Page 37 of The Twins

What if it’s nothing? A slump of disappointment covers me, and I shake myself out of it. Mr. David’s a cool guy. He’s probably got a different idea of texting since he’s so old and such.

It’s my fault for thinking my secret phone stalker was school-related. I’m better off now that I know it’s Mr. David. School may be over soon, but there’s still a couple of weeks left of torture. Unlike other students, I don’t need more complications when I’m trying to enjoy the rest of my classes.

“Come inside, Remo. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Mr. David calls for me.

I push open the door. There’s enough space for me to enter, but I slide through the door frame like I wasn’t invited a couple of seconds ago. My shoulders are slumped. The rude posture of my body is accentuated by my cherry red face. Heat decorates my skin from top to bottom, and I must admit that it feels good.

Surprisingly.

“Take a seat over there,” Mr. David instructs me, gesturing at the wooden chair by the window. It doesn’t look like a chair that’s meant to be sat on. This piece of furniture could stand in a museum, refined and polished to the max. The other option would be to sit on his bed, but Mr. David is attentive.

He can sense my discomfort.

“You’ve been sending me texts?” I ask.

He nods sincerely. “Yes.”

“What is it you want?” I blurt out. My gaze travels over his hurt body. His dark hair is a mess, and he sports a beard, a rarity for my neighbor. He’s in shorts, the cast on his right knee taking up much of his skin. Every detail of his body is sculptured. He’s like the men on television, the famous ones that everyone thirsts after.

It’s funny that he’s my neighbor.

It’s even more amusing that I caught him doing naughty things to himself.

“What’s so funny?” he finally asks, but there’s a glimmer of a grin on his face. His brown eyes are kind, and I latch on to that.

“If you don’t reply to my questions, I don’t see a reason to do the same for you,” I tell him, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“You’re mouthy,” he states, and I nod firmly. “I’ve always liked that about you, Remo. You don’t let the bullshit get to you. You don’t care about what others think.”

That statement takes me by surprise. “I don’t?”

His left brow rises, and I follow the movement like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve encountered all week. “You disagree?”

“You live next door to my family. I care a lot about what others think,” I claim, tracing the outline of the nail on my thumb.

“Wishing to do right by your family is different. It’s admirable. When you’re in other settings, you don’t pretend to be anyone else but you. Be proud of yourself for that,” Mr. David comments. He doesn’t move from the bed, staying still. His breathing is movement enough, an intense rise and fall of his chest that takes my breath away now that I have a closer look at it. “There are people in this world who wish they could accomplish that.”

“Well, I wish I had friends,” I blurt out, and instantly, my cheeks turn rosy. I feel feverish at my abrupt confession.

“You’ll find them, or they’ll find you. High school isn’t the end of the world,” he says, sounding like my dad. I sigh. I know all of that. I have zero social skills, but I’m intelligent enough to realize that I won’t always be the butt of the joke.

“Can you please tell me why you were texting me?” I ask, steering the conversation in a direction that makes him uncomfortable instead of me. Injured or not, Mr. David must be aware that I’m still a minor. Every year, my parents make a big deal out of my brother and I’s birthday.

“You know what I want,” Mr. David states, incredibly sure of himself.

“I think I do,” I respond. “If you’re texting me randomly, and you call me a good boy in your texts… I doubt you want to ask me about the weather.”

He shakes his head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I can’t do that with you,” I quickly add. “You can’t manipulate me.”

“You can rest assured that I wouldn’t do that to you or your parents,” he adds. The gruff of his beard tantalizes me so much that I want to reach out and touch it. We don’t do beards in our family. There’s always an order to things, cleanly shaven faces, ironed shirts, and made beds. It’s a military thing that my parents haven’t shaken off.

I fear that I’ll catch the obsessive bug, too.

“You see that I’m lonely,” I say.

“I do.”

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