1. Brinn
Chapter 1
Brinn
The nice thing about having old people as neighbors is that many don’t use the internet and almost never have packages delivered. This means you’ll never get a misdelivered package and have to go over there. No leaving your house. No leaving your yard. No factors beyond your control. Just a friendly ancient guy who wears his pants pulled up a little too high, waving at you from over the shrubs and offering occasional neighborly chitchat. I was so lucky with my previous neighbor.
It seems my luck has run dry. Isaacs’s package is staring at me from the other side of the screen door. The curse of Isaac Wells has been cast.
I can’t remember how long it’s been since Mr. Ender, my neighbor, died. Has it been days or weeks? Maybe it’s been months. I’m not really sure. Time bleeds and blends when you never leave your house.
Okay, maybe not never. I leave sometimes. I go to my backyard. If I’m feeling brave, I walk towards the woods. I haven’t made it more than a couple blocks, and last time I did it, I realized home was towards the ocean. It took me two hours to convince myself to walk back. I couldn’t leave my house for a week and a half afterward. My therapist, Doctor Christina, says it counts for something, and she’s the authority on me right now—I seem to have forgotten how to be me.
Isaac’s package is plotting my demise as it rests on my seldom-used welcome mat. He must be the tattooed blond guy attached to the dog leash of the adorable stocky pit bull I’ve seen walking around the neighborhood. New faces in the cast of nameless characters on the show playing through the windows of my house.
There was a time when I would have been at the window, waving at my new neighbors the second I saw a moving truck. I’d go downstairs and ask Josh if we had the ingredients to make cookies for them. I would have felt out if they wanted to come over for game nights while rubbing that mystery dog’s belly.
That Brinn seems like fiction to me now. The Brinn that explored the world. The Brinn that picked up her camera instead of letting it collect dust in the closet. The Brinn that had a loving partner. The Brinn that had a life. She wasn’t just alive and going through the motions.
This Brinn—this version of me—haunts her own house like a ghost. This house is filled with relics of a dead man, a tomb to what I was supposed to have. Sometimes, I don’t turn on the lights. In the spotlight of the lamps and lights, the loss of everything is painted in stark relief, highlighted, and amplified. In the shadows, I can pretend there aren’t still pictures of us collecting dust on the shelves.
I wonder if I can throw the box over the shrubs dividing our yards? It might be fragile, though. I could leave it here and hope he finds it. Or the mail carrier will realize he made a terrible mistake and cursed me with Isaac’s package, and he will return it to its rightful owner. That seems like a long shot. Maybe I can leave it really quick and leave without running into him. I think I saw him leave with the dog for a walk. Or was that this morning? I think that might be my only option, regardless. I steel myself as I reach for the doorknob, that small brown box looming like a monolith behind the door.
Okay, Brinn. You got this. You can do this. It’s not that far. A hundred feet, tops. You’ll be able to see the house the whole time. It’s away from the ocean. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.
The sun-warmed box is surprisingly heavy when I force my hands to pick it up. Probably a good thing I decided not to throw it. With my luck, I’d overshoot the throw and break a window. Then I’d definitely have to talk to him. I take a deep breath and immediately regret it when the tang of the sea hits my nose. Maybe this was a mistake, but the box is already in my hands. My legs move despite feeling like they’re dipped in lead. The smooth concrete of the path is warm under my thin slippers.
My heavy feet carry me past the threshold of my property, past those lush green shrubs, and up the path to Isaac’s house. And then they stop.
I am rooted to the ground. Panic rises in my chest with the bile in my throat.
I am stuck. I am stuck halfway between his house and the street. If I take one step further, I know something bad is going to happen. The sea will rush inland and take me back out with it. A sinkhole will open up, and I’ll fall in and be eaten by mole people. Isaac will turn out to be a murderer, and the package left on my doorstep is a ruse to get me close enough to kidnap. Something terrible is going to happen, and my skin crawls with the anticipation of it.
This is too out of my comfort zone. The summer sun is burning a hole in my skin. My bones are too heavy under my flesh. My stomach is simmering like a pot about to boil over.
I close my eyes to block out everything but thoughts of my bed. My bed where it is safe and warm. I can leave the package here on the walkway. I can turn around and go home. I can go home if I can make my feet work again. It’s not that far. I can—
A scream scrapes out of my throat when a cold, wet blob hits the back of my knee. I leap away from it and straight into a hard, sweaty chest. I stumble backward, dropping the box straight onto the foot of whoever’s hands are now bracing my arms. Hands that are trying to pull me away and take me somewhere else.
“Ouch,” someone says.
This is how I die. I should have let that package rot on my porch.
Someone is talking again. “Hey, hey,” they say in a calm, deep voice.
I can’t lift my eyes from the package lying on the ground next to a man’s foot clad in a running shoe. A red nose pit bull sniffs curiously at the package, then looks up at me, tongue lolling in happy excitement.
The hands release me, and I realize they weren’t trying to pull me anywhere, just stopping me from falling. The falling feeling hasn’t dissipated, and somehow, I miss the once terrifying hands steadying me.
The sad realization that those are the first hands on my skin in years brings a wave of fresh embarrassment. Can I max out on embarrassment, or will it keep going until I die on this sidewalk?
“Are you alright?” the voice asks again. “Miss, are you—”
My attention snaps up, finally. I am eye to eye with a sandy blond man. Isaac Wells’s deep brown eyes study me with concern.
