“Since when do you care about whether or not our new neighbor is nice?” I persist.
“Since now. Just tell me.”
I turn around and catch the small smile she’s failing to contain as it finds its way to her lips, her blue eyes—the same shade as her mother’s—sparkling. It’s almost as if she knows something I don’t, but I can’t figure out what it could possibly be. There were no photos taken of me with Elle last night. I Googled and had Luca check as well. It’s why we go to that damn bar. People may recognize us there, but they already have enough wealth and influence and ego of their own to bother showing off a Fritz spotting.
So it’s not as if Stella knows I was with her last night.
“I didn’t exactly talk to her long, Bellas.”
“Is she going to be my new Roberta?”
Ah, now I understand why she’s asking me all these questions. Roberta was the previous tenant of that house, and, well, Stella’s nanny, I guess to some degree. Since my mom was diagnosed with recurrent breast cancer several months back and has been recovering from surgery and dealing with chemo, she doesn’t come by as often in the afternoons to be with Stella while I’m working. Roberta had been that person, more just ensuring Stella lacked nothing, occasionally hanging out, but then she moved.
Now Elle is next door.
“No. She won’t be your new Roberta.” Over my dead fucking body. “We’ll have to figure something else out with that.”
I take a sip of my water, hoping she gets the hint and stops asking me about her. I knew I was getting a new neighbor when I ran into Sarah Cutty, the woman who owns the house. This is a small town. A suburb of Boston, yes, but still a small town. The type where everyone knows everyone and their business—especially my business.
It’s one of the few things I hate about this place.
But what Sarah failed to mention is that the new neighbor is the same leggy woman with soulful hazel eyes and bee-stung lips I slept with. That I lost myself inside of.
I foolishly assumed the woman moving in would be a hundred and ten with a gray bun on top of her head and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose like Roberta was or maybe even a family since the house is big. Too big for one person.
I saw the moving van pull up. Some box storage company arrived this morning with her stuff, and that’s precisely when I left. Saturday mornings Stella likes to ride horses at my parents’ compound, and I like her having one-on-one time with her grandmother.
What I didn’t consider was Gulliver. Oliver took Amelia and Layla, who lives with them, away this weekend, and Stella loves Gulliver, so we offered to take him.
Only somehow one of Elle’s boxes found its way to my front porch. And when I arrived back home, her box was mangled, nearly beyond recognition. Hence me being forced to knock on her door to deliver said ruined box. I hadn’t readied myself. The last thing I expected was to see her again. And the absolute last thing I expected was to feel this painful twist in my chest when I realized who she was.
I’ve felt guilty from the second she believed I was Luca. All last night while we talked. Flirted. When she cried out his goddamn name and not mine. Guilt. It’s certainly not new for me. It’s my closest companion and darkest nemesis.
But this sort of guilt is different than my norm.
Because last night when I was with her, I wasn’t a single dad, heartbroken and ruined and so miserable with everything, I can hardly stand my reflection. I wasn’t quite Luca either, but I was certainly more carefree than I can remember being since Reese died.
Elle was fun and beautiful and fuck, she felt so good.
Could tonight have gone any worse?
But I’d rather have lied to Elle about my name than have had Stella find out what I was up to.
“I’m not a baby, you know,” Stella interjects, snapping me out of my reverie.
“I know you’re not.” I cross the kitchen, dropping my elbows onto the counter beside her. “If anything, it’s because I worry about you spending so much time alone.”
“The kids in my school are lame.”
I grin. “I know, but maybe you’ll find a group this year.”
“Doubt it. Highly doubt it.”
“You need females to talk to about stuff, and I’m not very good at being a woman.”
Stella laughs at my lame dad joke as I knew she would, dropping her temple onto my shoulder. “I have Grandma and Aunt Rina for that stuff. And now Layla and Amelia too.”
But you don’t have a mom. And that’s my fault.
“I’m going to bed,” she announces just as a yawn slips past her lips. It’s Saturday night. She spent her Friday night with her uncle and tonight at home reading. As much as I hate to admit it, at thirteen, she should be out more. Going to the mall or having sleepover parties with friends. She has Layla, but Layla is a year older and in high school.
Stella is in eighth grade.
Part of me wonders if my permanent bad temper and universal dismay for the world is rubbing off on her.
She gets up, shutting off the kitchen lights, and I follow her, my glass of water in hand.
Gulliver trails along, the click of his nails on the floors filling the silent dark house as we ascend the stairs. “Night, Bellas. Love you.” I kiss the top of Stella’s head as we reach her door.
“Night, Dad. Love you.”
My baby. Some days, she’s all that keeps me going. My perfect girl. I just wish I could make it easier for her. All of it. The missing half of her soul where her mother should be.
Gulliver enters her room right on her heels, having taken to sleeping at the foot of her bed. “Watch over our girl,” I tell him just as Stella closes the door in my face, giving me the teenage eye roll I’ve come to expect from her right before she does.
I head straight for my bedroom at the end of the hall. Setting my glass on my nightstand, I flop down on my bed only to sit straight back up when my neighbor’s bedroom light flicks on, casting a yellow shadow across my floor. How could I have forgotten her bedroom window faces mine? I groan, wishing our houses weren’t as close as they are. Big houses built on long, narrow lots.
Typically there’s a tree separating us, but this time of year, the leaves are falling, and her light shines directly into my room from a mere thirty feet away.
Flashes of her on her back, her panties and bras strewn about, flicker unabatingly through my head. Then it morphs. Me on my knees, her heeled foot dangling over my shoulder as I tasted her.
Shit. I run a hand through my hair, clenching the back of my neck in a tight squeeze. I need to get a grip and fast. I force myself up and off my bed, brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, toeing off my jeans and throwing my long-sleeved shirt in the direction of the closet.
Her light is out by the time I draw back the sheets and slip into the comfort of my cool bed.
But in the darkness that surrounds me, everything is amplified.
Which is probably why I can hear her crying.
Even a house away.
Jesus. She’s crying. Did I do that?
No. I don’t have that sort of power. Do I?
Climbing back out of bed, I drift over to my open window, pressing my fingers against the screen, unable to stop myself from listening to her even though I know it’s wrong. My head falls against the mesh before I can stop it. The wire crossbar pattern digs into my skin. It’s cool tonight, but not cold. Pleasant, and it seems I’m not the only one who likes to sleep with their window open.