Page 3 of Faking it with my Off Limits Neighbor

Milly has fallen silent. Probably because she knows there is nothing she can possibly say to make this okay.

Troy Heaton stole my heart when I still wore spectacles, when my jet-black hair had not yet been introduced to conditioner, and when I had a little too much puppy fat around my now-slender figure. After ten years of being absent without leave, as they say in the army, he is now moving in next door.

2

Troy

Having to take three flights to get home would exhaust anyone, and that’s exactly what I am—exhausted. I picked up the rental car nearly an hour ago, and as I leave the freeway, my eyes catch the road signs for Cherryville, my childhood home. It seems like it’s been a lifetime since I’ve been back.

Mom and Dad are thrilled I’m coming home. My little sister, with her hyperactive energy, is ecstatic. In fact, I expect her to launch herself at me when I eventually get to my parent’s house. But that won’t be tonight. I don’t have the energy for that emotional roller coaster.

I’m going to stop at the grocery store for a few essentials—coffee and milk being the main things, or I’ll start the day tomorrow in the same mood as the Hulk—and then I need to get home.

I say home, but what that actually means is the temporary rental house I’ve snagged until I can get settled. When I saw it on the website while I was planning my return, it looked ideal. It was also a really good price, but then, Cherryville is hardly a well sought after area. It’s small and cozy and miles away from anywhere someone might want to live.

Is there a part of me that’s worried about coming home? Yep. Is there a part of me that chose a rental in case this all goes downhill? Absolutely.

Like I promised I would, I called Mom when I landed. I’ve been living in Paris for the last ten years, but I still have to call them up and let them know I’m okay. Dad was still at work, and after speaking to Mom, Milly got on the phone. She’s even more excited now than she was when I told her I was coming home. Which, honestly, I didn’t think was possible.

When I hung up, I acknowledged that there was no mention of anyone I know. Particularly the person I left behind. But then, we never mention her. Like an unspoken rule, once Milly knew why I left, she never mentioned her best friend’s name again. It’s been like that for just over ten years.

Besides, the woman is probably long gone by now. Cherryville is a tiny town, and she always had so much more potential than most. I was tempted to look her up before I came back, but then I stopped myself.

Did I really want to know that she’d settled down and was happily married with a family? Nope. Indeed, I did not.

I parked the car, and I was making my way to the grocery store when I heard someone yelling behind me. I turn to see old Mrs. Burton waving her cane and yelling at a retreating car. She was a teacher once upon a time. She’d likely not even know me now.

I walk into the grocery store and feel a strange sense of change. It seems bigger. It has definitely moved with the times. But as I get to the register, Mr. Shore still stands behind the counter. He smiles at me and scans my coffee and milk. Then he looks at me again. I can see him trying to figure out who I am. The recognition is obvious; he just can’t place the name.

“Hello, Mr. Shore,” I say. “It’s been a while. I’m the Heatons’ boy.”

“Troy?” the older man exclaims.

I laugh a little. “That’s me.”

“My goodness, it must be…” He struggles to come up with a number.

“Ten years,” I say.

The old man thinks for another minute and then nods. “Yes. Ten years. My goodness.”

A second later, the grocery door slides open, and Mrs. Burton shuffles in. She looks up at me. It’s a long way. I’m still six foot one and pretty muscular, just like I was when I left. She was short back then, and she hasn’t grown any; that’s for sure. Shoving her eyeglasses further up her nose, she examines me intently. “Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Troy Heaton. The prodigal son returns.”

I’m a little stunned that she remembers me, but then, I did leave a bit of an impression. I was a holy terror as a child. Well, that isn’t exactly true. I was mischievous at best, a bit of a troublemaker at worst. It was never anything dreadful. Just typical teenage stuff, albeit trashy: parties, loud music, fast cars.

At the time, I liked my bad boy reputation. But I’ve grown up since then. In fact, if I saw the teenage version of me on the street, I’d probably scowl at him, too. Or maybe give him a swift clip around the ear. Though you’d get arrested for that these days.

I bid them both farewell and get back into my car. I’m exhausted, and I need to get into a comfortable bed.

When I arrive at the house, I find that the movers have come and gone. I look around the bare living room with all the boxes sitting around. Nope. I’m not even going to open one. If I start, I won’t stop, and I need sleep. Wandering into the kitchen, I find the boxes I instructed the movers to leave separate from all the others. One contains my new coffee maker, and the other contains some generic mugs, both of which I bought online.

It was a strange setup, actually. Given that nearly everything in this house is practically new, furniture included, I needed to have it delivered to a storage unit, then arrange with the storage manager to liaise with the movers. Thankfully, everyone was helpful and understanding, and by the looks of it, things went without a hitch.

I leave the coffee there on the counter and put the milk in the fridge. It looks strange. Ordinarily, I’m used to fridges full of everything from bell peppers and vegetables to cheeses most people can’t pronounce to a range of meats for all courses.

Here, in this cold and, so far, lifeless house, my milk stands alone in the fridge. It’s like a metaphor for my life. Switching the light off, I leave the kitchen; with legs that feel like lead, I climb the stairs.

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