Page 3 of Her Alien Neighbor

Brian G.: Tbh, I suspect you’re not the only one he’s cheated with.

I don’t find this the least bit surprising. Men like him often juggle multiple deceptions at once. This poor woman.

Brian G.:How long have you been seeing him?

My answer comes easily. Let him face the consequences of his actions. I’m certainly not going to cover for him.

Me:Our first date was two months ago. We turned it into more of a casual thing after that. How long have you been together, if you don’t mind me asking?

Brian G.:Just hit the one-year mark last week

Me:My god

Brian G.:…yeah.

My phone vibrates suddenly, and my sister’s name flashes across the screen as the phone continues to ring. What could she possibly want? We haven’t talked in weeks. Pressingdeclineand sending her to voicemail, I return to the text with Brian’s girlfriend. One piece of bad news at a time.

Me:I know I don’t even know your name, or anything about you, really, but you obviously deserve better than this. I hope you find it.

And because this information has left me in a particularly foul mood…

Me:Also, I hope Brian’s dick falls off.

Then I realize she might take that last comment the wrong way, and I start to panic.

Me:Not that it will. Because of STDs, I mean. I don’t have any, just FYI. So, I didn’t give him any. And not that I’m saying if he had them, they’d come from you… That’s not at all what I meant…

Now I’m rambling like an idiot. I sent her a nice message, wishing her happiness, and I had to go and ruin it with a crack about Brian’s dick, which I’m sure is the last thing his girlfriend needs to hear.

Brian G.:LOL. I knew what you meant.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Brian G.:Fingers crossed Brian’s dick turns into a shriveled and useless paperweight someday. May neither of us ever meet another scrub like him. - Amy

Her name is Amy, and she doesn’t despise me. Not as much as she despises Brian, at least.

My phone vibrates again as it rings, and it’s my sister. Again. The name “Willa” taunts me as I continue to ignore it. But then I look at the picture that appears whenever my sister calls, and it’s of my nephew Jordan on his sixth birthday, holding the frosting-covered ends of the candles he had just blown out in his mouth. In good conscience, I can’t ignore little Jordan.

“Hey,” I say as I answer. “I’ve had a terrible day, Wil, so I’m begging you not to make it wo–”

“Aunt Franny died,” she interrupts, her voice shaky as she delivers the news through tears. Willa pulls the phone away, the sounds of her sobs still reaching my ears. Then I hear her sniffle loudly before she says, “You have to come home.”

CHAPTER 2

VANESSA

She died in her sleep. Aunt Franny, halfway through her seventy-fourth year, went to bed two nights earlier and never woke up. It’s the way she always wanted to leave this world, and I’m not surprised she got exactly what she wanted. The woman had a knack for getting her way when it came to most things.

Strolling through Manchester Regional Airport, I smile at the thought of her getting into bed that night and thinking,I’m ready. Take me away,and God granting her wish. But my hopes are forgotten the moment I step outside, the harsh New Hampshire air hitting me like a brick to the face.

Zipping up my hot pink puffy jacket, which comes with a sack it can be stuffed into and is entirely too light for mid-March, my eyes take in the lingering signs of winter––the piles of snow that line the edges of every parking lot, containing more dirt and salt than snow at this point, the dark gray skies that make four o’clock in the afternoon look and feel like eight, and the practical boots everyone collecting a loved one at the airport seems to be wearing.

Locals are always prepared for snow. It doesn’t matter if it’s March or July.

I, on the other hand, am not at all prepared for this weather. Living in Los Angeles has softened my tough New England blood, apparently, because I assumed this puffy coat would be more than enough to protect me from the elements. You don’t need to own a winter coat in Southern California. It’s why I donated all of mine to a thrift store mere days after I arrived. The people who wear them during the winter months in L.A. only do so for the sake of fashion. Or maybe they’re anemic. Who knows?

But as I stand out on the sidewalk, the same small area where departures and arrivals congregate, tucking the bottom half of my face behind the collar of my jacket, I regret not keeping at least one of my heavier coats. If only just to wear them during these family visits.

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