The blender continued to whirl. Jesus, how long did it take to grind up kale and broken dreams? I got up from my chair, made a fist, and pounded on the wall. In true meathead fashion, my neighbor defiantly switched the blender setting to high and let that baby churn. Such a colossal jerk. Why couldn’t he just fall in line, like all twenty-six of my sperm brothers?
My phone buzzed on the kitchen table. I picked it up and raised a brow. Well, I’ll be damned. Speaking of sperm brothers, a text had just come through from possible number twenty-seven: Jeremy.
Had a great time last night, he wrote.
Really? How? If my excessive incestuous sweating hadn’t turned him off, I was sure the Ancestry.com survey request of his mother’s sex life just before his conception would have done him in. Wow, Jeremy was a hardy fella—like a drought-resistant weed.
Yes, it was fun
Can’t wait to see you again. How about tonight? Does a movie sound good?
Tonight? Huh, let me think. I did have plans to practice knuckle-knocking Morse code on the wall I shared with Chad, but I supposed I could put it off for one more day.
Um, okay, that sounds fun, I typed. What theater? I’ll meet you
How about I come pick you up instead? Around six
Pick me up? Given the considerable amount of time Jeremy had spent detailing his high-end apartment, I found it a rather bold move on his part to now freely volunteer to venture over to the dark side of Los Angeles living. But bolder still was that he assumed I’d give out my address to just any old serial killer.
You live in the Freeport Building, right?
My eyes rounded. What the…? I was going to die. Right here. Tonight. And it wasn’t like I could count on Chad to save me, what with Wednesday being American Ninja Warrior night.
But as if reading my mind—don’t siblings have a weird form of telepathy? Or is that twins?—he followed his text with, Not a stalker. Ainsley is my cousin, remember?
Oh, right. Ainsley. Lives in the apartment complex across the street. Ainsley. My coworker. His cousin. The matchmaker. See? He wasn’t Ted Bundy. Silly me.
I know, I wrote back adding a crazy-face emoji to throw him off the trail of my craziness.
We spent the next few texts discussing what movie we’d like to see before he ended our digital chat with: I dig you, Dani. Haven’t stopped thinking about you since last night
Oh. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him either. Did he have banjo toes like me? Did he grind his teeth in his sleep?
Stop, I chided myself. This was going to be great. Jeremy was great. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.
Again, repeat after me: Jeremy is not your brother.
3
RJ: Post-it Notes
Damn that Dani. She thought she owned the wall. And the balcony. And the world. The woman had an opinion about everything and never passed up a teaching opportunity. Needless to say, we were not Mr. Roger’s sugar-swapping neighbors. Before either of us had moved into the apartment complex, some corporate genius had decided that it would be more cost effective to erect a wall down the length of a single 1150-square-foot apartment and call it two. Dani’s side got most of the square footage, along with the bedroom, the original kitchen, and the bathroom. I got the stripped-down Spirit Airlines version on the other side.
Still, the cramped quarters and paper-thin wall separating us weren’t the reason for our feud. That honor went to our shared balcony. Before Dani, I’d never once seen the person living next door. Whoever it was had kept their blinds drawn at all times, so that meant the balcony had essentially been mine alone, and my stuff was strewn everywhere—until the day she moved in and turned my bachelor oasis into an Urban Outfitters outdoor living space complete with a Boho wall tapestry, string lights, and an organic vegetable garden.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t opposed to a little luxury, but Dani wasn’t inclined to share. In the middle of our balcony, like she’d actually measured the length with a yardstick, she’d erected a barrier in the form of a brightly colored masking tape strip dividing our two sections. She’d even taken the initiative to stack my shit into neat piles on my side of the line with a Post-it Note attached reading, Please respect my space.
I responded with my own Post-it Note: I’d rather be drilled in the ass by a woodpecker than respect your space.
To which she responded, I don’t care what sort of kinky shit you’re into, just don’t touch my basil.
And so began our passive-aggressive Post-it Note war. At any given time of the day, I could expect to find notes on my door or out on the balcony, alerting me to her disappointment in my existence. She didn’t like my music or my smelly gym shirt hanging over my chair on the terrace or my trash bag that had been strategically placed outside my front door to remind myself to take it to the garbage chute in the morning.
I winced at the memory of the garbage chute misstep. That incident had led to an entire novel of one-word Post-it Notes pasted all over my front door that read, Your. stinky. trash. belongs. in. the. dumpster. Chad. Do better!
I wasn’t sure what the woman did for a living, but I was fairly certain it had something to do with torturing small animals. Or maybe she worked at the DMV. All I knew was I needed to avoid her this morning at all costs, because after Alexa’s heartless Nickelback diss, I didn’t have the patience to deal with finicky women today.
Pressing my eyeball to the peephole before exiting my apartment, I searched for the little five-foot-two spitfire on three-inch heels. On workdays, Dani always wore her hair pulled back into a high ponytail and was clad in smart casual clothing. She was pretty, in a pretentious, know-it-all sort of way. She had killer hazel eyes and long caramel-colored hair that flipped up at the ends and reached all the way to the small of her back when she let it down at the end of the day. I’ll admit to accidentally spying on her on occasion when she was out on the balcony soaking up the sun. That was when I liked her best—when her mouth wasn’t moving.
After taking the necessary precautions, I determined the coast to be clear and pushed open the door, breathing a sigh of relief. The day was looking up. But then, like a bomb blasting off its fucking hinges, the door beside mine burst open and out tottered Dani. Goddamn, this woman couldn’t do anything subtly. I held back my whimper.
“Oh,” she said, startled. “I didn’t see you.”
Clearly, she’d been doing her own keyhole surveillance.
“Did you get my note?” I asked without looking up.
Feigning ignorance, she replied, “What note?”
“The one I pushed all the way through the crack in your door last night until it disappeared inside your apartment.”
“Oh, that note.”
“Yeah, that one. Did you read it?”
She skipped answering my question in favor of her own inquiry. “Did you run out of sticky pads, Chad?”
“Actually, I did—I’m surprised you haven’t run out yourself, given how liberally you abuse them.”
“I bought in bulk after meeting you.”
“I’m sure you did.” I sighed. “Just answer the question, Dani. Did you read my note or not?”
“Yes, I read your note. But then I was forced to burn it because I don’t want there to be any evidence pointing toward me when management finds your dead body.”