Portia Moore - He Lived Next Door Read online

  “Jeanine, please stop it,” Dad tells her sternly.

  “What, Roger? I told you, I don’t like her,” my mom snaps back.

  “Well it’s a good thing you don’t have to marry her.” I feel terrible, but I finally get myself to sit up straight on the bed. “Bring me my tux,” I tell Jax.

  He’s sitting in the big lounge chair, quiet as a mouse. He always gets like that around my parents. They have a way of making adults feel like children. He gets up, heading to the closet, then my brothers burst through the door. I’ve never been so glad to see them in my life. One has two liters of ginger ale in hand, and the other has Pepto Bismol, Tylenol, and about every other over-the-counter medicine you can think of.

  “Don’t tell me you two are entertaining this nonsense. He needs to go to the doctor,” my mom demands.

  “Aww, come on, Mom. He’s just hungover with a side of drunk,” Duke says.

  “With a dash of possible food poisoning,” Max chimes in with a chuckle.

  “This isn’t funny, you two. I am very worried! Does this hotel have an onsite doctor?” my mom asks.

  I grab the ginger ale from Duke, pop the liter, and begin to chug.

  He and Duke chant, “Chug, chug, chug!”

  “Ridiculous, you all are ridiculous,” my mom says before making her dramatic exit from the room.

  I come up for air after binging on the ginger ale. “Through sickness and health, right?”

  My brothers and Jax whoop and clap as I down the rest of it and finish it off with a travel size bottle of Tylenol.

  “Son, you look terrible. I admire your determination and commitment for today, but I’m sure if Chassidy knew how you were feeling, she’d be okay with waiting one more day,” my dad says, the lone voice of reason in the room. “Your mother and I will cover the cost of the cancelation, flights, and rooms of your guests.”

  Then the ginger ale and Pepto Bismol mix I just chugged comes up all over the room.

  “Bryce, are you okay?”

  I try to lift my head to look at her, but it feels too heavy. Her fingers cup my face, and I feel her head on mine.

  “I can’t see you. It’s bad luck,” I say, keeping my eyes closed.

  “I’ll take it from here Mr. G,” she says.

  “He’s all yours,” Dad calls back to her before the door closes.

  “It’s not bad luck if we aren’t getting married today,” she says as she crawls into bed next to me.

  “No, we are. Sickness and health.”

  She giggles. “Yes, but you look like you’re about ready to skip ahead to the ‘till death do us part..”

  Her head rests on mine. The room is quiet now. My father must have cleared out my brothers and Jax.

  “Whatever you need me to do, even if it’s disgusting, I’m here,” she promises me with the beautiful grin I fell in love with.

  “I’m sorry, babe,” I say as she rubs my head.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s not like we planned on getting married today or anything,” she teases before kissing my cheek.

  “Tomorrow. It’ll be the best day of your life, I promise.” I close my eyes. Her touch is almost healing by itself.

  “Want me to tell you a secret?” She giggles, and I turn my body so my head is facing her.

  “Is it about my mother?”

  Chassidy and my mom get along even less well than I do with her mom. While Chas’s mom is upfront about her indifference bordering on dislike of me, my mom does disapproval with underhanded comments and glares paired with a hundred-watt smile.

  “No, it’s not, but your mom will like it… maybe. I hope at least.”

  I look at her hard. Her eyes are big and hopeful, the same eyes I fell in love with—after her voice and her words. I try to think of what would make my mom happy—other than us calling the whole thing off—as I feel another shooting cramp in my stomach. I hop out of bed and sprint to the bathroom. After everything comes up, I feel so much better and hope it lasts for more than a few minutes this time. I grab the mouthwash and gargle.

  Chas appears at the door with a wide smile and barely contained enthusiasm. “Can I tell you now, or do you want me to wait until tomorrow?”

  I know that she won’t be able to wait. “Tomorrow,” I tell her just to see her pout.

  Instead she smiles even brighter. “I’m pregnant.”

  “You’re kidding.” The numbness in my stomach disappears as energy shoots through my entire body.

