Page 28 of The Kiss Countdown

“Thank you.”

He nods once before booking it out of the room, closing the door behind him. I collapse onto the bed and groan into my hands. Good Lord.

Chapter Ten

I am in heaven. I have to be. There is no earthly explanation as to why I’m cocooned inside a literal cloud that’s so soft it can’t be man-made. And why angels are singing throughout the sky.

Only these angels are off-key. And way too loud.

Do they really sing jacked-up versions of Usher in the heavenly halls? I don’t think this is right.

Now half-awake, I toss to the other side of my cloud and try to burrow in deeper. Try to fall back into the best sleep of my life and ignore what I now realize aren’t angels, but my neighbors being uncharacteristically loud.

My neighbor to the right is an EMT who usually works this early. My neighbors to the left both work from home and keep it pretty low-key. There is nothing low-key about the loud, deep singing that’s hardly muffled through the door.

Welp, I’m awake now. Squinting into the dark room, I see the time on an unfamiliar digital clock. Where I am and why I’m here finally dawn on me, as well as the fact that the absolutely non-angelic voice belongs to none other than Vincent.

I groan and sit up, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. There are only another ten minutes before my alarmis set to go off, so there’s no point in trying to get more sleep.

“Good morning,” Vincent greets me when I come out of the room. He’s cooking in the kitchen, filling the air with the savory scent of bacon.

I probably look like a tired kid as I shake my head no but might as well get this out of the way. “You should probably know that I’m not in the best mood when I wake up. I need my morning walk first. Then coffee. Then a good twenty minutes. You can save me some bacon though. I assume your neighborhood is safe to walk around this early?”

Vincent turns over a strip. “Noted, noted, and noted. And yes, the neighborhood is perfectly safe.” I begin walking to the door, and he continues. “Just be careful when you pass Mr. Rivera’s house. It’s the last one before the stop sign. He used to be a clown and sometimes gets confused. Thinks he’s running late for a children’s party. If he comes running out in full gear, muttering about his little car being stolen, stand still like a tree and he won’t even notice you’re there.”

Oh God.

I shudder hard. I hate clowns. And Vincent lives on a cul-de-sac, so it’s not like I can walk the other way to avoid the house. I guess I could drive to one of my favorite parks or the golf course, which would only be about twenty minutes away.

I turn to Vincent, ready to ask if he can recommend somewhere nearby, only to see his shoulders shaking as he stands over the stove.

My right eye begins twitching. “You are not funny, Vincent!” I exclaim, barely containing the urge to stomp my foot like a child.

With the jig up, Vincent is free to let his laughter loose.“Oh, but I am.” He wipes tears from his eyes. “You should have seen the look on your face.”

Now I do stomp to the door, and Vincent’s deep laughter trails after me until I’m outside.

Unlike the man, his neighborhood is quiet. Peaceful. The type of place where young couples settle with hopes of growing their families and older couples wait for their adult kids to come home for a visit, arms open and eagerly awaiting hugs from their grandbabies.

As I wait to cross one of the streets, a man in a white SUV waves as he drives past. I’m so stunned, it doesn’t dawn on me to wave back before he’s gone. In apartments, unless you own the unit and live there for years, most people try to avoid leaving at the same time as their neighbors. Forget making eye contact. Neighbors beingneighborlyis something I’ll have to get used to.

I walk toward a small park with a red jungle gym, slides, and swings. It’s too early for anyone to be out playing, but I imagine it’s the hot spot for toddler fun in the afternoons. A lady walking two German shepherds, coming from the opposite direction, smiles when we make eye contact.

“Good morning,” she says.

This time I’m prepared and quickly respond, “Good morning.” We keep going our separate ways, and I smile.

The fresh air has seeped into my lungs, and the sun has lightened the sky with streaks of orange by the time I make it back to Vincent’s house. He’s sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop out and his phone to his ear.

He moves the speaker away from his mouth and addresses me. “There’s a plate in the microwave, and the coffee maker is filled with plenty of water.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes, that was her,” Vincent says as I open the microwave.

I wasn’t intending to listen to his conversation, but it’s obvious he was talking about me. As I begin quietly moving around the kitchen, I keep one ear turned toward him.

I have to pull out two drawers before finding the utensils and three cabinets before coming upon the coffee mugs.

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