Chapter 5
“Wait a second. The hot professor tried to take care of you, and you gave him the cold shoulder?” my best friend questions, shifting Milo to her other hip.
I finish the glass of wine I’ve been nursing all night and roll my eyes. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Right,” Wren retorts. “You’re the only woman I know that would turn down a man taking care of her.”
I set my wine glass in the kitchen sink and lean against the counter. “That’s not it, and you know it. I friend-zoned him, and I don’t want to give him the wrong idea.”
“Friends take care of each other too,” Wren smirks.
I huff, crossing my arms. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Of course I am. Watching you struggle with your obvious attraction to Henry is the highlight of my week,” she responds, bouncing Milo lightly on her hip.
I let out a shallow groan and hang my head. Before I can answer Wren, our heads tip up toward the ceiling as it creaks under the weight of who I assume is the hot professor we’re talking about.
Wren’s voice lowers, and she whispers, “Can he hear us?”
“I have no clue,” I answer truthfully. Some days, I hear him shuffling around upstairs, but other days, I don’t hear a peep.
The duplex made a lot of creaking on its own, so it’s possible that I’ve been confusing footsteps with the sounds of an old house.
The only clear sign I had that he was home was the well-loved silver Toyota Prius parked outside.
“Let’s just assume he can’t,” Wren surmises. “And it sounds like he’s leaving anyway.”
She was right. I hear the soft patter of his infamous loafers coming down the side of the house, where the steps from his apartment lead right to the gravel driveway. I wonder what he’s up to on a Sunday.
“So, you’re going to be spending a lot of time with him,” she states with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Before I can reply, Milo decides he’s had enough of our adult conversation and wiggles in Wren’s arms until she surrenders and sets him down.
His tiny legs carry him to the overflowing toybox I keep in the living room.
I let out a deep sigh when he starts taking out each toy and throwing it on the ground.
I don’t know why I even bother cleaning them up.
“Not exactly. The writing group he’s leading meets every Wednesday night. I’ll be there, but we won’t be spending time together.”
Wren raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “This is classic forced proximity. There’s bound to be some tension.”
Now I’m the one raising my eyebrows at the reference that’s clearly gone over my head.
Wren grunts and throws her head back in frustration before explaining further.
“It’s a classic romance novel trope. You and Henry are going to be at the same place every week for the next few months.
That’s forced proximity. It’s basically a setup for something to happen. Something’s bound to spark.”
More like friends to lovers, I want to say, but I keep it to myself. “We’re not characters in a romance novel, Wren.”
She laughs, not catching onto my lack of patience for this conversation. “Maybe not, but you have the perfect setup. You have mystery, intrigue. He’s the brooding writer type.” She pauses with a teasing grin. “And now forced proximity. It’s perfect.”
“Right, except there’s still one major flaw in your theory: we’re just friends.” I attempt to sound convincing, but my distaste only fuels Wren’s motivation.
“Oh, please,” she mocks sarcastically. “Friends don’t caress each other’s faces. Just wait. You’ll be working one night, and you’ll look up and catch his heated gaze from across the room. And then you’ll share a passionate embrace against some dusty old books, and it’s on.”
I snort. “You have a wild imagination.”
“Mhmm.” She shrugs before taking a sip of her wine.
“It’s funny you mention romance. Apparently, my mysterious neighbor has written two romance novels.”
Wren’s ears perk up at the fun fact. “See! It’s fate. What’s his last name? I’ll look up his novels.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. Which is the truth.
I finally broke down and decided to do cyberstalking, but nothing came up when I looked up Henry Cooke.
At first, I wondered if he was one of those off-the-grid guys who avoided social media at all costs, but then Google also failed me.
I thought I’d at least find his name listed under the faculty of the school he worked at, but I came up with nothing.
Admittedly, I wasn’t sure what college he taught at, but I figured something would pop up if I looked up New York City College and his name. I still came up empty.
“Okay then, I need you to be my lookout for the next five minutes. His mailbox is next to yours, right?”
“Wait, Wren,” I protest. Before I can stop her, she’s already out the door. I run over to the front door and peek outside to watch her commit a crime.
