Brain Games

21. Bang

If we're still keeping track, my heart drops to my ass for the third time today.

Staring at the numbers nailed to the door, my arm drops back down to my side heavier than a bowling ball, and the sharp accusations of calling him a psycho stalker die momentarily on my lips.

I stare at the numbers for what seems like forever, but in reality, I've probably only been standing in the middle of the hallway staring for five minutes. I blink a few times, thinking my eyes are playing tricks on me, but every time they open the number on the door is still one off from mine.

My mind races, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time, if that makes sense? My brain desperately wants to piece it all together but I think my body has gone numb in confusion and shock and anger. It's sort of like that moment in nightmares when you're trying so hard to run away but all you're doing is running in place, unable to progress further no matter how hard you try.

My head whips to my door, to the door in front of me, back to my door. Maybe I made a mistake, maybe I misjudged which door he went into. Grabbing my grocery bags from the floor, I juggle them while digging through my purse for my keys. Finding the carved metal, I jam it into the lock and fling open my door, half expecting to find Brad smugly lounging on my couch, but my apartment seems to be empty.

Kicking the door closed behind me, I drop my groceries onto the counter and march to my room, expecting to find a delusional, half naked Brad in my bed. I find no such thing, only my comforter haphazardly strewn on my mattress from this morning, and I go to the last place I have to look.

Flipping on the light to the bathroom, I rip back the shower curtain, the metal rings sharply scraping across the rod, to find the tub empty.

With a huff, I close the curtain and march back to the living room, pacing. I actually saw Brad, right? He wasn't some figment of my imagination, I'm sure of it. Or maybe I am actually going crazy? Today has been really off, and I start to question if this day has just been one long ongoing nightmare.

Feeling antsy, I stop my pacing and run to the living room wall that butts up to my neighbor's, placing my ear against the drywall, listening intently. When I don't detect any signs of movement, I run to my bedroom and do the same thing. Jumping on the bed, my knees dig into the mattress as I plaster my ear to the wall. I listen for a few seconds, and when the AC kicks off I'm able to hear the slightest of noise. A closet door shutting. Shuffling. Keys rustling.

Keys.

I run to the front door faster than an Olympic track star, listening. The neighbor's door opens and shuts, footsteps wandering down the hallway.

Quietly, I crack my door and peek out, finding a tall form retreating to the stairwell. He's in gym clothes: tennis shoes, basketball shorts and an old T-shirt that has the sleeves and part of the sides cut off to show off his toned arms and defined obliques. I'm only able to see his back, but I know just from the dark, wavy hair—hair that I've ran my fingers through multiple times—it's Brad.

My heartbeat quickens and I shut my door, beginning to pace again.

He lives next door. Bradly Gallow lives next door.

And he didn't tell me.

Anger prickles my spine, knowing he's been this close all along and hasn't said a damn word. All this time, when he dropped me off he was pretending to go home after, driving all the way down the street just to turn right back around, park in the garage, and sneak upstairs. And pretending to leave after screwing me just to walk a few feet down the hall and...

Oh God.

Brad's the neighbor. The neighbor that's kept me up multiple nights by having sex... and not with me.