Page 65 of Neighbor from Hell
HUGH
Standing in Lauren’s cottage kitchen, the delicious scent of tomato sauce and melted mozzarella fills the air, mixing with the faint tang of fresh paint from the newly finished walls feel like a fever dream.
The green pepper I sliced, thin and precise under her watchful eye, is now baked into the pizza, and I’m struck by how much I enjoyed the task, how her laughter, her teasing, “You’re too serious, Hugh,” made my chest feel lighter, fuller, than it has in years.
The counter is cluttered with mixing bowls, a wooden spoon streaked with sauce, and I realize I’ve been here all day, under the guise of overseeing the refrigerator installation, the AC unit, and finally the housekeepers’ deep clean—tasks I’d never bother with personally, tasks I delegated to staff without a second thought before her.
But today, I couldn’t leave, couldn’t walk back to the manor, because every moment away from her feels like a loss, a hollowache I’m not ready to face. I’ve been stalling, finding excuses. Dust on the sills, a loose tile, anything to stay in her orbit, to keep her close, because the thought of her sleeping here, alone, while I’m in my cold bed, is unbearable.
She’s at the sink now, rinsing a spatula, her braid swaying, her jeans hugging her hips, and I’m worried, a quiet anxiety curling in my gut, that she’ll miss her room in the manor or worse, that this cottage—despite its fresh plaster and gleaming floors—won’t feel right, won’t be enough.
I’m searching for a reason, any reason, to ask her to stay one more night, to keep her in my arms, her breath soft against my chest, her warmth chasing the loneliness from my bones. The distance between our houses is nothing, a short walk across the gravel path, but it’s not the same, not the same as falling asleep together, our legs tangled, our heartbeats falling into a steady rhythm. I don’t know how I’ll sleep tonight, how I’ll face the silence of the manor without her.
When dinner is ready, we move to the dining table, a small oak piece tucked against the cottage’s stone wall. We eat together, the pizza is hot and hearty, each bite bursting with cheese and spice, and we share a bottle of Cabernet, Knox has brought. Its deep, velvety notes warm my throat, loosening the tension in my shoulders.
Afterwards, we settle on the sofa and flip on the TV. She curls into my side, her head resting on my shoulder, her hair smelling of apples and dough. I wrap an arm around her, my fingers tracing slow circles on her arm. The moment is so easy and so right, it hurts.
We laugh, we talk, our voices soft, and somewhere between the wine and the warmth of her body, we drift off, the TV’s drone fading, the world narrowing to the steady rise and fall of her breath.
It’s late, past midnight, when I wake, my neck stiff, the room dark save for the TV’s faint glow casting shadows on the exposed beams overhead. Lauren’s still asleep, her face soft, her lips slightly parted, her body curled against mine, and my heart clenches, because she’s here, but she’s not mine, not really. I know I could stay, could carry her to bed, could wake up with her in this cottage, but a voice in my head—sharp, insistent—tells me I need to detach, to pull back, because I’m in trouble, deep trouble, falling for her in ways I didn’t plan, ways that scare me.
We got too close, living in the manor, sharing meals, nights, secrets, and now, with her in her own space, I have to try, have to let her go, for her sake, for mine, before I lose myself completely. I slide out from under her, careful, slow, and lift her in my arms, her weight warm, familiar, her head lolling against my chest. I carry her to her bedroom, the new oak floor creaking faintly, and tuck her into the bed, pulling the quilt over her, its patchwork soft under my fingers. I lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, my lips lingering, her skin warm.
“Goodnight, baby,” I whisper, though she can’t hear me. Then I turn, my chest tight, and walk out, the cottage’s door clicking shut behind me.
The night air is cool and sharp with the scent of newly cut grass. I head back to the manor, my boots crunching on the gravel, each step heavier, sadder than the last. The manor looms, its ancient stone walls and towering chimneys stark against the starry sky, and I feel it—the loneliness, the vast, empty weight of this place without her.
The arched doorway built by my ancestors swallows me.
Once inside, I climb the grand staircase, its marble cold underfoot, and head to my suite. In the bathroom, I strip hastily, the mirror fogging as I turn on the shower and let the hot water pound my body. It washes away the day but not the ache, the image of her asleep, or the feel of her in my arms.
I towel off, slip into a clean pair of boxers, and slide into bed. The sheets are crisp and smooth. Too smooth, too empty. I try to sleep, but end up tossing and turning. The silence is too loud without the gentle sound of her heartbeat and breathing. Her face, her laugh, her touch keep me awake in a loop I can’t escape.
It’s two a.m. and the clock’s green glow mocks me.
I give up. I should try to do some work instead. I throw off the covers and let my feet hit the rug. Pulling on my dressing gown, I head downstairs. I pass through the manor’s dim halls, the chandeliers glinting faintly, and make for the kitchen.
I don’t call for staff, don’t want their efficiency, or their polite, nervous distance. I want the place where Lauren and I laughed, where we tried to bake a cake one night, flour dusting her nose, the batter lumpy, the oven too hot, the result a charred mess we ate anyway, giggling like kids. I smile at the memory, bittersweet, as I fill the kettle, the water hissing softly, and steep her favorite, some chamomile tea. Its floral scent curls into the air, reminding me even more of her.
Mug in hand, I wander to the living room, its floor-to-ceiling French windows framing the night, and sink into an armchair. I sip the tea. It’s pretty dull and tasteless, but I guess something meant to calm should taste that way. With a sigh, I glance out, my eyes drifting to her cottage, its stone facade pale under the moon.
It is then that I see it.
A flicker downstairs, not a lamp, not a shadow, but a glow, orange and alive. I gasp and my hand instinctively tightens on the mug as I lean forward, squinting, hoping I’m wrong. But it is there. Unmistakable; flames are licking the window, curling, growing. Cold panic seizes me. I drop the mug and scalding tea splashes on my legs, but I don’t feel it. My heart slamming against my ribs, I start running.
Out the door, across the gravel, my robe flapping, my voice tearing from my throat, raw, desperate.
“Lauren! Lauren!” I yell as I sprint toward the cottage.
The fire’s glow is getting brighter and fiercer, and I know she’s upstairs in her bedroom, because I put her there. She’s asleep and unaware. I can’t lose her. I can’t let this happen.
“Lauren! Lauren!” I scream, my lungs burning, my feet pounding, her name echoing in the dark, over and over.
“Lauren, Lauren, Lauren!”
I reach the door, and the blazing heat and thick black smoke are already in the living room. I don’t think, don’t stop, just push forward, because she’s in there, and nothing else matters.
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