Ill-Gotten Memories

14. Love Thy Neighbor

Johnathan. That name didn't ring a bell, nor would it since I chronically avoided most men like the plague. But he was somehow familiar to me, I just couldn't put my finger on it. And hopefully I never did.

So, was this fine gentleman the same "neighbor" who had, allegedly, rushed me to the hospital Friday evening after my accident? I still had no recollection of these events. But perhaps he could jog my memory?

And tell me what really happened that night....

Words were eluding me, though. My brain teetered on the edge of delusion, and I was still foggy from all that ruckus earlier. Not to mention halfway drunk or "hungover" or whatever they called it these days. Regardless, I didn't have my wits about me yet, and I was severely disoriented. But I'd better check-in before this neighbor of mine mistook me for an escaped patient.

Oh no. The guy was speaking again. I didn't catch a word he'd said either!

He wasn't getting frustrated. In fact, he was quite calm with me, so I shyly studied him. His inflections, body language, image... my mind centered on the least most important details. Must have been a defense mechanism. I was always strategizing a plan to protect myself. Looking for weaknesses. Escape routes.

"Ma'am?"

I may have been slightly uncomfortable, but the guy was very... unthreatening; the sound of his voice wasn't deep at all: it was soothing, in a way, if not timid. His small stature added another layer of approachability. I was so used to looking up at men and feeling breakable around them. Not Johnathan. He wasn't imposing. His jawline was long, soft and bearded. Hair, curly and gray. And those eyes were a portal to emerald oblivion. Right now, they were bobbing with concern—left to right. Probably because he was talking to the wind and not the woman standing two feet in front of him. But this man was like an expensive wine, and I was going to drink him up slowly.

Wait. Was I attracted to the guy?!

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm sorry... I asked if everything was okay?"

No, but at least he was kind enough to ask. It would've been rude to burden him with my troubles and selfish woes.

"Yes, uhm-hmm." I spoke confidently on the matter and nodded. That would sell.

"I heard some screaming a minute ago, and just wanted to check. I live across the hall."

Why was his voice so... addictive? He sounded deeply caring and sweet. So soft. I'd never heard a man talk like that before.

He'd heard screaming. Did he mean me?!

My gaze grappled to the twinkling chandelier between us. The lights burned but I couldn't look him in the eye. "Sc-screaming? Oh, yeah, I get a little frustrated sometimes." My anxiety was intrusive, causing my breaths to hitch. I tried to cover them with nervous laughter and fake chuckles. "But I'm seeing someone for it—a doctor," I haphazardly explained, to his aggressive nodding and assuring looks. "Sorry for the disturbance. It won't happen again."

I had assumed that my father didn't allow anyone else to live up here—as per my conditions. But apparently he changed that at some point. With him being... "no longer with us," our arrangement was no doubt headed down the tubes anyway. Cheryl would make sure I was homeless and broke once they finalized his affairs. And while I had quite a bit of money in my savings, I would be remiss to waste it all living here. Moving out was on my horizon. Perhaps it was for the better. The psych ward had always felt like home to me....

"Oh, it's fine. I promise," he said, stretching out a veiny olive hand. "I was just worried about you."

About me? Johnathan McDreamy-Pants was wasting his time. I was just the crazy lady who lived in 91 B. No one special. No one worth the trouble. The next story he heard about me was probably not going to be a good one. He could take his concerns elsewhere.