The Men Next Door

Ch 23 - 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 me and a younger, more faultless version of my mother 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 have been a nice bunch, too, because he sounded a little more cheerful every time we spoke.

I spent a few minutes reminiscing about a happy afternoon I spent 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 because of how far I'd turned the valve to the left.

Showers that could practically melt my skin off were my poison of choice.

But the gusty, forty degree day certainly hadn't helped.

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 if I didn't want to get caught eavesdropping.

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. It was a nice change of pace from the vast industrialism outside.

I ran my finger over one of the smooth, waxy leaves and absentmindedly wondered where he kept the stuff he didn't want anybody to see. No one was that organized, and there had to be skeletons stashed away somewhere. His childhood blankie or a sappy old birthday card that he could never quite bring himself to throw out. A dorky pack of trading cards. A collection of merch from his favorite TV show. Something that made him feel a little more human and a little less perfect.

And 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 the same shapes. 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. Plus, the metal track on the door had seen better days. After hearing how it squealed when he stepped outside, I didn't think it could be silent even if it wanted to.