“Motherfucker!” My chair scraped against the balcony floor as I leapt up to avoid getting splatters of foundation on my white shorts. The bottle had just slipped out of my hand and smashed on the table. “Fucking fuck. God damn it!”
I growled in frustration as more than fifty dollars’ worth of goop, perfectly matched to my skin tone, went oozing over the edge.
“You all right over there?” A deep male voice came from the balcony next to ours, a shadow shifting behind the bamboo screen my mother had put up for privacy.
“Shit.” I froze, heat spreading up my cheeks. That was all I needed—some asshole to tell me off over my potty mouth.
“Yes. I’m fine. Just dropped something. Sorry about the cursing,” I scrambled to reply, hoping he wouldn’t demand to speak with my parents.
He chuckled, sounding more amused now than concerned. “I don’t give a flying fuck about the cursing.” His voice was smooth—like the ocean on a calm day. Mellow and even on the surface, but underneath . . .
I smiled and relaxed my shoulders. “Well . . . fucking great then.” I rolled my eyes at myself.
“Must’ve been something important.”
“What?” I frowned, inching closer to the bamboo screen.
“The thing you dropped?”
“Oh!” I’d almost forgotten about the foundation. “Yeah, it was . . . expensive and . . . er . . . never mind.”
I suddenly felt shy. I didn’t want this random stranger with the beautiful voice to know I’d been that upset over makeup. I didn’t want him to think I was conceited.
“Fine. Keep your secrets.”
I could hear the smile in his voice. It made me smile too, but I ironed out my expression so he wouldn’t hear it. “Why would I trust you with my secrets? You’re a stranger. You could be an axe murderer.”
His laughter trickled through the tiny gaps in the bamboo and wrapped itself around my shoulders, sending a little shiver down my spine.
“I’m not a stranger. I’m your neighbor. You can trust me,” he said.
I realized I was just standing motionless in the middle of my balcony, staring at the bamboo partition. I reached for the roll of paper towels on the table and started cleaning up the mess. “Never trust someone who says trust me,” I quipped.
“Touché.” He chuckled again. “I’ll just have to earn your trust the old-fashioned way.”
“A cavity search?” I paused mid-wipe. Had I really just said that to a random?
But he didn’t even pause before answering. “I was gonna say drug screening, and you jump straight to finger in the ass? Brutal!”
“I don’t fuck around.” A laugh escaped at the end, part of it slight hysteria from the rush of relief that he hadn’t taken offence.
“No, you do not, neighbor.”
I couldn’t get enough of his smooth voice; his relaxed, casual tone was putting me at ease in a way I never had been with a person I’d never met. Was it the screen between us that allowed me to talk to him without feeling self-conscious about my face? Or was it him?
I couldn’t tell how old he was just from his voice. Not elderly, that much was clear, but was he my age? A college guy? Maybe he was in his thirties and married with three kids. I really hoped I wasn’t flirting with an old dude.
Was that what I was doing? Flirting?
I cleared my throat and deposited the last of the dirty paper towels into a handbasket, then wiped my hands with micellar water to get the foundation off. “So, you just moved in?”
The apartment had been empty for months. Their balcony was right next to ours, but that didn’t make us neighbors exactly. Our apartment was the last one at the end of the hallway on the eighth floor. Theirs was the last one at the end of their hallway, but we had to use separate entrances to the building. There were five entrances total—twelve floors of cramped apartments, thousands of people literally living on top of one another.
“Yeah, yesterday. Although I’m questioning the decision.”
“New neighbor scaring you off? Am I the one giving off axe murderer vibes now?”
“Hah! Nah. It’s the smell.”
I frowned and silently sniffed at my underarms. I’d just showered. I smelled like strawberries. “The smell?”
“Yeah. The whole apartment smells like feet.”
“Ugh, gross!”
“You have no idea! Every single room. Even the kitchen! If it hadn’t rained last night, I would’ve slept out here.”
I laughed. “Have you tried, uh, cleaning it?”
“Yes, thank you, smart-ass. We only got the keys yesterday. My dad had to work all day, so I did what I could on my own. Shampooing the carpets seems to have helped.”
He hadn’t mentioned a wife and kids! I did a little fist pump. He lived with his dad, but that didn’t mean he was my age. Oh god! What if he was, like, twelve, and he was just one of those kids whose voice had dropped early?
“Well,” I said, “I hope you get the feet smell out. It’s a shame we didn’t meet sooner. I could’ve told you this was a shitty place to live.”
“We’ve had worse. Trust me. Plus, if we hadn’t moved in here, I never would’ve gotten to talk to you.”
I bit my bottom lip to hold in the grin and leaned back in the chair. I had no idea what to say to that.
The sun had set; with my window of natural light for makeup application gone, I started to pack everything into my case. After the zip made an obnoxiously loud sound, he cleared his throat and spoke again.
“I’m sorry. Was that . . . weird?” Gone was the casual confidence.
“No!” I rushed out, then took a breath to calm my tone. “Not at all. Sorry. I just . . . got distracted. I like talking to you too.” I cringed.
“Good.” I could hear the smile in his voice again.
“So, you move around a lot?” I blurted to fill the silence.
“Yeah. We . . . my dad’s . . . yes, we move around a lot.”
Maybe he was as nervous and flustered as me. Why did that make my chest feel all warm and fuzzy?
The kitchen light flicked on inside. Mom or Dad would be checking on me any minute now. I didn’t want them to know I was talking to . . . whoever this was.
“Shit. I gotta go.”
“Oh, OK. Nice talking to you!”
“You too!”
I ducked inside and closed the sliding door behind me just in time.
“I was just about to come check on you, Sweet Chilly.” Dad leaned on the kitchen counter and chugged a glass of water. My full name was Philomena Ann Willis. At some point, before I had a say in it, my parents had started calling me Sweet Chilly Philly, and it stuck. The girls called me Mena. The assholes at school called me . . . Ugh! I pushed the thought out of my head. I still had a few days before I had to deal with them.
I smiled and poured myself a glass too. Mom was snoring lightly on the couch.
“I’m going to bed,” I said.
“This early?” We both glanced at the time on the microwave: 9:38 p.m.
“I’ve got work tomorrow.” It wasn’t a lie. One of the waitresses had called in sick, and I was more than happy to take the double shift. It would help me replace the foundation I’d just lost.