  “Nope,” she says, wrapping her arms around my neck.

  Just like that, life changes. Everything I ever imagined for my future—and let me tell you, I imagined a lot of scenarios—changes with the drop of a hat. Never have I ever imagined that life would be this good. I kiss her, hoping I don’t smell like an old mop bucket. I kneel, lift her shirt, and kiss the space below her belly button.

  “I’m going to be a dad.” I beam at her. “We’ll have something that’s a part of both of us, living, walking, breathing.” And a small part of me is terrified that things are too good to be true.

  Chassidy

  He knocked.

  It’s eerie and foreign, but I know it’s him.

  We set this up—or rather, he texted me a half hour ago that he was coming to get a few of his things. Two days ago, when I told him I wanted space, my words didn’t seem like they were mine or had the power to do what’s about to happen. When I open the door, my heart still jumps for him.

  “Hey.” His voice is clipped.

  I search his eyes for contempt and anger, but I see none. His eyes dart from mine quickly, as if he’d rather look anywhere but at me.

  “Hey,” I tell him, stepping aside for him to come in.

  His footsteps are heavy and seem to echo through our apartment.

  It’s still ours, I tell myself.

  Even though the folded up cardboard boxes under his arm are saying something else. I close the door and watch as he looks around the apartment as if he doesn’t recognize it anymore. I stand still as stone, moving my hands awkwardly from my hair to my stomach. When did this happen? When did we become uncomfortable strangers? How did I let this happen?

  “You brought boxes,” I say dumbly.

  He turns around and looks at me. He looks rightfully offended by my casual tone, and I feel like an idiot. “Yeah, needed to carry my stuff.”

  I let out a deep sigh and command myself not to cry. “You’re mad.” I say it so quickly I can’t stop myself.

  There was a time I never censored myself with him, when I would tell him my deepest secrets without shame or judgment. But now things are different.

  His hard stare softens a tad, but then it returns. “What do you think, Chassidy?” His voice is stern but as casual as mine was earlier.

  “I wish you weren’t,” I say.

  He lets out a low growl and heads into our bedroom. I know it’s a stupid, inane request. With a frustrated sigh, he heads to his closet and pulls out his uniforms and a few pairs of shoes.

  “I’d ask you how much I should actually take, but I’m guessing you still don’t know how much space you need.” His voice is snide and quieter than I expected.

  I hate that I don’t have an answer for him. He breathes out a low, bitter chuckle.

  “Can you not hate me? I just want to figure things out,” I say, walking toward him.

  He turns toward me. There’s a struggle in his expression, his brows drawn together. I can see it in his eyes—he’s battling between pity and anger. When he squints at me, I know anger has won out.

  “What happened to us figuring things out together?” He strides toward me, and I’m reminded of how tall he is, how his lean body has stretched out over our three years of marriage.

  I keep my eyes glued to his chest. The truth is, I can’t look in his eyes. When I do, I see the eyes of our baby boy we lost. I see eyes filled with disappointment that they’ll never hold our baby girl, even though he didn’t know about her.

&
nbsp; “This is different,” I mutter, and his frustration radiates off of him.

  I watch him construct the boxes and then he begins to throw his things in them. I want to say something to make this better, but each thing I say only makes it worse. He stands up, stacking the two boxes.

  “Are you staying at Jax’s?”

  “Does it matter to you?” he throws back at me.

  I bite my lip. I know I deserve this. I asked him to leave his home—it used to be a home at least. Now it feels like exactly what it is—an apartment. So many emotions swirl around in me. The urge to tell him to stay fights against a sense of relief I know I’ll feel when he leaves. How is it possible to feel so confused? He sets the boxes down, and we both reach for the front door knob. Our hands touch and linger. I wonder if, even in his anger, he misses my touch as much as I miss his, but then he pulls away.

  “I’ve got it,” he says coldly, opening the door.

  My phone rings on the couch. I glance back at it.

  “Go ahead,” he says, walking out the door, but I follow him.

  “I wanted to at least walk you to the elevator.”

