Chapter 4
“ You ,” the face says, squinting at me as though he’s trying to come to terms with my presence right outside his home.
I’m at a loss for words. This man, Eli Whitman, was sort of a client of mine because of his ex-girlfriend Sarah. I’ve only ever met either of them over Zoom. I usually insist on being in person, but Sarah was referred to me by a friend from college, so I didn’t want to say no, even though she was in the UK. Sarah was so mortified to even be talking to a couples counselor that she thought the idea of someone on a different continent was actually a plus.
Our sessions started with just her, and they didn’t last more than a few weeks. She was practically a textbook case—a calm, quiet woman in her midthirties who wanted to ignore all the relationship red flags because she was ready to settle down. But she was admittedly unhappy. They’d moved in together after dating for around two years, and instead of resolving cracks, it exacerbated them. She started therapy because, she said, she wanted to fix their problems. But my hunch from the start, once she started describing herself and him, was always that they were the wrong fit.
That hunch was easily confirmed once Eli joined a session. He was loud in all the ways she was quiet. Compelling, but bombastic. Without seemingly meaning to, he took all the air in the room. He rushed and spoke without thinking, which led to him getting worked up and saying things he probably didn’t mean just because his defensive ego took over.
I’m someone whose entire life has been defined by retaining control in untenable situations; few things irk me like someone who has the privilege to react without thinking. So maybe it was my own biases (every therapist has them), but I found his inherent acceptance of his own intelligence and charm annoying, even if I should blame society for probably consistently pointing it out his entire life—the way it always goes with men.
I begrudgingly could see why Sarah found him attractive—he had that cocky, boyish thing that so many women like. Sarcasm combined with charisma is potent for some people. And she was reserved in all the ways he wasn’t, so I can imagine a part of her thought having someone to take charge was appealing.
But it was never going to be enough—he’s the kind of man who thought he was really in it, when in reality he only thought that because she’d been too afraid to verbalize all the ways the relationship wasn’t working for her. He had no idea what was coming, because he’d taken charge like she’d wanted, and then realized too late it wasn’t right for her.
She’d asked me to help her end it during a therapy session, because she was afraid that he would try to talk her out of it. Which he did. And when she didn’t back down, he resorted to blaming me.
I get that sometimes that’s easier when you’ve been blindsided. But I certainly didn’t let him get away with his distraction tactic, and that didn’t go over well either. I stood in the firing line for Sarah because it was the best thing for her, my client, in that moment. But I got all the brunt of his shocked (and once again unthinking) reaction.
It was unpleasant at best. Thankfully, I haven’t seen either of them or thought about them for months.
And now he’s ... my neighbor?
Shit.
Beyond that terrible ending, in general it’s just strange having someone in front of you who you’ve only ever seen virtually. It’s as though their textures become reality and you have to square this version with the one inside your head. His hair is a little darker and curlier than I remember. He’s broader. Taller than I expected. The lines on his face more apparent. And ... okay ... he’s more attractive in person somehow. Maybe he’s one of those guys who doesn’t photograph as typically handsome, but somehow in person it all works. I guess that’s one thing I’ve underestimated about him.
But he’s looking at me like I’m the least attractive thing on earth. I’m a slug, a combatant, a bad smell left to waft into the ether.
I need to keep this conversation in the neighbor category and not let it spiral.
“You’re making ... noise?” I finally say, and I cringe at how it comes out as a question.
I hate that I always do this. I soften; I shrink myself; I give in just to make things less unpleasant for everyone. And especially, in front of this man that I know resents me, my determination to stand up has been instantly replaced by my typical people-pleasing.
“ You ,” he repeats, his British accent making him sound even more clipped, his expression now sitting somewhere in the center of a Venn diagram of stunned, annoyed, and intrigued. “You’re Nora Fischer. You’re my therapist.”
So much for avoiding the topic.
“Well, not anymore, and not really very much.” I’m saving myself with a technicality.
“Yes,” he says, bemusement lining his tone, “because you basically told my girlfriend to kick me to the curb after a couple of Zoom calls.”
