CHAPTER 11
Sybil
Every morning for the following two weeks, the chime on my doorbell camera woke me.
Bill would bark and yip, nails clambering up and down the stairs until he’d drag me out of bed. Nash had created a monster. It was irritating, but also admirable and, yeah, a little cute. I admired Nash’s resilience and dedication to Bill’s culinary happiness.
This morning, Bill didn’t bother waiting for the chime of the doorbell. He climbed out of bed unceremoniously early. Mr. Beans and I enjoyed a few blessed moments of silence, and it was nice, but I couldn’t fall back asleep.
Glancing at the clock, I picked up my phone and turned my doorbell camera on. My growing curiosity shamelessly wanted to sneak a live glimpse of Nash in the act. He’d been so patiently consistent, and I liked that.
Soon enough, a familiar tall, dark figure appeared across the street, making its way toward my stoop. He had a confident gait, natural and unbothered; it was infectious.
I heard Bill bark as he neared. Nash addressed Bill in return, giving him a whistle through the door.
The sound of his whistle was luscious, even through the dullness of the tiny camera speaker.
My toes curled, and I pulled my knees to my chest to quell the heated feeling that bled to the tips of my limbs.
“Good morning, buddy,” he crooned.
I could hear Bill both from inside and out; he was half crazed.
Nash placed the bag on the stoop in the corner as always, backing away down the steps. He slid his hands into his pockets and stood statuesque, listening to Bill’s speech. He was stalling. Usually, he’d ring the bell and walk away, but today was different.
Nash looked to the camera then, as though he could see me. “Good morning, neighbor.” His lip tilted.
I sucked in a sharp breath. Could he tell I was watching him? Did the camera have an indicator light?
Holy hell, it did.
Or did it? I made a note to double-check that later. My cheeks heated as embarrassment barreled through me.
Without another word, Nash turned and walked down the street. I gawked, helpless, staring far too long at the empty sidewalk and falling leaves.
I wanted him to come back. Why did I want him to come back? I could almost picture myself answering the door, and that felt… strange.
Closing the camera app, I grabbed Mr. Beans and slid from bed before Bill could begin his treks up and down the stairs. It was excellent exercise for him—I had to admit—but I worried about the integrity of the wood against the exuberance of his scratchy nails.
Reaching the landing, I made a note to order more socks, noticing how much cooler it was. Fall was here to stay. My mind filled with all the fun sock patterns I might find. I could spend an entire day just shopping for socks. I opened the door and retrieved the bag.
In the kitchen, I grabbed a little dog bowl out of the cabinet, setting it down on the counter with Mr. Beans and opening the bag. As expected, there was a sticky note attached to the clear pastry container, but when I pulled it out, I slowed before setting it down.
Below the customary “For Bill” in fat Sharpie was a phone number and a question.
“How do you like your coffee?”
My breathing ceased.
This was bold. My mind flooded with concerning questions—worst of all, did he expect me to drink the coffee with him? Call him? Maybe just text.
I plucked the sticky note from the container and added it to the collection growing on my fridge.
Turning back to the newest treat, something resembling a frosted donut, I unpackaged it and placed it in the center of the dish.
I set the plate on the floor and filled Bill’s water bowl with fresh water.
Grabbing Mr. Beans his tuna pate can from the cabinet, I kept ruminating over Nash’s question. Mr. Beans let out an obnoxious yowl and bumped my hand as I opened the can. It spilled, pouring out, and Mr. Beans was quick to reap the benefits. “Geez, Mr. Beans. Chill.”
I could ask Cat what to do, but I worried about the repercussions. It almost wasn’t worth telling her. I already knew what she’d say. Cat would urge me to text him an answer, challenge me to do the uncomfortable thing, of course she would.
So maybe I should?
I picked up my phone with one hand, my other going to my mouth as I nibbled at my cuticle. But, if I did it right now, would that be too desperate?
I eyed the number, adding it to my phone. That was a step in the right direction, although it made me sweat a little. I now had two phone numbers in my contacts.
What if I just confided in Nash about my anxiety?
Being upfront could ease my fear of getting too friendly with him too fast. If I put it out there, he’d know what he was getting into and could duck out gracefully. I mean, he wasn’t giving up, and by now you’d think he would.
I sighed. “Come on, Sybil. You’re almost thirty. It’s time we grew up,” I chided myself out loud.
I glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes had passed since he left. I couldn’t wait forever, could I? Would it be strange to text him now, or would that seem like I wasn’t interested? Would he assume I wasn’t interested if I didn’t reply at all? Would he give up? Did I even want him to give up?
I felt a twinge of desperate fear at that thought.
Okay.
If I were going to live up to facing self-doubt—the entire purpose of my last painting—then this would be the time to do it. I should just go for it. Rip the band-aid off and dive right in. The universe was giving me this chance for a reason; don’t be an idiot.
Bill was licking his bowl, letting it clatter against the floor.
Opening my camera app, I took a picture of Bill. I’d break the ice with an image. Before thinking too much into it, I sent the picture to Nash.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I set my phone face down on the counter like a hot potato, crossing my arms as though in defense of what the phone might do next.
“There, I did it,” I announced to the powers that be.
The silence of the room was deafening. After what felt like ten minutes, I snapped out of it, grabbed a bowl, and poured my customary cereal—even though I wasn’t hungry. I forced myself to eat, looking back at the phone every few minutes, frustration growing.
Why hadn’t he replied right away? Was that a sign? Should I let it go? Was I being too forward?
I was being too forward.
Deep down, I’d hoped that he was waiting for me to text him, like Bill waited for his treat. Maybe Nash wasn’t as eager as I’d hoped. Maybe I’d misread this. Maybe he was just being neighborly. Maybe this is just what neighbors did.
My phone dinged, and I all but dove for it, spoon clattering to the counter as Mr. Beans dove in to lick up the milk. Never a missed opportunity.
I couldn’t help the disappointment when I saw it was Cat.
Cat: Just checking in!
I growled at the phone.
Me: All good.
My reply was brief. I was busy—too busy to chat. She was clogging the universal text waves.
“Go away,” I whispered.
Cat: Great! I’ll be swinging by later, okay?
Me: Sounds good.
Grumbling, I tossed my bowl in the sink and moved to the front room, throwing myself into my oversized armchair like a dramatic damsel. Bill trotted after me. Ten minutes in, and already this was un-survivable.
“Chill out, Sybil,” I scolded myself again.
What on earth was more important than replying to me?
I picked at my sweatshirt sleeve, turning on my latest audiobook from the app. It began playing through the speakers in the room. I tried to fall into the book, but found my thoughts drifting off every minute or so.
I replayed the same chapter over again.
My phone dinged.