Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Our truce lasted exactly one month.
I had thirty days of reasonable footsteps and thirty nights of blessed silence. Then he went right back to running at ungodly hours.
We might be more familiar with each other now, but this has to stop.
I received a text from him last week saying he spoke to someone about the sound issue. The fix would require both of us to temporarily move out of our apartments.
That’s not an option, so here we are again.
Thudding.
There are bags under my eyes, and they’re not the cute little smudges concealer handles in three dabs. No, these are full-blown under-eye carry-ons. I caught my reflection in the microwave door earlier and audibly gasped. That’s how it’s going.
Beckett’s been running like a lunatic all week. I say that with clinical observation, not judgment. I’ve studied him, monitored him, watched patterns form. It’s starting to become a little creepy, I know, but I’m too far gone to stop now.
He runs at midnight. One. Three-thirty once. It’s a full sprint. Listening to him leaves me exhausted. I’ve tried to ignore it and be reasonable, but it’s hard to be reasonable when your ceiling becomes a live-action arena while you’re trying to sleep.
And I’ve noticed things. Not just the treadmill. Oh no. I’ve noticed everything.
I know he’s polite to the doorman. I once heard him say, “Thanks, Harold. Appreciate it. Hope your granddaughter’s recital went well.”
When did he steal Harold?
Harold is mine.
I know he tips well at the coffee shop down the street because I saw him there last week. He even paid for my coffee.
He wears glasses sometimes. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s annoying how hot it is. Offensive, even.
It’s fine for him. All he has to put up with is my occasional music choices, maybe a dance workout video if I’m feeling brave.
For me? I live under a gym. I hear everything. Every step, every treadmill rotation, every gruff little grunt when he’s doing push-ups or whatever testosterone-fueled nonsense he’s up to.
So tonight, I’m done.
I’m retaliating.
I’m sipping honey tea in the kitchen to warm my vocal cords. Physiotherapy has been working wonders on my back, so I’m limber. A scented candle is burning in my bedroom.
I’ve set the mood for petty vengeance because tonight, when he goes to bed, I get very loud.
The treadmill finally stops.
I go still, mug half-raised to my lips. My heart rate picks up.
It’s happening.
I wait. Listen. Count.
The shower comes on. It’s faint, but I’ve trained for this. My ears are calibrated. NASA should study me. It’s a short shower. He’s efficient like that.
Then I hear the footsteps.
I track them in real time. I know the layout of his apartment. His place is bigger, but the bedrooms are in the same spot. I follow the muted thuds across the ceiling.
He’s moving. Left. Then a pause.
He’s in the bedroom.
Yes.
I set my mug down and crack my knuckles.
Game on, fucker.
Padding into my bedroom, I remove my satin robe and position myself on the bed before retrieving the rose toy from my nightstand.
It growls to life in my palm.
Jesus.
I pull back slightly, holding it at arm’s length.
“What the hell is in this thing?”
The entire room buzzes. The walls buzz. This is not the soft, romantic toy I was promised. This is industrial equipment.
My lips press into a line as I stare at it.
I’m doing this for every sleepless night, every stomp, every grunt, every emotionally stunted “Hello, Madison.”
This is war.
And I’m the nuclear option.
I settle onto my back and stare at the ceiling one last time.
Then I press the toy to my clit.
My back arches so hard I nearly launch myself off the mattress.
“HOLY… MOTHERFU—JESUS CHRIST.”
I slap my hand over my mouth and drop the toy, but it keeps vibrating, bouncing around on the duvet.
What the fuck was that?
I blink at the ceiling, then at the toy.
This thing could bite, so I cautiously reach for it, turn it off, and breathe.
I need a plan. That… that was too fast. It can’t be over that fast. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I need to take breaks to fake it. Draw it out. Make it sound like an opera.
I say to the ceiling, “You brought this on yourself.” I crank the toy one setting lower and whisper a prayer. “For myself and my vagina, please don’t let me die like this.”
Then I try again.