The Men Next Door

Ch 19 - Campbell

All Brooks' talk of getting old reminded me of my grandpa Jones, who was still adjusting to his assisted living community back home in Santa Barbara. He couldn't quite keep up with normal maintenance like mowing his grass or scrubbing the bathtub, so he finally gave in and sold his house shortly before I moved to Manhattan.

It was a hard decision — he had endless memories with grandma Martha inside those walls — but it was the best thing he'd done for himself in years. Loneliness aged him more than passing time ever could, and community living brought him together with folks in the same walk of life. They must've been a nice bunch, too, because he sounded a little more cheerful every time we spoke.

Friendship really is a powerful thing.

I spent a few minutes reminiscing on a happy afternoon at his old house, back when dad was still alive and I didn't know what it meant to have the weight of the world on my shoulders, then reluctantly turned off the shower in my neighbor's bathroom. It was torture to step onto the cold tile floor after getting used to the warm water, and I wrongfully blamed my discomfort on the chilly New York climate, even though I knew it was entirely my own doing. Showers that could practically melt my skin off were my poison of choice.

When I finally emerged from the steamy bathroom with damp hair and Brooks' way-too-big robe cinched around my waist, he was talking on the phone. He caught my eye and held up one finger to tell me he'd be just a minute, then gave me a quick kiss before stepping out on his balcony.

"No, Brenna," I heard him say as he closed the sliding door, "that's not fucking happening."

His tone was light and playful, albeit slightly annoyed, and I made a mental note to ask him what that comment was about later on. In the meantime, though, I needed to find a way to occupy myself.

My eyes passed over some cozy throw blankets in the living room, a few paintings on the walls, and an empty mosaic vase on the kitchen counter before settling on his small collection of house plants. He had a few varieties surrounding his desk, and the natural hues made his makeshift office feel serene.

I ran my finger over one of the waxy leaves and absentmindedly wondered where he kept the good stuff — the secret stuff — the stuff he didn't want anyone to see. No one was that organized, and there had to be skeletons stashed away somewhere. His childhood blankie. A sappy old birthday card that he could never quite bring himself to throw out. Something that made him feel a little more human and a little less perfect.

I didn't have to look much farther before I noticed the journal on the back corner of his desk. The wide open journal, I might add. I tried to tell myself that whatever he'd written in it would be boring — that it was probably just meeting notes or a grocery list — and that it would be wrong to read it either way. But my curiosity was far stronger than my willpower, so I took a step closer and skimmed over the scrawls.

I would've recognized his handwriting anywhere. I still had the note he left in my apartment that first night, and the sleek white pages were chock-full of it. Line after line of scraggly gray letters that leaned slightly to the right. Smoky-looking smudges where he'd taken an eraser to the page. Awkward spacing where one thought ended and another one began.

I peered at the balcony as I wrestled with my conscience. Brooks was still on the phone with Brenna, and judging by the way he was leaning against the railing and looking out over the city, it didn't seem like their conversation was wrapping up anytime soon. I could always act interested in something else the second I heard the telltale rattle of the sliding glass door, right? It was on a metal track and the air was cold; I didn't think it could be silent even if it wanted to.

Satisfied with my pro-snooping logic, I let my eyes focus on the page in front of me. The words I read certainly didn't belong on a grocery list, and even though Brooks was a writer by trade, I didn't think they were meant for a client either.