He leans against the doorframe, taking me in now with more interest, and it’s hard not to notice the way he moves. I hate that I’m making this comparison, but the way he casually leans and watches—in that effortless British cheeky-while-curmudgeonly way—reminds me a little bit of Jude Law from The Holiday . Except, apparently, mean .
“I did no such thing,” I reply, still softer than I’d like, but attempting to find my voice again. Maybe I want to be agreeable most of the time, but nothing gives me more backbone than someone questioning my professionalism. “It’s not my job to tell anyone anything. I’m there to help someone communicate their feelings more effectively and come to their own realizations about what they can work on.”
His gaze narrows. “You don’t like me.”
“I don’t have opinions about clients,” I harrumph.
He points at me, his expression tipping into entertained. “You’re human.”
“So?”
“So. You have an opinion. Maybe you think you don’t share it. But everyone has an opinion.”
I hate that he’s pinpointed one of the same things Ari was trying to make me hear earlier.
But I shuck the thought aside. “You’re misplacing your anger at Sarah onto me,” I say calmly, trying to keep the kind of professional tone I would have with any patient who was unhappy. “I’m sorry this is still unresolved for you, but getting angry at me isn’t going to solve it.”
For a moment he looks almost as shocked as if I’d slapped him. But then he comports his expression back to neutrality, that momentary realization wiped off as quickly as it came.
“What do you want?” he says, sidestepping my commentary entirely and attempting to get back the upper hand.
Oh right. The actual reason I’m here. I’m so shocked by seeing him in person I almost forgot.
“I live right above you,” I say, now unsure again as to how to approach this bizarre turn of events.
“Congratulations?” There’s that sarcasm, front and center. He can’t help himself.
“You were being extremely loud.”
“I know you’re used to dinosaurs who never change anything, but I’m moving in. I’ll be hanging stuff up. I’ll replace appliances. I’m going to sand the floors. Sorry if those normal activities create a minor amount of noise in the noisiest city on earth.”
He crosses his arms over his chest like a defiant toddler, as though he’s particularly proud of his barbs, simmering in his confidence. I know I should be focused on how petulant he’s being, but instead I find myself looking at those arms. Why am I noticing him so much?
I shake the sentiment away. “I didn’t say you couldn’t do anything to the apartment,” I mutter, my voice a little shakier than I wish it was. “But this building has hours when you’re allowed to do work, and we’re well past them. You don’t have to be so snippy.”
“‘Snippy’?” he says, his British cadence slipping to copy my American intonation, his mouth curling up in amusement.
“Yes, snippy.” I’m bolstered, my reserve getting ever so slightly chipped away by his sarcasm. “I came downstairs to kindly ask you to do something pretty basic, which is keep construction-type noises to regular business hours. And you jumped on me!”
“If I jumped on you, you’d know it,” he says with an impish smile, clearly trying to get a rise out of me. It makes the air crackle between us, charged without him even noticing.
I feel myself blush, but I’m not taking the bait. “You took out your frustrations with me as a professional rather than listening to your neighbor. One thing has nothing to do with the other.”
“Oh, you think my opinion of therapist Nora can be bifurcated from my opinion of neighbor Nora?”
I close my eyes and rub my fingers along my temples, a nervous tic I have whenever I feel myself getting frustrated. “Think whatever you want. Just please keep the noise down. You’re bothering my dog.”
“Ohhhh,” he says, the amusement now radiating out of him. “Well, if I’m bothering a dog, then my sincere apologies. I didn’t realize noises hurt dogs only after business hours. I’ll make sure to only bother your dog from nine to five.”
“Seriously?” I exclaim. “You’re mocking me now?”
“Glad your spidey therapist senses picked up on that.”
“Just ... listen, I’m nice, okay?” I finally plead, exhausted by J and Ari and now this unexpected emergence. “I keep to myself. I’m a good neighbor. I’ve had a long day, and I just want some peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask for?”