Milo must notice all of the commotion because I feel a tiny hand tugging at my pant leg. When I look down, his arms are reaching up toward me. I sigh and pick him up so he can join in the fun. Or whatever Wren is doing.
A few seconds later, she nonchalantly pops back through the door like she wasn’t just snooping on my neighbor.
“We got lucky. He hasn’t picked up his mail yet. There was one letter addressed to a Mr. Castillo.”
“Isn’t it illegal to go through someone’s mail?”
Wren stares blankly at me before whipping out her phone and going into best friend FBI mode. There truly is nothing that women can’t do when they put their minds to it.
“Okay, here we go,” Wren announces before plopping down on the sofa covered in laundry I still needed to fold. I put Milo down again and follow her lead. “Henry Castillo is an assistant professor in the English department at NYU. Ooo, look at his headshot.”
Wren places her phone in my hand so I can see the picture.
In the photo, he’s wearing glasses with a slightly thicker frame, and he looks younger with a chaste smile painted on his lips.
I can tell he wants to look professional, but there’s a part of him that can’t contain the inviting look that can warm up a room in seconds.
His hair is longer in the picture, which is another feature that makes him look more boyish than the man I met over a week ago. In this photo, I can clearly see the curls he must tame with hair gel. A prickly sensation starts to creep up my shoulder.
When I finally look up, Wren is staring at me with a bright smile to match my own. “What?” I question before shoving her phone back in her hands.
“Nothing,” she answers casually. “This slow burn is going to kick you in the ass.”
“Nothing is going to happen between us. He’s a smart guy. He knows not to get mixed up in the life of a divorced single mom who’s been trying to graduate college for seven years.”
“You need to stop getting so down on yourself. You’re hot as hell, charming, and the strongest woman I know. When you do decide to give him a chance, he’s going to be one lucky son of a bitch,” Wren begins without taking a breath.
“It’s not going to happen, Wren.”
“Okay,” she whispers, ready to drop it. “I just want you to be happy. I know you’re worried how dating will affect Milo, but he wants to see his mom happy too. I hope when you are ready to get back out there, you’ll tell me.”
My hands start picking at the frayed seam of our hand-me-down couch.
I’m determined to look anywhere but at Wren.
Compliments and hard truths make my skin want to crawl to the other side of the room.
As I’m about to answer her, my phone starts to buzz in my back pocket.
I quickly reach for it and look at the Caller I.D.
I straighten up when I see the number who’s calling. This is the second time she’s called this weekend, but I can’t bring myself to pick it up.
“What could she possibly want?” Wren quips after looking over my shoulder.
After a few more rings, she finally gives up and I can feel my entire body begin to relax again. “I don’t know. She never leaves a message.”
“When was the last time you saw your mom?”
I lean back into the couch and sink into the soft cushion. Every time my mother calls me, I go through a wave of emotions. It always begins with anger that fades into guilt. It’s an impossible cycle.
“It’s been a few weeks.” I sigh. “The last time I visited my nana, she was there. It felt like an ambush.”
Vicky Davis was an interesting character. She was never around when I needed her, but then she would appear out of thin air, usually when she felt like she needed to prove to herself that she was a good mom. I always let her back in, too. Well, that was until I started seeing a therapist.
“Are you going to keep ignoring her?”
My teeth start to grind together. A nervous tick I developed whenever I had to deal with an uncomfortable situation. My teeth should’ve been ground to a pulp after my childhood, but thankfully, my mom was able to keep a job at the local dentist’s office for most of her time in Honey Grove.
“I don’t know,” I wince. “My therapist says I need to start creating boundaries with her. She also said I don’t need to have any sort of relationship with her, but I know that would break my nana’s heart.”
I first started seeing my therapist after Colt and I did couple’s therapy.
After we decided to part ways, I realized how helpful talking to a professional was.
I had a lot of unresolved anger surrounding my mom and my lack of a childhood.
Honestly, there was a lot I needed to work through. For mine and Milo’s sake.
“Well, whatever you decide, you know I’ll support you,” Wren says comfortingly, placing her hand on my thigh.
“Thank you.” I smile. “Now, enough about me and the hot mess express. How’s your business going?”
I stare down at my laptop screen, trying not to let my frustration boil over. A small giggle distracts me from the low grade, mocking me on the screen.