila says helpfully. “Like in those cartoons where the cat eats TNT and—boom.” She mimes the explosion with her hands and laughs.
The sound is contagious.
But I fight it.
Because I refuse to encourage these two.
“So,” Mara says with a brightness that feels unnatural for this hour, “I’ve been reading this holistic health book, and apparently, tea is good for the soul. Calming. Balancing. Far less likely to send someone into emotional combustion than coffee.”
Her voice is sunshine poured directly onto my nerves.
I stare at the mug she’s holding out as if it’s betrayed me in a previous life.
“I drink coffee,” I tell her. “Coffee.”
“Not today,” she chirps, the picture of early-morning optimism. Her eyes sparkle—actually sparkle—and I swear she takes pleasure in watching me endure this.
Before I can object, she places the mug into my hand. Reflex. Instinct. Some pathetic part of me obeys her.
Stupid hands.
“It’s chamomile and lavender,” she explains. “Good for soothing energy.”
I lift it to my nose.
“It smells like sadness and potpourri had a child.”
Mara bites back a grin, like she can read every thought marching through my head. Mila watches me with unfiltered interest, her small face tilted up, eyebrows raised with expectation.
“Do you feel calmer yet?” Mila asks.
“No.”
“Give it a minute,” she insists.
“He has to drink it first, sweetpea,” Mara says, like they’re observing wildlife at a zoo exhibit.
I blink at both of them—my early-morning intruders—trying to comprehend how this became my life. “So, why are you on my doorstep at 7:43 a.m.?”
Mara brightens even more—how is that physically possible?
—and the smile that curls her mouth is trouble.
Warm, wicked trouble. A smile that hits somewhere I don’t want to investigate, tugging at a part of me I’d rather keep dormant.
Absolutely not. I’m like a monk. Monks don’t think about pretty, tempting mouths or wonder what they taste like.
They take vows of celibacy—or whatever the hell mine counts as—because I’ve been abstinent since this latest time I sobered up.
No more drugs, no alcohol, and definitely no sex—not when I used all three to shove my emotions into a corner.
“We’re exploring, obviously,” Mara responds.
That smile. God help me.
It irritates me.
It distracts me.
It makes me want to kiss her senseless.
Which is bad. Very, very bad.
“Exploring what?” I ask, pretending my pulse hasn’t decided to sprint.
“Everything,” Mila says, flipping her notebook open with the enthusiasm of a pint-sized investigative reporter.
“But mostly: one, why the lobby smells like lemons. Two, how many floors does this building actually have? And three, why the man downstairs wears gloves all the time> Does he wear them even when it’s warm? Is he a cartoon character?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” I sigh instead of telling her that she might have already used up all the questions for today.
“Also, whether you have pets and—” She stops dramatically, like she’s about to reveal national secrets.
I take a sip of the tea and nearly grimace. Mara watches my mouth when I swallow, and something inside me stirs. Her expression softens in a way that shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does. There’s something impossibly kind in her gaze. Something alive and hopeful.
Even when her aunt died and . . . is her life good enough to be this happy? Maybe she’s one of those people who grew up happy and has had a very cushy life. That’s the only way I can understand why she’s this happy and cheery.
There’s no other way someone would be showing up at my door with tea and a kid and enough sunshine to blind a man who never learned how to let any in.
I clear my throat, trying to reposition the invisible barrier I keep between me and the rest of humanity fully back into place. It slips anyway.
“Mara,” I say, low, “I’m not awake enough for exploration.”
“That’s the fun part,” Mara chirps and that smile says it all. “We have to learn to manage our emotions—even when we’re barely awake.”
And I see it in her eyes, the whole I win, asshole. Next time, think twice before you fuck with me.
Of course, I pissed her off last night and this is revenge wrapped in bright sunshine and a very inquisitive child.
If I thought her questions were too much yesterday, she’s delivering the Spanish Inquisition at my door.
Oh, I’ll make sure to get back at her. She wants war?
I’ll show her I can play nasty. We’ll have an impromptu concert tonight.
Dead Moth Parade is back for a limited time in my living room. I’ll even bring my drums downstairs.
“So.” Mila beams up at me, tapping her notebook. “Do you have pets?”
I’m not sure which is more dangerous—whatever’s in that notebook . . . or whatever Mara is doing to me without even trying.
“No,” I cut in.
“No, what?” Mila asks.
“No to all five.”
She gapes at me. “Not all of them are yes or no. Critical thinking is very important for the development of a young brain and you . . . you might want to work on it. Plus, you didn’t let me finish.”
“I’ve noticed that he rarely lets anyone finish,” Mara mutters under her breath. “This is a good example of how you need to let people speak without interruptions, Mila. I’m glad that we were able to learn something today.”
“I heard that.” I frown.
She shrugs. “Good.”
Mila squints at my mug. “You’re holding the tea wrong.”
“Is there a right way?”
“Yes.” She grabs my wrist and adjusts the mug like she’s training me for a tea-drinking etiquette competition. “There. Now you won’t spill calming energy everywhere.”
I stare at Mara. Where the hell did her kid learn that? I’m starting to think she feeds her sunshine mixed with prepackaged bullshit. That should count as questionable parenting, right? I’ll look into it.
Mara just stares back, unbothered.
“You’ve been here less than a day,” I say slowly, “and my entire morning routine is in ruins.”
“Glad we’re making an impact,” she says, beaming. “My aunt would’ve loved that.”
I sigh. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“. . . alive.”
She laughs—a warm, startled sound that hits harder than it should.
“Sorry,” she says. “Mila has a lot of questions. And a lot of energy. And I’m . . . sharing the wealth.”
The kid tugs her sleeve. “Can I ask him the big question now?”
“No,” I say instantly.
“Yes,” Mara says at the same time.
Mila looks between us like she just discovered parental conflict and wants popcorn to go with it.
She steps forward. Notebook open. Pen ready. Eyes huge.
“Mr. Neighbor,” she begins solemnly, “why don’t you like children?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I rub my forehead. “I never said—”
“You implied it,” she counters.
I look at Mara. “This is your doing.”
She puts a hand on her hip. “Don’t look at me like that. She’s eight going on forty.”
“Eight going on interrogation officer,” I mutter.
Mila writes something down.
“What are you writing?” I ask.
“Notes,” she responds. “I’m solving you.”
“Please don’t.”
Mara snorts, her eyes lighting again. “Let’s go, Mila. I think he’s had enough for one morning.”
Mila laughs and goes to her mom. There really should be a law against this level of morning joy.
“Well,” Mara says cheerfully, “enjoy your tea.”
“I won’t.”
“You will,” she insists, already backing away toward her open door.
Mila waves. “Bye, Mr. Neighbor. I’ll write a list of follow-up questions for later.”
“No—”
The door closes in my face.
I stand there holding chamomile-lavender tea like an idiot.
Not in silence—in horror. In a faint, unwelcome warmth I refuse to identify.
Then I do the only thing I can do: I drink the fucking tea.
And my chakras, or whatever the hell is inside me, do actually feel . . . something.
I’m halfway to pretending none of that just happened when the elevator dings.
The doors glide open, and two movers step out, pushing a mountain of boxes. One holds a clipboard.
“Excuse me,” he says, scanning the hallway. “We’re looking for a Mara O’Shea. Got her delivery.”
I blink.
O’Shea? The last name sounds faintly familiar, but I’m more concerned about all these boxes coming in. What the fuck? That’s more stuff than anyone would use in an entire year.
I look at the closed door across from mine—the one the She-Devil just disappeared into.
The universe doesn’t hate me.
It’s targeting me personally. She’s going to stay here forever if I don’t do something soon.