Page 18 of Missed Exit

Lawdoesn’tworkeverynight, but he’s out tonight. The realization that I feel uneasy when he’s not on the other side of the wall pisses me off. Sure, I moved here to be a hermit, but also to remember that I’m a strong, capable woman who doesn’t need a man in her life.

But here I am, wishing my neighbor was home so I’d feel safer.

I should probably get out more myself. It’s been nearly a month, and I still haven’t ventured too far off the path from the duplex to the grocery store or the gas station. I’ve got the hermit part down.

It’s time to exert my independence before I lose it entirely.

Where would I even go? What would I do?

There is a pretty well-known cavern not far from here. They offer guided tours. I’d be around other people without the obligation to engage with them in any way.

I could go shopping—or looking, according to my bank balance. There are antique stores in town, and Mom would love pictures of all the great finds she’s missing out on. Plus, it would make her feel better to see proof that I’m not hiding away from the world.

Staying inside and alone as much as I have been isn’t healthy.

And thinking about my neighbor so often is becoming a problem. I’d almost stopped seeing spontaneous images of him in my mind, and then I saw him in real life sitting on his back patio, drinking his morning coffee in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs while I was hanging my laundry on a line like a pilgrim because my damn dryer is broken and our landlord isn’t exactly on the ball when it comes to repairs, and let’s just say when I envision him now, I’m more confident in my dimensions.

This should make me not want to see him face-to-face ever again, but it’s impressive what the mind can put aside until it’s safe to access the information.

I actually look forward to the next baseball game, which is tomorrow at four. Astros at the Cardinals. Our favorite teams kick off a three-game series in St. Louis. And his Astros are going down.

If only he was . . .

Okay, that’s it. I’ve got to get out of here tomorrow morning and go where the people are. Soak up some sun. See some birds. Put some space between me and Law.

We are friends, and that’s it.

He’s attractive and funny and kind . . . but I’ve already overshared about my pathetic life. And that’s a line you can’t uncross. He’s never going to see me as anything other than his quirky neighbor, an emotionally damaged woman who has no filter and will probably never truly understand all the rules of baseball, despite his valiant efforts.

Not to mention, if he knew what I’m actually writing in here, he’d laugh his head off. Or avoid me at all costs. That would be worse.

I’d be devastated if he ever thought ours was only a friendship of convenience, that I was trying to use him in any way. Our budding friendship actually means something to me. I’m still not sure how this happened. It’s like he barged in and became my friend when I wasn’t looking.

He won’t take no for an answer once he decides to help with something. He’s kind of a space invader. He might have a touch of white knight syndrome, which I hate. He occasionally toes the line on mansplaining.

But he’s just so damn likeable.

Law is more comfortable to be around than anyone I’ve ever known. Unfortunately, he’s far too easy to insert into my fantasies, too. It’s not my fault he fits so nicely into them.

I guarantee I’m not the only woman who thinks of him that way. There are probably women in every bar within a fifty-mile radius who are hoping to run into him every time they show up.

He always comes home alone, though.

It doesn’t make sense. Not that I’m wishing for him to bring home another woman. On second thought, maybe I do want that. If I knew he was seeing other women, it might make things easier.

The more time that passes with him sleeping alone on his side of the wall and me all alone in my bed over here . . . well, the more implausible scenarios my brain generates.

Two months ago, I was engaged. Law was a complete stranger to me then, and now, he stars in all my fantasies. Not a faceless stranger, but him.

Unmistakably him.

The advice to get under a new man to get over an old one exists for a reason. I know my fantasies are normal, especially given what I was going through when we met. I’m not afraid of my sexuality. It’s the non-sexual fantasies that scare the shit out of me.

I see him in situations that will never happen, like the two of us exploring a new city, watching baseball in a different living room, waking up together, sharing dinner in a real dining room in a big renovated farmhouse with leaded transoms over the doors and rocking chairs on the front porch . . .

I’ve created a whole future fantasy life with him.

This is beyond unhealthy. I’m losing it. Definitely setting myself up for another round of heartbreak when I have to leave here. This was not the plan.

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