Social Neighbor (The Social Series Book 1) (3 page)

“Got it. Thank you, Mr. Stone.”

I nodded and made my way back to the canvas that had seemed to capture the attention of a particular woman who’d captured mine. She had almost seemed…familiar, like I’d seen her before, though I was certain I didn’t know her. Had she been to one of the clubs? My mind scrambled to place her name, her face, whatever it was that seemed vaguely familiar about her.

The tiny placard beside the canvas had been replaced with a
sold
placard and it pleased me, though not because I was now the proud owner of another painting. It pleased me because of who had inspired me to buy it.

I wondered how well Calvin knew Flor and what the probability of her being single was. I’d hoped the odds were in my favor, because she had captured my attention and I didn’t expect my curiosity to be quelled any time soon, not based on how beautiful she was and not based on how my palms had itched to touch her skin to see if it was as soft as it appeared to be.

Surely she knew that the little black number she’d been wearing was cruel and unusual punishment to the straight men in the room? Her exposed skin looked creamy and smooth. Her dress hugged her body as though it had been tailor-made for her.

I pulled my list from my pocket and surveyed the things I had added there to ensure a successful event. List making was a compulsive habit that my former therapist thoroughly dissected before informing me that it was a harmless habit and that people like me often pick up much worse habits. Mentally ticking off the things I had written down, I folded the list and shoved it back into my pocket, satisfied that I’d done a decent job this year. Meeting a stunning woman wasn’t on my list but it was definitely a perk.

Gathering myself from my erratic thoughts, I took one last look around the gallery, inwardly patted myself on the back and set about finding Martin to give my farewell.

Flor

Wall Ball

T
hud!

Thud!

Thud!

“Hold on, Mom,” I said into my cell phone before drawing it away from my ear to better hear what that noise was.

Thud!

Thud!

Thud!

“Ugh! My asshole neighbor is at it again.” It was extra disparaging because he wasn’t always so noisy. At times it was like he wasn’t even there at all, which was fine by me. The noise he sometimes made? Not so much.

Thud!

“I don’t understand why you don’t just kill him with kindness. Make him some cookies and introduce yourself. But be careful,” she amended hastily in the ominous tone that I’d come to expect from her. “Maybe just leave them at his door with a note—or even mail them. You never know about people these days. Did you hear about that lady that was held hostage in her own apartment for almost two weeks before anyone checked on her?” my mother said in that low paranoid manner that I know all too well. “They said that her ex husband had been stalking her. You can’t trust anyone,” she declared resolutely.

Thud!

“I left him a note introducing myself when I first moved in and I added him on Facebook, though I don’t think he has a clue that I’m his neighbor. I saw a box outside his door once and the name on the label was G. Stone. His social media isn’t very enlightening either. He’s a balding middle-aged chubby guy who sells life insurance in Queens. I think,” I said, careful not to acknowledge her talk of criminals. It would have only served to encourage her paranoia. I probably shouldn’t have told her that I friend requested this “G. Stone” on a wild guess because I wasn’t entirely sure it was even him. A handful of names popped up when I had typed in my search. Most of them didn’t seem to fit the bill. Only one seemed like he could be the right guy, so I’d just used my best guess based on the name and the fact that his page said he lived in Manhattan. It had to be him. How many G. Stones could the world possibly have?

I hoped it was him. Social media made things much simpler and safer when all a person had to do was reach out from behind the safety of their computer screen.

Thud!

“Oh, dear. Be careful with social media too, Florence. Did you hear about the guy that was selling something on that classifieds website? He met the person who responded to his ad and was brutally beaten. All over an air compressor! Scary times…” she trailed off, clicking her tongue disapprovingly.

Jesus, Mom.

Thud!

“I don’t know what to do with this…this…
nuisance
!” The adjective felt sorely inadequate in describing the jerk next door.

Thud!

“So go leave him a note explaining that you are a writer and he makes it difficult to work sometimes. Surely he will understand.

Thud!

“Well, I’m not exactly a writer. Yet,” I amended staring at the wall with squinted eyes. I bit my own bent finger harshly between my front teeth, wanting to scream and kick the wall until he got the point.

Thud!

“You will be, though. Make him some cookies or something, and do like I told you to. Kill him with kindness.”

Thud!

“I’m going to kill him all right,” I said cheerily, which only made me feel more manic than I already was.

I’m. Going. To. Kill. Him.

Thud!

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Mom.”

Thud!

“Video chat tomorrow? I need to see your beautiful face soon.”

Thud!

“Yeah. I’ll let you know. Right now I’m going to figure out how to get my neighbor to knock it off.”

Thud!

“Be careful! Talk to you tomorrow, baby. Love you.”

Thud!

“Love you too, Mom.”

Thud!

“Bye.”

Thud!

“Bye.”

Thud!

“For the love of God!” I growled as I jumped up from the couch and listened closely to where the thudding noise seemed loudest. It’s impossible to tell what he was up to. I leaned close, pressing my ear to the wall. I closed my eyes and listened.

Thud-thump-thwap!

Thud-thump-thwap!

Thud-thump-thwap!

The noise he was making was almost certainly the sound that a tennis ball makes when it’s thrown against the wall and bounces off the floor just to be repeated.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered to myself just as Matt came strutting out of his room looking dressed to kill.

“Creeper!” he exclaimed, wrinkling his nose.

“Zip it. This jerk neighbor of ours is playing wall ball and you’re hardly one to talk, Mr. Here-Wear-This-We’re-Going-To-Stalk-My-Crush-Until-I-Get-His-Number.” Matt rolled his eyes jovially and joined me, pressing his ear to the wall.