I can see the way this unexpected admittance hits him. Part of my job is recognizing when someone softens, even when they don’t want to. And I can tell he has, even if his defiant crossed-arms stance is still his default.
“I was just hanging up some pictures. I’ll do it tomorrow,” he mumbles.
“Thank you,” I say.
I’m not so thrilled that this new plan for standing up for myself was usurped by what amounted to pathetic begging, but at least I’m getting somewhere. Maybe my normal tactics shouldn’t all be so easily thrown aside.
“But just as an FYI,” he says, before I can even breathe a sigh of relief, “I am going to be doing a fair amount of work during the days. And part of what my nan owned was a section of the roof. She never did anything with it, but I’m going to. I’m adding a sitting area and plants and connecting the gas line up there so I can have a barbecue.”
I stare at him, all my optimism once again drained. I know exactly what part of the roof Esther owned—it’s the part right above me .
No one in this building has ever cared one iota about developing the roof, even the common areas that we all own together. When the building was turned into a co-op, some members that put in more money were assigned little plots on the roof as well. But since everyone here wasn’t exactly what you’d describe as outdoorsy, no one ever did anything with them. The elevator doesn’t even go up there. You’d have to get off on the tenth floor right in front of my apartment and then walk up the stairs.
The prospect of which means that the noise he’s making by hammering a few photos into the wall is nothing. His devil-may-care self could have parties on the roof at all hours, and they’ll stumble in and out in front of my apartment and then turn on loud music right above my head. His construction could create leaks that I’d never know the source of. Even small noise above us could throw George off his already, admittedly, wonky equilibrium.
This whole plan is my nightmare. George being more uncomfortable in his already-tight skin is my most-specific particular nightmare.
“I don’t think you’re allowed to do that,” I say quietly, not confident at all in what I’m saying but wishing desperately for it to be true.
But instead of clocking my nervousness, he snorts, almost seeming like he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. “Oh, I’m allowed to. I have to place a flooring barrier between the actual roof and whatever I’m doing, but I have it all planned out. I just need the formality of getting it okayed by the board at their next monthly meeting, and then it’s starting.”
“The board isn’t going to let you create an outdoor rager pad on the top of our building,” I hear myself stutter, not even really sure of what I’m saying.
“An ‘outdoor rager pad’?” The amusement radiates out of him, and I hate that it’s at my expense.
“This is a quiet building,” I point out, my own quietude reaffirming the point. “It’s a co-op. We’re all good neighbors. And they’ve known me for a long time now. They’re not going to let you build something right on top of me without any oversight.”
I hate the way he laughs like he knows something I don’t. “Nora, my nan lived here for almost fifty years. I’ve been visiting her since I was born. They loved her, and they’ve known me forever. They’re not going to block a perfectly legal minor construction project because it makes someone they’ve known a few years sad. I’m going to do exactly what I’ve carefully planned to do, and you don’t get to stop me.”
There’s something about his overconfidence that bolsters me, as though he’s nothing more than a schoolyard bully enjoying pulling at a small girl’s pigtails. I think about everything Ari said to me today and my determination to not stay in the same patterns I’ve always been in. The normal Nora would let this assured man talk her out of taking action. But I’m not doing that today. I’m strong enough to push back. I stand up straighter.
“It’s funny that you want to say you’re so close to everyone, when I’ve never even seen you here a single time in the last five years. And Meryl, Tom, and Kwan had only heard about you when I spoke to them today, so I know that you’re not exactly a frequent visitor. If you wanted to go about this as a nice person, I wouldn’t mind. You’re correct that you have a right to that space. But you’re standing here mocking me, belittling me, and questioning my professionalism.”
If he blanched at my explanation, it was only for a millisecond, because by the end he seems to be back in sparring mode. “And so what? Now you’re going to fight me on it?”
“Maybe!” I say, wishing I could’ve come out with something stronger but still a little shocked by even my own hint of antagonism.
And before I can regret my uncharacteristic sort-of-declaration, I turn on my heel and walk straight out the door, into the stairwell.