Page 5 of Faking it with my Off Limits Neighbor

Gone were the thick spectacles she used to wear; her hair is down to her waist and no longer untamed, and she’s lost the slight plumpness she had as a teenager. She also seems to have grown several inches, though the heels she’s wearing might have something to do with that.

I just can’t get my head around it. She’s like an entirely new person. The girl I left behind used to wear clothes her mother made. Life was cruel to her back then. It wasn’t her fault. Her parents were always a bit secluded and, well, weird.

“It’s Charlie now,” she says. “No one’s called me Charlotte for years.”

And while I try to assimilate that information in my stunned shock, I’m desperately trying to think of something to say. But all the words I have in my vocabulary, all those really great words, seem to vanish into the ether. All I can do is stare. Like a huge, bumbling buffoon.

3

Charlie

I’m up bright and early this morning because I have a meeting with a prospective client on the calendar. To be honest, I’m up bright and early every morning. I’ve been like that for a long time. It probably has to do with something someone said to me after Momma died.

I was fourteen at the time, so it didn’t really sink in—but as the years have hurried on, as they seem to, those words have become tattooed on my brain somewhere.

After the funeral, our house was packed with all the people Momma knew, and she knew a lot. She’d been the local seamstress since before I was even born. There was always someone arriving at the house, day or night, looking for some adjustments to their clothes, drapes, or household wares. If it could be stitched, my mom could fix it. I think she even mended a tent once.

My childhood home, where my father still lives, is a huge old thing, situated on the outskirts of the town. Momma died in the summer, which was better in a way, I suppose. At least everyone wasn’t crammed inside.

The women of the town had done themselves proud, bringing a wide variety of foods to eat. Tables were erected in the garden, and bowls of food in all shapes and sizes were set out. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t in the mood for eating. Neither was Dad. He hadn’t been right for the two months of her illness, though. Which I suppose is no surprise.

When you’re young, you think things are going to be all right. More so for me, given that I had a pretty closeted upbringing. I was an only child and a lonely child. I didn’t make friends easily, because I was so quiet. Milly, of course, was my only friend.

When I look back now, the style of my clothes and my hair was far behind the times. But then, Momma and Dad were both quite old-fashioned in their ways and how they dressed.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The funeral.

While all the adults huddled together, I did my best to stay out of the way. At the bottom of our garden was a small swing set. When I was younger, it had been the place where I had all my adventures with my make-believe friends because I didn’t have real ones.

I’d been sitting there alone for some while. I think, if I remember correctly, I was trying to talk to God. I wanted to know if Momma was okay. I never did get an answer. Someone approached from behind, and when I turned, I saw Mr. Heaton. Yes, Troy’s father.

He asked if he could sit on the swing beside mine, and I nodded. He sat there quietly for some time, just rocking back and forth. Then he said, “You’re going to be all right, Charlotte.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I nodded again.

“Your mother was taken far too soon,” he said. “It’s a sad day for everyone.”

“Taken where?” I replied.

I cringe now when I think about it. But no one had explained death to me. I did say I had a closeted upbringing. During the months prior, Dad had been too busy looking after Momma, and all the adults that came to and from the house in that last month could barely look me in the eye. Besides, Dad was never good with words. Well, unless he was yelling at me.

Mr. Heaton looked down at me and smiled. He was a tall, broad man; I suppose he still is. He works hard, cutting down trees for his logging business. While he and Dad spoke sometimes, they were never best buddies. But for some reason, Mr. Heaton took it upon himself to come and talk to me that day.

“That, dear Charlotte, is the question everyone wants to know the answer to. We know what’s here,” he said, gesturing to the trees and shrubs around us, “but no one knows what the next part brings.”

“Maybe Momma will come back and tell us,” I said innocently.

“Maybe she will.” He sighed deeply then. “It’s just too short, this life of ours. I’ll give you a piece of advice, Charlotte. Live your life your way. Don’t waste a minute. Because one minute we’re here, and the next”—he snapped his fingers—“it’s all over.”

Of course, my childhood didn’t change. I whiled away the hours without a care. But as I’ve grown older, and I’m now in my twenty-seventh year, Mr. Heaton’s advice is more prominent in my brain.

* * *

After a tall glass of water and a coffee, my morning ritual, I put my iPod on and dance around the kitchen while I clean the mess left from last night’s cooking. I always like to clean the house before I go anywhere.

Maybe I watch too much TV, but those CSI shows always worry me. Imagine if I died in a car crash and those poor people had to come to my house. If it were a mess, I’d be mortified. Well, actually, I’d be dead, so I likely wouldn’t care, but I feel mortified just imagining it. They might judge me for my unwashed dishes or my dirty floor, and that just will not do.

After a quick shower, I get dressed and grab my small portfolio case from my home office; it contains the details of the client and an array of photos showcasing my previous work. Then I skip down the stairs. I’m grabbing my keys from my cute keyholder, which hangs beside the front door, when I notice a car parked in the driveway next door.

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