“Wow. What a tool. If it isn’t music, it’s random ruckus. Want me to go kick down his door? I’ll toss
his balls
against the wall,” he joked, knowing that he wasn’t kicking down anything.

“He may like it,” I said, giving him a wink.

“Too true.” Matt nodded with a confident grin tilting his full lips up at the corners.

“I’ll wait a bit to see if he stops.”

“Suit yourself. I’m off. Don’t wait up.”

“I never do. Be careful!” I called after him.

“Thanks, Mom!”

I watched as he snagged his chic denim jacket, slipped it on and popped his collar up before waving off. He was a fashion forward gay man with impeccable features and styling.

I had told him many times before that women cried, overwhelmed with sorrow when they discovered that he was most definitely batting for the other team. I wanted to cry when I realized that he was more interested in being my best friend than anything else. We’ve been inseparable for almost eight years now and if it wasn’t for Matt, I’m not sure what I’d do with myself.

Matt had this James Dean retro hair thing going on and it worked to give him the perfect balance of sexy and edgy.

His eyes were crystal blue. His skin was flawless. His sandy blond hair framed his face in such a way that you were forced to admire his look and wonder how he made it stay ruffled like that. He had the best personality to top it all. Matt had never met a stranger and any efforts to be angry with him were all wasted. He was funny and smart and sexy and so much fun to be around.

I wanted to be him when I grew up.

The neighbor seemed to have stopped with his game of wall ball, causing me to sigh and turn my attention back to the sketches scattered on the coffee table.

I sat down before them and surveyed my work feeling…unsatisfied. I wanted this new endeavor to be a success, and sometimes I felt really confident that my children’s books were great, other times I felt like scratching my head and saying “what the hell am I doing?”

It just felt like there was some sort of…disconnect, like I knew what needed to be written but not really. Nothing was coming together. Nothing about my books felt right.

I had never published anything on my own. I had only professionally written for
Social She
, a dually published women’s magazine that I worked for. Half of
Social She
was done in print and was traditional on that front in that they could be found at any newspaper stand and super market right along with
Cosmo
and
Vanity Fair
, but four years ago
Social She
launched the e-mag side to accommodate to readers who read on devices, which as of late seemed like everyone.

The tides of the publishing industry were always changing, but they were
really
changing in recent years. With the introduction of smart devices, tablets, talking wrist-watches, interactive cars and computers that did everything, traditional publishing had become somewhat antiquated, which pained me to even think.

My job for the print side of
Social She
was rather unfulfilling and, to be frank, my duties were pretty exclusive to the “Contents” section at the back of the monthly print edition.

Unfulfilling as it was, it was still a job in the industry that I loved. I couldn’t think of anything I’d trade it for. Well…one thing. I’d trade the Contents section at
Social She
for one thing.

I’d been trying to convince myself that my insecurities about my books were normal, natural. Surely all writers battled the same demons. Surely I was no different than anyone else.

Surely.

I had secretly fantasized about seeing my work on shelves in bookstores and libraries. I had imagined how children would ask for my books for Christmas or their birthday. I had hoped and prayed that maybe I could publish my books and perhaps they would inspire a few kids or at least make them happy for a bit. I knew how it felt to be a lonely, sad kid who relied on books as an escape. I wanted to provide that escape for someone else.

Growing up with divorced parents wasn’t uncommon. Not anymore. But it still sucked. My parents raised me and my older brother, Anthony, in Queens, New York until my parents divorced when I was five years old. I barely recalled memories of them together, happily married. Grief and bad choices had been the cancer that gnawed at their relationship and subsequently consumed it whole.

After the split we packed up and spent the rest of our childhood days living in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Which, to a five year old, was pretty exciting at first. I was so enamored with thoughts of chocolate that it hadn’t occurred to me that I was going to be living pretty far away from everyone and everything I had ever known.

Watching Gene Wilder gallivant around a giant chocolate factory had distracted me for a while, but the majesty of chocolate eventually faded, leaving only the bleak, leaden fog of reality, which was that my mom was a depressed zombie in a house coat who kept us in a bubble, my big brother was intent on demonizing everyone, and my dad was too busy working and “getting himself together” to see much of us or to help mend the wounds that he had created.

My mother fought depression and the obstacles that being reintroduced to the workforce brought upon her. My older brother locked himself away in his room with his video games and his growing resentment. As for me? I read books. Lots of them.

I still did.

Growing up, my father bought my affection with my only real vice, books. Packages came to our door, seemingly every week, with a new title in it. Not at first but especially after he’d met Liza. I suspected she’d had a lot to do with that. I thought she still had a lot to do with everything my father did. He still attempted to buy my affection but he no longer bought books. Instead, he and my stepmother, Liza, insisted on the apartment in Manhattan. I tried refusing their generosity because it only made me feel cheap, as though my loyalty and love were commodities that could be bought or sold on a whim.

In the end, I relented once we agreed that the apartment wasn’t to be lavish, but mediocre. It still wasn’t mediocre despite how much Ikea furniture Matt and I crammed into it. It was nicer than we could afford and it was all made possible by the father that I have never really been on great terms with. It was better than the apartment in Brooklyn that I was very close to taking.

Matt would never openly admit it or discuss it because he knew that my relationship with my father was a sore subject, but I knew he was glad we ended up in Manhattan in a pretty nice place. With the exception of G. Stone, the douchebag next door, I was happy with our place.