(no shop of Reagan’s would have crumbs where a customer might see them) and got to work. I needed it. Too much of my mind had been devoted to my neighbor. It was an ugly spiral, one I’d done a good job of avoiding for years.
It went like this: I became attracted to a guy, or an idea of a guy, and all that he represented. Things like stability and trust. Then my brain reminded me of how well all my relationships in the past had gone. How foster parents and quick turnover boyfriends had proven to me that I wasn’t someone who could earn long-term relationships. Hell, my own father had OD’d rather than be a father to me. And my mother had run shortly after, unable to stomach raising me on her own.
Lessons like that are like scars. They’re carved into the flesh of the soul, a reminder of my worthiness. Or lack thereof. Former flings had often cited that I was too closed off, despite the inner fever of my wanting for them. In the case of someone like Gordo, my crush would only deepen if I let it, my desperation for belonging and family would increase, and then the inevitable heartbreak of rejection would crush me. It was a tired cycle and one that had made me wary of any attraction that felt… more. A quick fuck now and then, sometimes even a fun weekend fling, would have to be enough. It was all that I was going to get.
As I sat at my bench, pen in hand and a client’s request printed out, Reagan dropped by.
“They’re just poking fun at you,” he said softly. Engrossed in my work, I nodded, but he must have taken my silence as stress. “If you’re not okay—”
But he didn’t get it. I’d already worked out the plan with the neighbor. He’d just be a hot neighbor, end of story. I didn’t get that happy ending, so I wasn’t going to worry about it.
Putting my pen down, I swiveled my chair to face Reagan and signed, “I don’t mind the teasing. They can poke fun at me.”
He thought their teasing was punishment, but Reagan had never understood that I already do a thorough job of punishing myself. Take, for example, how I spent the night agonizing over how I failed to be a good neighbor, how I’d been punishing a baby with my selfishness, and how I’d completely fucked up any chance at being, well, anything to my too-sexy neighbor.
So I could let them tease me. It didn’t hurt me any more than I’d already hurt myself.
Reagan needed me to be okay, and I needed to remember not to piss in my cereal before eating. Which was a gross way of reminding myself to try to stay positive. Make lemonade from lemons and all that shit. I’d screwed up things with the neighbor, but that would spare me the letdown of hoping I could ever have a chance with him.
“I just want you to know I have your back, kid,” Reagan said, his forehead still creased with concern.
“It’s okay, b...b...b-boss,” I say out loud, trying to ignore how awkward the stutter made me feel. “Today’s a good day.”
3
Gordo
Giuliana had been crying for the entire drive home from her one-month appointment, and I wasn’t far behind her. She’d not been a fan of the shots, and after seeing her red-faced screams of pain, I wasn’t a fan of them, either. By the time I’d pulled into the driveway, my nerves felt as if they’d been run over with a cheese grater. She needed a nap, and I needed a break in a bad way.
When I turned off the car, though, a movement on my porch caught my attention. My neighbor from last night, the one who’d slammed the door in my face but also turned off the music, was sitting on the front steps. The sunlight caught in his black curls and shone a spotlight on his intricate tattoos.
…Was he waiting for me?
It was next to impossible to ignore my beating heart, since it seemed to threaten to burst from my chest and run down the street, but I managed. I slipped from my car, making sure to avoid looking at the man waiting for me. If he was going to confront me, I wanted to be prepared.
Giuliana’s cries softened after I lifted her from her car seat. I’d been strapping her in and out of it for three weeks, but