  He turns around and drops the boxes, his eyes full of fury and hurt. “Why? Why walk me to the elevator or down the stairs? At the end of it, I’m still leaving!” He’s loud and angry, and tears fill my eyes while my cheeks flush. “Now you get to cry because you’re the only one hurting, right, Chas?”

  “Fine,” I say with as much anger as I can muster, but it’s weak.

  I hear him slam his hand on the button. I walk back to my apartment and glance behind me to see if he’s looking at me, but he’s not. Why should he? The elevator opens, he storms into it, and I stand there watching.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” Kelsey tells me softly.

  While she strokes my hair, I rest my head on her shoulder, my tears and cookie crumbs falling in her lap. I’m an idiot, a terrible friend. She was supposed to come over for me to talk to her about her book, but instead I’m crying on her shoulder and apologizing for not even opening the manuscript she sent me. I sniff, eating the last cookie she brought. If it wasn’t Kelsey, I’d swear she’d put drugs in her cookies. They’re almost enough to distract me from my crumbling marriage.

  “You have to talk to him though, hon. You have to tell him why you’re doing this,” Kelsey says before taking the empty container into the kitchen and washing it.

  “I can’t tell him I was pregnant, didn’t tell him, and lost our child, and I really can’t tell him that every time I look at him I see our dead babies.” My voice attempts to crack at the last part, but I manage to hold myself together for a few seconds before I break down again.

  Kelsey’s back in a flash, wrapping her arms around me. “You and Bryce can get through this. You just have to let him in, honey.”

  I rock in her arms, feeling like a wounded child instead of a twenty-six-year-old woman who should get over this. “It hurts to be around him. I miss him, but his presence makes me feel awful. When he’s not around, I feel better but miss him like crazy.”

  I remember when we lost Logan, how Bryce comforted me the same way Kelsey is when the doctor told us that…

  “What if I can’t get over this? What if I really lose him, if I mess this up for good?” I’m trying to catch my breath, but the air is leaving my lungs quicker than I can take it in. I move away from Kelsey, my body tightening and my heart beating too fast.

  “Chassidy? Chassidy!” she shrieks, her eyes wide and panic all over her face.

  Am I having a heart attack? No, no, no.

  “Put your head between your legs,” Kelsey demands.

  I do, and she tells me to close my eyes and breathe, but it doesn’t seem to help. I’m crying, my blood feels hot, and all I can think of is how much I want Bryce. Kelsey grips my shoulder and yells at me, but I’m confused, can’t hear her clearly. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. When it goes away and I feel my body untighten, Kelsey looks so relieved and hugs me.

  “Amen,” she says breathlessly.

  I stiffen in her arms and frown at her. “Were you praying?”

  She laughs. “Well, yeah, I didn’t know what else to do.” She lets out a deep breath and sits on the floor next to me.

  “Um, call the ambulance! What if I was having a heart attack or a stroke?” I ask her accusingly.

  Her larger-than-life smile falters for a moment before she gives me a playful swat. “You were not having a heart attack.”

  I push myself off the floor and away from her. “Don’t do that to me. Ever again.”

  She looks at me and laughs, but her smile disappears when she realizes I’m serious. I walk to the bathroom and wash my face. When I look up, I see her standing in the doorway, looking confused and almost offended.

  “Are you really mad?” she asks.

  I scoff. “Kelsey, I love you. I respect that your faith is important to you and I don’t try to change it, but I don’t believe in a God, Allah, Buddha, or your Jesus. So I’d very much appreciate you not chanting fables at me when I’m in a potentially life-endangering situation.”

  “Fables?” she asks, looking taken aback.

  “Whatever you want to call it, I don’t believe in it!” I say, my voice louder than I intend. I feel a twinge of guilt when she looks hurt but covers it quickly.

  “Okay,” she says, and her voice is even.

  I expected her to say more, but she doesn’t. Awkward tension comes between us though.

  “You’re okay now?” she asks quietly, and I nod.

