Page 23 of Bad Boy Neighbor

“I’m not,” I blurt out, suddenly conscious that once again, I’ve opened up, maybe a bit too much, and to a complete stranger.

I don’t know why Oliver has this way of dragging up my feelings. It baffles and irritates me at the same time. It’s almost like I speak with my heart and not my head when I’m around him. Very unlike me. Aside from Lana and Tiffany during my one-night bender, I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest.

“I came here to clear my head. Gain perspective before making any commitments.”

Oh, damn! There, I did it again.

“Well, how about you come with me for a run?” he asks while fiddling with his AirPods as if he’s nervous or something. “Running can clear your head.”

I haven’t run in ages. College would have been the last time I had pushed myself to run and only because our sorority made us. I try to walk and practice yoga daily, but running is on a different level.

What do I have to lose? Your ability to breathe and function tomorrow.

“Okay, let me get changed first.”

“Good. Nana cardigans and skirts would make for an interesting running ensemble.”

I look down at my clothes.

Asshole.

I head inside, changing into a pair of modest shorts and a sports tank before my phone beeps. With my hair twisted between my fingers, I lean over, swiping my screen while attempting to tame my curls and place them up into a bun.

Nicholas

About this break… I miss you. Come back.

I sit on the bed reading the text over again. It’s almost as if he can sense me pulling away, latching onto any strength I’ve mustered up while trying to drag me back into a world I so desperately am trying to run from.

I decide to leave my phone behind, unsure of how to respond. Nicholas has become clingy with his need to text me all day long. The funny thing is, he wasn’t like that before I left. In fact, we saw each other maybe twice a week, usually in the presence of my father. He traveled, and I kept myself busy with social engagements and foundations my mother forced me to be part of.

According to her, our family has responsibilities to society. My father despised it, though he was smart enough to make an appearance for the sake of his career. Both my older sisters have children, and they used it as an excuse since they never had time to do anything, yet had a bunch of nannies working for them so they could still keep up with their beauty appointments.

But now I have all the freedom in the world—no social engagements, no luncheons or fancy caviar served on a silver platter. That, in itself, is enough to motivate me to do better things.

Things that make me happy.

Oliver is right, though. I need a good head-clearing, and running should do just that.

As I walk outside and lock up the house behind me, Oliver yells at me like a drill sergeant, demanding I pick up the pace. He makes it hard to keep up with him, his long muscular legs taking big steps, almost double that of mine.

After a difficult hill and my lungs collapsing two miles back, we stop at the beach to catch my breath. Oliver does not seem the slightest bit worked up.

“How… how… on earth… are you breathing?” I’m struggling for air, bent over with my hands resting on my knees for support. My throat is parched and desperate for water or any liquid to quench its thirst.

“You’re talking to a born athlete. What we’ve done is nothing compared to the training I used to endure.”

“So, you still train even though you don’t play?”

He bends down to tie his shoelace, and upon closer inspection, he stills. I notice his demeanor changes every time I mention anything about him playing soccer.

“It’s in my blood.”

A long silence follows, and with my heart rate evening out, I suggest we stop for something to drink. There’s a small café, Sally’s Seaside Stop, overlooking the beach. It has a few tables and eclectic décor, with washed-out colors to blend in with the beach theme. Upon looking through the glass display, it appears they mainly sell fresh fruit, pastries, and various drinks. We order our fruit juices before sitting at a small yellow table out front.

People are coming and going, some walking their dogs, some in workout gear just like us. There are a few school kids and surfers in wetsuits—a mixture of people unlike the stuck-up socialites back home.

“I love people-watching,” I say while eyeing an elderly man who pulls out a water bowl for his dog. It’s pink and bedazzled in jewels, and he’s filling it with a bottle of Evian. “I don’t get to do it back home, you know. But gosh, there’s something about watching people go about their daily lives that’s fascinating.”

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