Page 3 of Fragile Touch (Fragile 1)
Black Cat blinked slowly and Lillian swore she saw a scowl pass over his face. “Okay, maybe it is too much to ask. People—am I right?”
The cat lowered his head and immediately closed his eyes.
She was officially at a loss. Her heart thudded with every vibration of the sub-woofers next door. Don’t people usually have those in their cars? Does he have them inside the house, or is it just some really advanced sound system? I didn’t think this was a sub-woofer kind of neighborhood.
Well, it wasn’t. Before, at least. But this guy seemed to have brought the subs with him.
With a groan, she stood and dragged her feet to the kitchen, wracking her brain for another way to passive-aggressively ask the guy to quiet down his parties. She had tried giving him the death glare when she saw him, or coughing loudly to act like she was sick. Once she brought her portable speaker outside while she was pressing flowers and played her music loudly enough to be audible next door, and when he got home she turned it down to a more personable volume.
None of those worked, so she tried something different: taking a nap on the front porch for a whole afternoon while he was clipping his bushes. He had smiled and waved, but she was so angry at his obvious cluelessness that she just turned and went back to sleep.
Clearly, this guy wasn’t getting the memo.
He must need an upfront, clear discussion. I guess most men are that way. She started to get some flashbacks from years past that she had buried in her mind for a reason: they weren’t welcome to resurface. At the first sign of them she shook her head to clear it, and opened the cabinet to find a teabag.
Back to the neighbor. Talking to him was obviously the last resort. She didn’t want him thinking she was hitting on him or was upset that she’d never been invited to the parties. Her life now—minus the party noises—was exactly how she had worked so hard to design it. She had spent far too long struggling, and jumping from lame job to lame job to get to this place.
This nice, quiet, well-to-do neighborhood, with elite neighbors and freshly waxed cars in every driveway within a mile.
She didn’t know the guy next door. He had a nice car, kept up his yard better than anyone else in the area ever had, and didn’t do anything out of the ordinary other than these wild weekend parties. But, again, no one else seemed to mind because his shrubbery was so immaculate. That had to be the reason.
I can’t be the only one who has a problem with this, she thought desperately. Her stress level was rising rapidly, and her stomach wasn’t handling it well. She heard it gurgle and felt the nausea sweep over her like a tidal wave. Steadying herself against the counter, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. After a minute or so, she could feel her body again.
Little attacks like that were so unnecessary, and irritated her every time. They aren’t adding anything to my life. Why do they happen so often? A year ago, she only had them every couple of weeks, but when they came upon her more often she decided something wasn’t right inside her. She spent a couple of months having tests and blood work done until they finally reached a definite conclusion.
Calm down, Lillian. What was the trigger? Stress. Absolutely stress. The doctors had warned that stress was a big factor in keeping these small flare-ups at bay. She could still hear the doctor’s voice, asking her if she had a stressful lifestyle. To which, of course, she responded no. Not anymore, at least. She had a stable, well-paying job and lived in a beautiful house in a peaceful neighborhood.
Then that guy moved in.
She sighed. “Tea,” she reminded herself. “Tea. I need to make tea, then figure out what to do about the noise.”
Slowly, she made her way to the sofa and sat in between the cats, who draped their front paws on her lap and continued their oblivious nap. She sipped slowly, thinking about ways to indirectly talk to the guy without taking it too far into the drama zone or without him suspecting something romantic.
He certainly wouldn’t think anything like that, would he? They hadn’t even talked to each other. They had barely seen each other. He had no reason to think that she had any sort of interest in him or his ridiculous parties.
Well, it’s happened before. Again, the unwanted memories. Several times before there had been men who convinced themselves Lillian was in to them, when she had never really spoken to them or spent time in the same vicinity. Luckily, each of those times, she was around friends when the guys confronted her, trying to persuade her of how in love with them she was.
A few times, her personal space had definitely been breached.
Her stomach gurgled just a bit and she shut off her mind. What was it with tonight and all the old thoughts? There were much better things to think about in life now, and what good did dwelling on the past do anyway? She had never heard of anyone who was motivated by toxic memories.
A pause in the music next door brought her back to reality. Moving forward. Her tea level was getting dangerously close to the bottom of the mug. She made a mental note to add it to her food journal and put a check mark beside it. A big, happy, positive check mark that meant she could have no worries about drinking it.
For the time being.
Still at a loss for what the almost-last-ditch-effort should be, she glanced around the room in search of some physical object that might inspire her. Over there, on the desk, was a pile of sticky notes.
“That could work,” she said slowly, her mind racing for the next course of action. Suddenly excited that her troubles might soon come to an end, she grabbed Gray Cat and held her up. “That might be it, kitty! We might be able to sleep in peace soon!”
Startled by the abrupt movements Black Cat flinched, and in one motion was standing stiff on the arm of the sofa. “It’s okay, baby,” Lillian put down the gray cat and rubbed the black one’s ears. “I just got excited. Chill out.”
She swore Black Cat rolled his eyes at her before jumping down and plodding over to the water bowl.
What should I say...what should I say... She resisted the old habit of biting her nails when she was thinking. Another pause in the bass
gave her a moment of silence, propelling her mind forward to plan her move. When the next song began, the bass was such a powerful vibration that she jumped in fright. Every beat thudded so strongly she felt her ribs tremble. An antique plate on the wall in the living room rattled loose from one of its two hooks.
“NO!” she screamed, and bolted over to the plate as the next vibration shook the air. Back in the kitchen she heard cups clink against each other in the sink, but didn’t care. She had to get to the plate.