  We walk back to the couch and quickly change the subject from Bryce and me. I tell her a bit about my self-publishing journey, including detailing the steps she may have to take, and give her the names of a few writers who have written novels about their life that she might want to check out. We watch a couple of episodes of Iron Chef before her phone rings. She beams at the caller ID, and I know it’s her husband. I try to swallow my jealousy.

  She gets off the couch and gestures that she’s heading to the bathroom. I imagine them talking and laughing, making plans, talking about their beautiful children, and I curse the envy crawling around my heart. She pops back out, unable to hide how happy she is. But knowing Kelsey, I know she’s trying.

  “Everything good?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “Yeah, he was just calling to ask me to pick up some things from the store,” she says, grabbing her purse.

  I stand to walk her to the door. “Thanks for coming by, Kels.”

  “Anytime!” She pulls me into a hug and squeezes me tight. “If you ever need to talk about anything, no matter the time, call me.”

  I nod and smile. “I’m going to start your manuscript too, I promise.”

  She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I told you it’s no rush.” She steps outside the door, her warm wide smile softening. “But I have to say something before I leave. God loves you. I know you don’t love him right now, but he’ll be ready to listen whenever you want to talk… even if it’s just to yell at him.”

  Anger rises in my chest, but before I let it burst out, I swallow hard. I don’t want to ruin my relationship with my best friend over her invisible imaginary friend.

  “Bye, Kelsey,” I say shortly and close the door harder than I intended.

  I walk back over to the couch and flop onto it before flipping through the channels, trying to ignore the anger prickling my skin. How could she say something like that to me after what I told her earlier? I feel my chest starting to burn as pressure builds in my head. Of course she’d believe in God. She grew up with her father, she has a happy marriage, and her so-called God never took her babies away from her. She has a fantastic life.

  I grab my throw from the edge of the couch and pull it over me. I ignore the stinging in my throat and flip to How to Get Away with Murder, wanting to focus on someone with more problems than myself. I try to shake her words from my head, but they stick to my thoughts like glue. My phone vibrates, and I pick it up
to see it’s a text from Davien. I sigh when I see it says.

  hope you’re smiling beautiful.

  I resist the urge to tell him I wish I was. Instead I text him back.

  Sell any books lately?

  Always luv.

  Then I get a text from my mom.

  When’s dinner? Talked to Bryce about his schedule yet?

  I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I completely forgot about that. I think of Bryce and the way he looked and spoke to me earlier. There was a time he’d do anything for me and I’d never be afraid to ask, but it seems as though that time has passed now.

  Bryce is out of the country for the next two weeks

  It’s a lie, maybe… I don’t know where he is or where he’ll be.

  Can you talk?

  That text is from Davien.

  Sort of busy. Is it about work?

  It could be if it lets me hear your voice.

  I try to suppress the smile wanting to break out on my face. Why should I though?

  Two straight weeks?

  That text is from my mother.

  I let out a frustrated sigh, and my phone rings. It’s Davien. My heartbeat picks up. I think about that night at dinner, how easy it was with him—dangerously easy—and how it’s been so long since I’ve been attracted to someone other than Bryce. At dinner when I looked at Davien, I didn’t think of losing Logan or Anna. He didn’t remind me of my inadequacy as a woman. He made me feel wanted, desirable, sexy.

  My mother is calling on the other line. It’s easier to lie to her via text than over the phone, but if I don’t pick up, she’ll know I’m lying.

  I won’t have to lie about not picking up if I’m on the phone with Davien…

  That’s what I tell myself. I pick up the phone, staring at his name, but decide not to. My mom calls again, so I set the phone down, grab my laptop, turn off the TV, and open a blank document. It’s not a lie if I tell her I’m writing, but I’ll actually have to write.

  I type one sentence. It grows into a paragraph, then a page, and for the first time in a while, I’m in the zone, a place I haven’t been in so long. It’s where I’ve longed to be, a place in my mind where the picture appears and people come alive and they talk to me. It sounds crazy, but as a writer, I long for the people inside of my head to speak to me, to tell me their dreams and wrap me in their thoughts.