Page 36 of Faking it with my Off Limits Neighbor

I move back into the kitchen and return to the stove. My peppered sauce still simmers in the pan, the raw steak rests on a plate, and my finely sliced onions sit on a chopping board.

I’m torn.

Do I go over there to see if she’s okay? Do I stay here and continue what I’m doing and mind my own darned business? Maybe she’ll be embarrassed if she knows I heard everything—but maybe she needs a friend right now.

This debate goes on for a few minutes before I remember the way I wasn’t there for her when she needed me all those years ago. I knew, when I left, that she would end up having to live the life she had lived before we got together—which basically meant becoming a slave to her father, again. I could have put a stop to that. I could have stayed.

Are you now going to do the same? Are you going to leave her to deal with this on her own?

No. I’m not.

I grab the trash bag that needs to go out, open the back door, and skip down the steps to throw it away. I’m turning to go back inside the house when I hear a whimper. Peeking through a tiny gap in the fence, I can see Charlie sitting on her back porch, crying. A second later, I’m back in the kitchen, scrubbing up.

Walking down the side of her house, I find Charlie in the same position; her hair hangs down over her face, and her shoulders are slumped forward. I can see them jerking as she sobs.

“Are you okay?” I say carefully. I don’t want to frighten her, and speaking before walking up to her is likely the better approach.

She turns her head to look at me and then turns away again. “Just peachy,” she sniffs.

“Yes. I can see that,” I say as I walk over to her and lower myself down to sit beside her.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pull her into my chest, and let her just get it all out. I have a problem with those people who try and stop others from crying. You’re crying for a reason. If the emotion needs to come out, it’s best to get rid of all of it, in my opinion.

A little while later, she’s calmed herself, and she slowly pushes herself off me.

“Thanks,” she sniffs.

“Here.” I hand her a handkerchief I have shoved in my back pocket.

“Really?” she half laughs.

“You never know,” I say, not wanting to admit that I’d grabbed it on my way out of the door. We’re silent for a bit, and then I say, “Was that one of your unsatisfied customers? Did he not like the paint color?”

Charlie half laughs again and shakes her head. I’m trying to bring some light comic relief to the situation, mainly because I’m uncomfortable with her being upset. Sure, I’m all for letting emotions out, but when you don’t know how to make things better, that feeling of helplessness is overwhelming, and it makes me feel uneasy.

“You heard, huh?”

“Would’ve had to be deaf not to,” I quip.

“Great. So now all my neighbors know my business.” She sighs.

“I’m sure the rest of them are far too busy watching daytime T.V. Judge Judy is pretty addictive once you get into it.”

Charlie looks up at me with a wry grin. I smile down at her. She still looks beautiful, even with red-rimmed eyes and a nose that would make Rudolph envious.

“He’s my ex,” she says. “We split up three years ago. In fact, it’s your fault he came around again.” She gives me a half-hearted smirk.

“My fault?” I balk.

“Sure. He’s heard you’re back in town. He sees you as competition and me as some kind of challenge.”

“What?”

“You don’t remember Eddy Crowley from school?” she asks.

I furrow my brow and shake my head. The name means nothing at all.

“He was on the track team. Super competitive.”

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