Page 4 of The Satyr Next Door
My neighbor was going to be excellent entertainment.
* * *
The next morning, I rose early. Shears in hand. Whistling something half-remembered from the old days.
The vines were waiting, greedy things. Kudzu curled like jealous lovers. Virginia creeper clung like it meant to drag the porch into its grave. A worthy opponent.
But I wasn’t only here for vines.
I was here for the balcony.
It was empty, for now. Perhaps she slept in, worn from wrangling the children I’d heard thundering out yesterday. Or maybe she was behind those curtains already, debating if the neighbor with horns and hooves was worth another look.
I snipped a stem with ceremony, flexing just enough. Satyrs aren’t subtle. We don’t pretend to be.
“Your Juliet awaits,” I murmured to the empty air, grinning. “Perhaps she’s dressing for the occasion.”
Silence answered. Birds. A car brake squealed up the street. No Juliet yet.
Well. I could wait.
The work was real. Sweat ran down my back, shears biting through stubborn wood. But every few cuts, I cast my gaze up, imagining her stepping out, silk catching the light, mug hiding that smile.
Would she laugh again if I called her Rapunzel? Or Beatrice, come to scold me for wickedness?
Her laugh had loosened something in my chest I hadn’t realized was bound tight.
Careful, Cal.
So I trimmed the vines with extra flair, humming loud enough to carry. If she came out, she’d hear it. If she looked, she’d see a satyr at his best: golden hair in the sun, arms busy, smile waiting.
Not tragic. Not Other.
Chapter 3
Gina
The next morning, I told myself I wasn’t rushing.
The kids had caught their bus with minimal drama. Aria remembered her science folder without prompting, Luca wore actual shoes without divine intervention, and I’d brewed coffee at my normal pace. Normal. Totally normal.
I wasn’t hurrying to the balcony like some lovesick teenager. And I definitely wasn’t hoping to see my new neighbor again.
But my hands shook as I reached for the sliding door.
Get it together, Gina. You're forty years old with two kids, and a mortgage. Act like it.
Still, when I slid the glass door open, my pulse jumped. And when his yard was empty, the tug of disappointment was… telling.
Then I spotted them.
A cluster of figs sat on my railing, plump and purple, the kind my Nonna used to wrap in paper towels until they were “just right.” Beside them, a handful of dusky grapes, the sort Caravaggio might have painted into a still life. And tucked beneath: a folded slip of paper.
My breath caught. My fingers trembled as I picked it up.
For my Juliet. Don’t drop your coffee. —Your devoted gardener.
The handwriting was looping, confident, the kind that belonged in family prayer books before everything turned into Times New Roman emails.
