Page 20 of Never After Us
He doesn’t even soften it.“How much did she leave?”He taps the side of the guitar with a fingertip.“I’ll pay it so you can go as early as tomorrow morning.”
My annoyance kicks hard in my chest.The audacity.The entitlement.The sheer gall of offering money like I’m something he can buy out of his way.
I straighten, heat simmering beneath my skin.“You know what?Keep your money, asshole.”My voice sharpens, fueled by every ounce of indignation boiling up inside me.“I’m staying.And I’m staying the full year and twenty minutes more.”
He opens his mouth—probably to argue, or negotiate, or insult me again—but I’m done.Thoroughly done.
I lift my chin, give him a tight, pointed smile that promises trouble, and declare, “See you bright and early, neighbor.”
Then I turn on my heel and storm inside before he can say another word—already deciding that for the next three hundred and sixty-five days, his life is going to be inconvenient in all the ways that truly matter.
He might be infuriating, and hot—which I’m absolutely, one-hundred-percent immune to, thank you very much—but that doesn’t change the fact that he deserves every ounce of trouble coming his way.
And yes, maybe my pulse jumped when he looked at me like he wanted me gone for entirely personal reasons and not ...whatever this is simmering between us, but I refuse to examine that.I refuse to examine him.Especially when my brain keeps insisting he’d look annoyingly good smirking at my downfall.
And sure, my aunt’s will claims I’m supposed to be in charge of his emotional improvement—whatever cosmic joke that is—but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make this easy on him.Far from it.If he wants distance, he can choke on proximity.If he wants silence, he can wrestle with my presence.If he wants out ...well, unfortunately for him, I’m here for an entire year.A whole, glorious year.
Besides, I have a secret weapon—a tiny human who has zero boundaries, infinite curiosity, and the uncanny ability to dismantle grown men with innocent questions.If Alec thinks I’m inconvenient, wait until Mila gets started.Honestly, even I’m a little afraid for him.
ChapterSix
Alec
Some people wake up refreshed.I wake up negotiating with my sanity.
There are only three things I need in the morning to stay functional:
Silence.
Coffee.
More silence.
That’s it.That’s the entire list.If anyone ever asked what I need to stay even remotely emotionally stable, I’d just point at my French press and gesture at the quiet wrapped around me like insulation.Which doesn’t make much sense, considering the one thing I love most is playing drums.
I never said my life—or anything about me—makes sense.The point is, I’m a walking contradiction.Sometimes I’m calm after banging on my drums for hours.Other times I meditate—though I don’t enjoy it and probably never will.I do it because I have to.It keeps a lid on the anger I was born with.Like it came stamped into my DNA.
My friends say I turn into the Hulk when I’m pissed.They’re not exactly wrong.I’m no superhero, and I’m definitely not turning green, but back in the day, losing my temper meant broken furniture ...or someone unconscious on the floor.
Not my finest moments.
I regret most of it.I regret the collateral damage.I regret the version of me who couldn’t hold himself together.I want to believe I’ve put distance between who I was and who I’m trying to be.I’m nowhere near perfect—not even close—but I’m working on it.Slowly.Clumsily.One day, maybe when I’m eighty, I might reach the point where I look in the mirror and think, Yeah, that’s a man I don’t mind being.
For now, mornings like this help—the silence, the warmth of the mug in my hands, the illusion that the world can stay calm if I stay calm.If only this moment could last.But of course it can’t.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor, because less than twenty-four hours after the two human sunbeams moved in next door, my peace is already evaporating.It starts with singing.Faint, off-key singing through the wall.High-pitched and fucking cheerful.
It’s enthusiastic in the way only a child with zero awareness of human suffering can manage.
I freeze mid-stride on the balcony, hold my breath, and pray it’s the TV.It isn’t—I don’t even own one.It’s the tiny pink-umbrella demon.
Before I can tell her to stop, I hear her chirp, “Hey, Moooom, if we lived in the rainforest, would our house flood?We should go to the Amazon next.Do you know how big frogs are there?Can frogs have feelings?What if a frog cries—can you hear it?Wait, can frogs cry?Why is crying wet?Do plants cry?Their leaves get wet, so maybe?—”
I close my eyes.I’m not a bad person.I’m not.But I understand now—very intimately—why monks take vows of silence or move into mountains.There has to be a reason, and this is it.
I try to drown her out by retreating deeper into the house, but nothing competes with Rainforest Frog Philosophy happening next door.I should go upstairs and practice my drums.Or drink my coffee inside my soundproofed room.Maybe move in there for the next year.The third option—the one I hate—is moving out.This is my life now, apparently.
Three taps hit my door.The sound is too cheerful and way too rhythmic.Suspiciously close to Lina’s old knock.
