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. James was great. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.
Again, repeat after me: James is not your brother.
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 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 paint-by-numbers 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. See, 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—up 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 reading, ‘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 Notes 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 picky women today.
Pressing my eyeball to the peephole before exiting my apartment, I searched for a 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 reached all the way to the small of her back when she let it down at the end of the day. I’d 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 it off its fucking hinges, the door beside mine burst open and out tottered Dani. Goddamn, this woman couldn’t do anything subtle. 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.”
See, this was the attitude I dealt with on a daily basis. It was like living next door to a disgruntled postal worker, only more hostile.
“And? Did you?” I asked, careful to keep my face covered in my pullover hoodie.
“Did I what?” She spun around to face me, and my pulse quickened. God, how I loved riling her up. Dani was one of those law-and-order girls who thought the universe revolved around her, but in reality, she was just getting in its way. How she’d ended up here, on the edge of extinction, I couldn’t guess, but I’d watched her thrive with fascinated ambivalence. This was not a woman who hid out and felt sorry for herself. She was a go-getter, even if, based solely on her living conditions, she wasn’t really getting anywhere.
“Are you asking me if I stole your package, Chad?”
“No. I’m simply following the evidence. According to the delivery information sent to my email yesterday, the package was left on my doorstep at 9:15 a.m. Saturday morning, but by the time I got home at 11:35 a.m, it was gone.”
“Wow,” she said in sarcastic amazement. “Your detective skills are spot on. Where did you learn your trade? From Riverdale?”
“I don’t need high quality investigative training to tell me you’re the most obvious suspect,” I countered.
“Oh, yeah? And why is that? Please provide details.”
“That’s confidential.”
“Oh no. If you’re accusing me of kleptomania, I have a right to know your evidence.”
“Look, Dani, I don’t care if you’re into whips and chains. Your private life is none of my business,” I replied, scratching my temple. I knew damn well what she was talking about, but I also knew I’d be lighting her fuse.
“No, Chad, kleptomania—a compulsion to steal. Seriously, dude, your teachers need to line up and apologize to you.”
We have a flame.
“Or, at the very least, pummel you with a bat, dumbass.”
And boom!
She was just that easy. In some ways, making Dani crazy took the edge off. By stripping her of her sanity, I was restoring bits and pieces of my own. My eyes narrowed in on her. Obviously, she hadn’t comprehended the joke. Typical. Fancying herself a scholar, Dani regularly chose intelligence-shaming as her weapon of choice, but seeing that she’d graduated from one of those Varsity Blue campuses where the rich mommies and daddies routinely bought their children’s way into the school, I wouldn’t put it past Dani to have a fake athletic profile floating around out there somewhere with her face photoshopped onto a rower’s body.