Page 47 of Faking it with my Off Limits Neighbor

The first day I didn’t hear from her, I figured she was just busy. I know she has other clients, and I’m not the be-all and end-all. It still felt strange, though, and I knew something was off. We’d spent every day until then together since the day I showed her the restaurant. I know that hasn’t just been because of the job I’ve asked her to do, either.

Those evenings we’ve spent cuddled up on the sofa have nothing to do with colors or fabrics. From her expressions, the fact she seems so happy with me, and the easiness that has crept back into our relationship, I know she cares about me.

I’m head over heels in love with her, but I haven’t told her that yet. Like I said to my family the other night at dinner, I want to take this slowly. Well, actually, that’s not at all true. If I thought marrying her tomorrow was a possibility, I’d do it.

I even messed up the other morning and mentioned a wedding. Charlie laughed it off, but I felt like such an idiot. Here I am telling my family I don’t want to scare her to death, and then I mention getting married. Idiot. I’m taking things slow for her sake. She needs to know that being with me isn’t a risk. That I’m not going to suddenly disappear like I did last time. So I’m holding back as much as I can.

When she left on Wednesday to go and help her dad, I jumped into the truck and headed to the restaurant. Several deliveries were arriving, and I needed to be there. By the time I got home, her BMW was sitting in the driveway.

I sent her a text, inviting her to come over for dinner. Usually, she replies pretty quickly, but after an hour, my inbox was still empty. I sent another text, asking if she was okay. Still nothing. I was tempted to go around and knock on her door, but my gut told me to leave it alone. Maybe something had happened between her and Mr. Woods, and she needed some time to herself.

Yesterday morning, my inbox remained empty. We’ve fallen into the habit of exchanging good morning texts, even though we live next door. But there was nothing. No reply to the texts I’d sent the evening before, either. Something was wrong. After getting dressed, I went over to her house. The car was in the driveway, so I knew she was home.

But after standing on her doorstep for five minutes, knocking loudly on the door, I gave up. I returned to my house, starting to get worried. Maybe something had happened to her. My mind went to all the most macabre places I could imagine.

Maybe she’s slipped in the shower and cracked her head. She could be lying there unconscious and nobody knows. Maybe she’s fallen down the stairs and hurt herself. Maybe she’s fallen asleep in her bath and drowned. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It was driving me nuts.

I was pacing up and down the kitchen, phone in hand, and on the verge of calling Milly to see if she had heard from Charlie when I heard a car door slam. By the time I reached the front door, all I saw was her BMW speeding away.

So, not unconscious on the bathroom floor, then.

I sent her several more messages after that, but she didn’t reply to one of them. In fact, I noticed she hadn’t even read them. I tried calling a couple of times, but—surprise, surprise—she didn’t pick up. I still left a voicemail in the hope that she might listen to it and realize how worried I was. I was still waiting for her to call back last night, but it didn’t happen.

This morning, I woke to another empty inbox. I lay in bed for ages, just thinking. The same thoughts I’ve already gone over and over returned.

Did I say something wrong? Did I do something wrong? Was it the mention of the wedding? No. It couldn’t have been that. Charlie left my house on Wednesday morning laughing and joking about it.

Eventually, I got up and dressed, but even now, as I sip my coffee, my mind will not rest. I wonder if I’ve done something else that I’ve overlooked. But try as I might, after examining every single interaction we’ve had, I can’t pinpoint one thing I might have said or done to upset her.

In fact, I’ve been especially careful not to do so. I’ve been so determined to win her back, to make her feel comfortable with me again, that I’ve gone above and beyond to tread lightly.

Could it be that? Could she have perceived your behavior as disingenuous?

Maybe. If she would give me a chance to talk to her, I’d know the answer. I would be given an opportunity to explain why I’m being so careful. But surely, Charlie knows me well enough by now to understand. She’s no fool. While it’s a possibility, it just doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t feel like that’s the reason.

None of this is making any sense. Everything was going so well. What could possibly have happened to cause this sudden turn in her treatment of me?

When I leave the house to head to the restaurant, Charlie’s car isn’t in the driveway. I stand in my own driveway for a long moment, just looking at her house. Maybe I should write her a note. But then I shake my head. What’s the point? If she’s not going to respond to messages and phone calls, what makes me think she’ll respond to a handwritten note?

Jumping into the truck, I begin to realize that whatever we had might be over before it’s even begun. I heave a sigh, and feeling the weight of my heavy, broken heart, I start the truck and back out onto the main road.

I usually arrive at the restaurant with a spring in my step. I’m usually excited about getting started and ticking another thing off my to-do list. But not today. In fact, I can barely motivate myself to do anything. Sitting in the back office, glaring at the computer screen, my whole being feels heavy, like I’m being crushed by some invisible force. There has to be something I can do.

Checking my phone for the seven millionth time, I scroll through my contacts until I stop at Milly. For a second, I hesitate, but then I just call her. If Charlie won’t tell me what’s going on, maybe Milly will.

My little sister arrives at the restaurant forty minutes later. She’s on her lunch break and only has a half hour, so I’ve already made her a beef and cheese panini.

Even as she walks in, I know she knows something. Her usual hyperactivity seems to have left the building, and she has this dreadfully sad expression on her face.

“Hey,” she says unenthusiastically, dropping into the chair beside me.

“I made you some lunch,” I say, nodding to the panini on the plate.

Milly shrugs. “I’m not really hungry.”

“You need to eat, Titch.”

“I don’t feel like eating,” she replies.

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