Page 26 of Her Alien Neighbor

“Fuck no,” I reply instantly. Though, the strength in that sentiment has waned. I find myself feeling unsure about where my future is set. “The house is old and needs to be fixed up before I can sell it, so I’ll be sticking around for that, at least.”

“Okay, I know this is all happening because Aunt Franny died, and…” Sam pauses to make the sign of the cross out of respect, “but selfishly, I’m thrilled you’re stuck here because I don’t have another assignment until next month. So I’ll be here too!”

Sam has built a brilliant career as a freelance photographer. She started out by shooting her favorite bands at concerts and then finagling her way backstage to show off her work. Eventually, a band signed her as their main photographer, and she went on tour with them. Her ex-husband even joined her on tour with the band after they got married. His work as a journalist allowed him the ability to work on the road. Now, the work she does is mostly commercial shoots for food and beverages, but she’s paid well, and she never has to settle in one place, which was a fear of hers growing up.

“You’re crashing at your mom’s?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Plus, Jackie and Marty have been handling the bulk of Mom’s care, so it’s my turn. They’ll get a break, and I won’t feel like such a shitty daughter.”

I had completely forgotten about her mom’s Alzheimer’s until now. “How’s she doing?”

Sam’s eyes drift to the array of old magnets on the fridge. Her hands still, and I can tell this is a tough subject for her. Normally, she’s so animated, but when her hands aren’t moving, Sam is too inside her own head. “She has good days and bad, exactly like the doctors said she would.” She rests her elbow on the table and drops her chin against her palm. “They just didn’t say how bad those bad days would be.”

I place my wine on the counter and kneel in front of her, putting my hands on her knees. “I’m sorry, it sounds awful.” I don’t know what to say, or if there’s anything I could say that would comfort her. I can’t imagine watching my own parent forget who I am. Or who they are. That must be absolutely terrifying. “I’m here. You can come over here whenever you want, and I’ll be here.”

“Thank you,” she mutters through a choked sob as she crushes me to her chest. I rub her back as she cries against my shoulder, her tears seeping through the worn fabric of my sweatshirt.

Once the pasta is done, we grab our shallow bowls, piled high with noodles, sauce, and Parmesan, and settle in next to each other on Aunt Franny’s old leather couch.Now and Thenis already cued up in the VCR.

We eat, chat, and drink, not really watching the movie, but reciting the dialogue at certain parts, and when I pause it to take our dishes into the kitchen, Sam makes a rather disappointing discovery.

“We’re out of wine,” she says. When I come back in, she’s frowning dramatically as she tips the empty bottle upside down.

“Welp,” I say, opening the freezer. “I have vodka and orange juice, but that’s about it.”

Her eyes light up. “Let’s walk down to Tipsy’s. That new bar on the corner of Hobart Street.”

I scrunch up my nose in disgust. I’m all cozy in my sweats and full of pasta and going out into the cold sounds about as fun as getting a pap smear. “Boo. No, thanks.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “It’s two blocks away! And remember Izzy H. from biology?”

“Yeah.”

“She owns it. Oh, wait. I’m sorry.They.Theyown it.”

An Instagram post from about two years ago pops into my memory. “Ah, she came out as nonbinary, right?” I ask.

“Yes, andtheymake the best cocktails in town.”

I scoff. “Well, that’s an easy competition to win. What are there, like, three bars total in Sudbury now?”

“Um, actually,” she says in her snottiest, haughty voice, “there’s four. And this one is the best.”

I groan, not wanting to go anywhere outside this house after seeing Beth, but reluctantly accepting how pushy Sam can be when she wants something. “I don’t wanna…” I pout.

“Nope,” she says, getting to her feet and nudging my side. “Go put on your big girl panties and then put some actual pants over them.”

“Ugh, you’re in town for how long?” I ask jokingly as she skips behind me, practically herding me toward the bedroom.

I grab the twill cropped pants in black that I packed just in case I needed to attend Aunt Franny’s funeral and change out of my sweats as Sam rifles through my suitcase looking for a shirt. She tosses the one I planned to wear with said pants to said funeral: a short-sleeved, flowy black top with balloon sleeves and open V-neck with ties. It’s the dressiest outfit I have with me since everything else is loungewear. Not that I need to look dressy. I’m sure most of the patrons at this bar will be in extremely casual attire.

“Well?” I ask Sam, giving her a spin.

“Gorgeous,” she replies, mimicking a chef’s kiss.

She steps in front of the mirror, straightens the oversized red cable-knit sweater with cream stripes, and tugs slightly at the waist of her dark jeans, rolled expertly at the cuff. Sam has always had the kind of confidence with fashion that I’ve envied. Everything looks good on her. Everything. And the girl takes risks. She isn’t afraid to rock a cropped tee with a bodycon skirt and platform heels.

The best part is that she’s my size, if not slightly wider in the hips, so even though the majority of clothing made for our larger bodies is hideous, she finds the gems that fit as if they were made for her. It doesn’t matter if she’s wearing a skintight dress or a baggy sweatshirt and even baggier sweats. The rise of her chin and the straightness of her spine remain the same.

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