I’m shaken from my thoughts as he lifts a box of tools in his hands to show me. “I’m gonna fix the door.”
I let out a breath, gulping again but not with fear this time. Instead, with embarrassment. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he says as he puts the tools on the floor. He checks the door out before standing upright and turning to leave. “You need a new lock.”
“I wouldn’t need it if you didn’t break the door.” I stand and follow him outside.
“I stopped the fire. A simple thank-you will suffice.” He comes to a halt on the stairs outside my home, turning toward me. Folding his bulging arms across his chest, he narrows his eyes.
“You could have knocked.” I mimic him by crossing my arms, but it lacks the energy he has.
“I did, but you didn’t answer. You were too busy shrieking like a banshee. It could have cost you your life.” His large brow quirks up, challenging me to argue.
My mouth hangs open. “I was not!”
“Were too.” He annoyingly clicks his tongue.
My chest swells, puffing up like an angry dragon about to burn a village. I never scream like a banshee, never. I’m calm and collected.
“Thank you for stopping the fire and saving my ass. Bye!” I say, running back inside and smacking the door shut behind me. Well, I try to smack it closed, but it doesn’t work. Part of the frame is missing. I sigh. I’d be in enormous trouble if it was winter. But it’s still fall, thank God.
Wait a minute. Bad people don’t care if the weather’s good or bad; they just come in and do bad stuff. I shiver at the thought. I was sleeping with an unlocked door the whole night. I never do that, ever. I must have really been in shock.
I continue my mission to scrub the house clean of soot, resuming in the kitchen when the front door opens again.
“You there?” an already familiar voice calls in. I groan and go to meet him.
“What are you doing here?” I stand in the living room, arms folded across my chest, just as he did before. Looks like it’s a default pose of mine nowadays.
He’s on the floor next to the door with his tools and a brand-new lock. “Come ’ere.”
“Why?” I narrow my eyes.
“So you can take the lock from the box and make sure it’s sealed and never been opened.” He stretches his hand out, the clear plastic package containing the lock looking so small in his giant hands. I swallow the lump in my throat. And then another.
With no snarky remark—or any, for that matter—I walk to him on wobbly legs and carefully take the box from his hand. The factory seal isn’t broken.
“Good?” he asks, and I nod silently. He takes the box from me, cuts it with a pocketknife, and passes the set of keys to me. I take it with another nod and murmur, “Thanks.” I can’t say it any louder. If I do, tears will burst from my burning eyes.
Do I give off a vibe that I’m miserable and scared? Why did he do that? There is no way he did it just to be benevolent, right? Nice guys don’t exist.
I walk to the kitchen and start the coffee machine again. The good one, not the drip thing. I fix a mighty strong americano and debate whether to put sugar in it. He seems like a guy who doesn’t take his coffee sweet, but looks can fool, so I decide to spice it up a little with just one spoonful and bring it to him. He’s still fixing the door, but the missing pieces in the frame are back in place.
Silently, I pass the mug to him. He looks up at me, then at the mug and takes it with a nod. I wait for his reaction, scared he’ll be disgusted. I’d be disappointed if he hated it. I put one perfect golden spoon of organic brown sugar in it. It’s exactly how I take it, and nobody likes when somebody doesn’t like our favorite things. He studies the cup for a moment and takes a careful sip. He pauses for a moment, and the sip grows into a big, healthy gulp.Me likey.
He nods silently and puts the half-empty mug on the floor next to him as he returns to work. I do the same. After about thirty minutes, I hear him clear his throat. “Lock the door behind me,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear him but not loud enough to be considered a yell.
In the short time it takes me to walk to the living room from the kitchen to thank him, he’s gone. A phantom of the opera. A ghost.
I check the lock, and to no surprise, it works perfectly. Tonight I can sleep peacefully, not worrying about strange people breaking in. I still can’t believe I hadn’t thought about that yesterday. I must have been exhausted; there’s no other explanation. Even when I lived with my parents, I sometimes locked the door to my room. Absurd, but necessary for me regardless.
Hours fly by as I clean and clean and clean. By the time I’m done, it’s long been dark outside, and I’m starving. I have a few slices of pizza left over from yesterday that I decide to warm up. It’s September, and it’s time for lit fires and cozy socks in Maine. I look outside and, for a second, I consider starting the fireplace. This time I know what to do to avoid disaster. But this idea quickly vanishes when I stretch my arms and feel a pinch of pain in my back, reminding me of how I’ve spent the whole day and why. No, thank you. I’ll use a cozy throw and be good to go.
I usually don’t like reheated pizza, but today it tastes like the nectar of gods, and I moan as I take my first bite. While I chew this delicious cheesy goodness, I think about my day. My first real, whole day of living alone. It went well, I’d say. Of course, it could have been better, but I’ve always dealt with problems on my own. Fudge, I didn’t deal with them on my own this time, did I? I wish I did, but without my neighbor’s help, I’d have had to call my brothers.
I jump when my phone rings. Somehow, they always show up in some way the second I think of them. Ever since that night. I already know who it is without even checking the screen.
“Hey, Justin,” I say as I hit accept without even looking at the caller.
