Chapter 2 Move-in Day #2
Once again, I got the distinct impression that he was judging me. I had been called “Princess” plenty of times over the years. However, something about the way he said it rubbed me the wrong way. I decided not to mention it as we made our way back down the stairs together.
“Thanks for helping,” I said to fill the silence.
“I got them over here alright—thank goodness for wheels—but the stairs were too much. I can’t believe there’s no elevator here.
My last apartment didn’t have an elevator either, which was kind of crazy, but the building was super old too.
So my roommate and I were always super careful about what we brought home, since we would have to carry it up four flights of stairs.
And don’t even get me started on laundry.
There weren’t always strapping neighbors around to lend a hand. ”
He didn’t respond to my rambling. I tried to keep my tone light and friendly, but it was hard when my conversation partner was as responsive as a lump of inert metal.
He picked up the suitcases and started back up the steps without pausing.
“You make that look so easy,” I said, trying not to notice the way the muscles in his back and shoulders bunched under the load. Or the way his calves and hamstrings bulged as he ascended each step. Heaven, help me.
“It’s fine,” he replied.
There was nothing for me to do but follow, feeling distinctly useless.
“So, how long have you been a runner?” I asked, trying again to engage with him.
“A while.”
Ooh, an answer! He wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as TJ had been about my nails, but I could work with this. A common interest was a common interest.
“I did the NYC half last March,” I said.
“Okay.”
“New York is a lot hillier than people realize.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe we could run together sometime.”
“Maybe.”
These one and two word non-responses were even more grating than the silence. This guy was harder to crack than the chestnuts littered all over campus. I considered giving him up as a lost cause. But the more he brushed me off, the more I craved his approval.
“Did you play sports in high school?”
“No.”
“What did you do in high school?”
“Mostly studied.”
Ugh.
Back on the third floor, he set down my bags without a word and made a beeline to his door, fishing his key out of his pocket on the way.
“Thank you!” I called to him, beginning to wheel the suitcases toward my own door. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
He paused with his key in the lock and rounded to face me. The full force of his attention blasted me like a laser beam, and his voice rang down the hall. “What are you even doing here?”
My jaw dropped open with surprise and more than a little indignation. “Excuse me?”
He hadn’t exactly been friendly in the last ten minutes, but this question felt downright rude.
And somehow personal. He was facing me, dark eyes locked on mine, chest rising and falling as if this standoff required more exertion than either the run or the stairs.
I fought not to recoil under the intensity while I scrambled to figure out what the hell was going on.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
“Teaching,” I replied, confused. “What are any of us doing here?”
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he muttered. Then, without another word, he turned his back on me for the second time and let his door bang closed between us.
I blinked. Twice. And closed my jaw which had been hanging wide open.
Who the hell was this guy?
I whipped out my phone and fired off a text to Silvia as I kicked my rolling luggage toward my apartment.
Mel: There’s an asshole living on my floor.
Silvia’s response was immediate. How hot?
I snorted and sent a laugh-crying emoji.
Mel: I didn’t say he was hot.
Silvia: You didn’t need to. I can tell.
I sighed as I keyed out a reluctant admission.
Mel: He fell out of a Times Square billboard. Sooooo many abs.
Silvia: Smash. Where’s the problem?
Back in my apartment, I stripped off my damp clothes and hung them to dry over a towel rod in the bathroom. Then, I opened the first suitcase and retrieved fresh underwear, a tank, and cotton shorts before responding.
Mel: He must be another teacher.
Silvia: Ah, no bueno. Def don’t smash a coworker.
I snorted another laugh, reminded of her misstep with a coworker at her marketing firm. The sex had been mediocre, and she had zero intention of seeing the guy again, but the next day, they had been assigned desks ten feet away from each other. Awkwardness ensued.
Mel: I just don’t get why he was so rude. I was a damn delight.
Silvia: What did he say?
Mel: Asked what I was doing here. But not in a nice way. In a you-don’t-belong-here way.
The memory of his words caused a fresh sting in my chest, and I rubbed it as if that might help.
I wanted to belong here—needed to belong here.
This job was the first thing I had done completely on my own and my first big step toward real independence from the Connecticut Burkes.
But a little piece of me felt like an imposter, and the asshole had poked a sharp stick directly into that tender place.
Silvia: Asshole. Abs-hole.
Her reply made me smirk. Silvia always knew what to say to make me feel better.
Silvia: Are you gonna try to win him over?
Mel: Maybe? Not sure he’s worth the effort.
Privately, I hoped I could avoid the abs-hole altogether. But the campus wasn’t that big, and he lived directly across the hall. Total avoidance would be a challenge.
Silvia: He’ll come around. You’re a damn delight, and he’d be lucky to smash you.
I chuckled at her contradictory comment and quickly replied, No smashing!
Silvia sent back a corn emoji and two drooling emojis. I rolled my eyes and decided not to justify that particular message with a reply. There was plenty of unpacking to do anyway. I tried to focus on that and keep my mind off the rude-slash-hot neighbor-slash-coworker across the hall.
Of course, he wasn’t my first rude neighbor. Every building in New York came with at least four. But this wasn’t New York. This was Newbury. Newbury was supposed to be my safe place.
Even though I tried to block him out, my mind kept slipping back to the confrontation in the hallway.
I wasn’t a people-pleaser, but I prided myself on being friendly and likable, even with the grouchiest of grouches.
I had always been confident—my parents raised me to believe I could have anything I wanted.
But as the abs-hole’s words spun around my brain like a centrifuge, that icky shadow of doubt crept back in.