“I—I’m sorry.” The words fall out of my mouth like old, broken teeth. They are jagged on my lips as they tumble forth. How long has it been since I spoke to someone face to face? The concerned expression on his face doesn’t abate, and I am frozen under his stare.
The dog’s soft nose nuzzling my hand pulls me back to reality.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stutter out. My feet finally seem to work, pulling me backward of their own accord. The curse of Isaac Wells seems to remain even though he has his package because my slipper catches on a crack in his walkway, and I tumble backward.
In the momentary blackness of surprise, I can smell the earth from where I made a dent in the turf.
“Shit,” he swears. There’s a soft, warm tongue on my cheek as my head spins from its place in the grass. “Pork Belly, stop it. Sit, girl. Miss, are you alright?” Isaac asks. His worried face blocks the sun like an eclipse as he crouches over me. “Miss?”
“Sorry,” I say after a moment. My head has stopped spinning, and the coolness of the plush lawn seeps through my thin pajamas, pulling me back to reality. I push myself up on shaky arms, and Isaac’s broad hand comes to my back to support me. It’s like a sun-warmed stone on my clammy skin.
“You don’t have to apologize. Are you okay?”
I nod, suddenly aware of everything again—where I am, what’s happening. Nodding is all I can manage. My house calls its soothing siren song from across the lawn. I am so far from it. If I can just stand up, I—
“Hey, take it easy,” Isaac says as I try to stand. “Let me help you.” He stands and holds out both hands for me. His hands are rough, strewn with calluses and small scars, but there is something graceful about them. I stare helplessly at the lifeline. My arms are dead eels hanging at my sides. “Okay,” he says to himself and kneels back down, taking one hand in his and moving one to support my back. “Okay?”
I nod again as we go up together. The world is so much bigger from here, oh god. I contemplate sitting back down and closing my eyes against it.
“Miss?”
“I’m okay; I just ... need a second.”
“Take your time.”
Pork Belly’s head finds my hand. Her soft, smooth hair under my fingertips grounds me. Slowly, so slowly, my eyes open. My house is right there if I can make it back.
“Can I help you get home?” Isaac asks in that worried voice again. “Where do you live?” I tip my head towards home, and he looks puzzled. “I thought that place was empty,” he says under his breath. “I’m going to hold your arm. Is that okay? Pork Belly, come on.”
I nod as one of his hands wraps around my soft arm gently, and the other rests between my shoulders. Pork Belly’s leash hangs from his wrist as the dog follows at a respectful distance. “Okay, you good?” I nod and take a tentative step to turn.
Slowly but surely, unstable legs steadied by the man next to me, we make it to the edge of his yard. The street looms large beyond the lawn, and I contemplate if I could die right here instead of stepping onto the sidewalk. Isaac notices my hesitation and stops. I close my eyes. I let the pressure of his hands on my arm and back seep into me like a weighted blanket. If I can get home, I can crawl into bed and never leave.
There’s a gentle squeeze on my arm. “Do you want me to call someone?” he asks quietly. I swallow my fear and shake my head no. There’s no one to call. I keep my eyes focused on the ground and take a tentative step onto the city’s sidewalk.
When we reach my yard, my shoulders sag under the relief of safety. I’m almost home.
“Hold the rail,” Isaac says with a soft insistence as we reach the short stairs to the porch. I do as he commands because I need to touch home. I need tangible proof that I am almost there. I nearly weep when my hand touches the old, sun-bleached wood. Up the stairs and to my welcome mat, where this damned journey began. Isaac’s hands fall away as we reach the door.
“I can—I’m ok—” I can’t quite find the words. There are too many and not enough. I’m so close to home, but I can’t make my shaking hands reach for the door.
“Can I come in and make sure you get some water?”
I’m so tired, and all I want to do is go inside, but my hands won’t comply. It takes all my energy to nod.
“Pork Belly, stay.” I hear the click of a carabiner as he secures her to the porch. He opens the door and braces his hand on my back again as I step inside. As those old running shoes cross my threshold, I realize it’s the first time anyone has come in here in over two years.
“Just take a seat, okay? I’ll get you some water.” He steers me towards the couch and deposits me there before walking in large strides to the kitchen. Before my scratchy eyes can blink, he returns with a cool glass of water and presses it into my shaking hands. “Do you want me to call someone? I don’t think you hit your head too hard, but you should get it checked out.” The words sound distant as I gulp down the whole glass.
“No, I’m okay. Thank you.”
He looks unconvinced as he looks at the now-empty glass. “I’m going to give you my number. Could you let me know you’re alright later?” His voice is soft and so gentle. Like asking anything might shatter me like glass.
It floods me with sudden anger to be treated like a broken, fragile thing. Embarrassment rushes in almost instantly and replaces the anger. I am some broken, fragile thing. I can’t even give someone a package without going catatonic.
“Please?” he asks quietly. I nod because if I open my mouth, I will start sobbing. He takes the glass from my hand and disappears. A moment later, the filled glass appears on the coffee table, as well as a notepad from my fridge with his name and number in neat block letters.
A “thank you” climbs out of my throat as he gives me a last look.
“No trouble. Please let me know you’re doing alright later, okay?”
I nod again because that’s apparently all I know how to do. He seems to accept it and makes his way out.
The second I hear the door close, I let myself fall into the soft, familiar couch. The tears flood my eyes and fall down my face as the world goes dark around me.