Page 1 of Big Burly Neighbor
1
AILEEN
My Saturday alarm warbles me awake, the soft sound of singing birds calling me from the phone. I open my eyes to the darkness of my bedroom, then stretch my arms, soaking in the warmth of my duvet a while longer. The birds keep singing, so I put a smile on my face and sit on my bed.
For most, Saturday is the day you sleep in, get up at lunchtime, and do nothing for the rest of the day. For me, weekends are a small mercy. They’re the only days of the week I have energy enough to do what I love. After working hours without end in retail, dealing with rude customers, and dodging pervs in the subway, these are the only hours I have for myself.
And I will embrace every minute.
I shove the covers off and get to my feet, stretching my spine. Before I open the blinds, I hurry into the bathroom and shower. Back in the bedroom, I put on my softest pair of sweatpants and a loose Spirited Away t-shirt, one of my favorite movies ever. Now that I’m dressed, I can finally open the blinds.
I do, and... Nothing changes. A bit of light trickles in, but I live in a condo near the subway station, which means tiny spaces, rising prices, and no view out of your window. I face the second tower of the building I live in, so close to my neighbors’ windows I could greet them if they ever showed up. They don’t, though. Everyone keeps their blinds closed for privacy, as I should, but I crave sunlight, even if this is all I get.
And when all we get is a small one-bedroom near the station in a rundown neighborhood, you have to do your best to make up for it. Even if you have to pretend.
“Alexa, play my Lofi playlist,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears and smiling.
Alexa does as I ask her, putting my soft music on the speaker. I dance to it for a moment, swaying my hips to the sound, then start on my day. There’s this thing that I do to improve my weekends. It’s silly, but it keeps me going on the roughest of days. I call it romanticizing my life. Basically, I pretend I’m in a Studio Ghibli movie, where even the most basic of things are beautiful and aesthetic and worthy of an Instagram picture.
Maybe if I pretend for long enough, it can come true.
During the weekends, I’m another person. I’m not Aileen, working in a fast fashion clothing store, making minimum wage, and living an hour and a half from work. I am someone new, someone exciting, who lives in a world of beauty and fantasy.
Humming to the music, I tiptoe into the tiny kitchen to brew my coffee. As soon as the coffeemaker starts, I grab my prettiest mug and open my fridge. There are a couple of creamers to choose from, but we’re in Autumn, so I pick the pumpkin-flavored one. After putting some in my mug and heating it, I grab my cheap milk frother from the side of the coffeemaker and froth the milk. Still humming, I pour the steaming coffee in and watch it become a rich brown color.
That’s not all, of course. I open a drawer after a coffee stencil, touch it to the rim of my mug, and rain cinnamon on top. When I’m done, there’s a heart drawn on the froth. Cute, even if it’s a little tilted.
With a smile on my face, I go for the cookies next, sprucing them on a plate. I take both plate and mug to the coffee table in my living room, sit on the couch, then grab the electric lighter to light my candles.
My phone buzzes before I can go through with that. I put the lighter down and pick the device up, checking the notification. And it’s the best kind of notification. My package has just been delivered. I squeal with excitement and hop to my feet, putting the phone away. We don’t have a concierge, so the delivery man leaves the packages in the hallway downstairs. I can’t wait to have it in my hands.
I leave the apartment and almost jump into the elevator when it shows up. The doors open and I bounce my way to the package near the door. Mom’s voice appears in the back of my mind, telling me I’m too old for hopping and grinning at the prospect of a package. I don’t care. Even if I’m twenty-one, the inner child in me will never die. I grab my package, fingers twitching eagerly to open it, and turn around.
The front door rattles, but it doesn’t open. I glance over my shoulder at the glass, searching for whoever’s having problems opening it. And my jawdrops.
The man standing there blots out the sunlight. He’s so big he takes the entire door, both broad and tall, built like a truck. He’s muscular, yes, but not only that. There’s an inherent hugeness to him, as if his very bones were built differently. Dark hair, full beard, tanned skin. I know there are dozens and dozens of apartments in the building, but how did I miss someone like him?
He moves, passing grocery bags from one hand to the other, and opens the door. Oh, no, I stood here like an idiot for too long. I should have helped him. Would he have smiled in thanks? The idea makes my stomach churn. Woah, hold your reins, Aileen. Do not romanticizethis.
He walks in and his eyes meet mine. Dark, intense eyes and I’m frozen there, staring and staring. His eyes are not black, though, they’re dark blue, like the night. Like the ocean, a storm brewing within. His gaze turns my mouth into a desert, and I try to apologize for not opening the door for him, but nothing comes out.
The man arches an eyebrow as he walks closer. “You need help?” he asks in a low, reverberating voice that makes my bones buzz. Oh my, even his voice is attractive. I dig my nails into the box I’m holding, clinging to it like a lifeline.
What kind of reaction is this? I’ve never reacted to a person like this, even a man. Even an attractive man. How is he making me hot and cold at the same time without even touching me?
He stretches an arm and plucks the box from my hold. I blink away the sudden insanity that took hold of me.
“Oh, God, no!” I blurt out, grabbing the box. “I mean, I didn’t mean to be rude. I just... Thank you! Thanks for offering, you don’t need to. You already have your bags. I should be the one apologizing. Not that you apologized. I should have helped you.” Oh God, shut up, Aileen. You’re making less sense by the second.
I clamp my lips together. A part of me hopes he chuckles, then tells me my awkward ways are very endearing. That’s how it goes in movies, right? The meet-cute is awkward, but the guy likes the girl even so. And the hero is so romantic, and he’ll bring me flowers later in the day, and...
“Okay,” he simply replies, his blue eyes growing cold. It’s amazing, isn’t it? How expressive eyes can be. How you can read someone’s soul in them. “Let me help you into the elevator, then,” he says, then starts to the elevators.
He doesn’t even shoot a look back over his shoulder. He doesn’t ask my name or start a chat asking what’s in the box. I would tell him. I would tell him it’s art material, some canvases, new brushes, the things I need for a glorious weekend filled with art. But he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t care.
Why would he, anyway? I’m just the chubby neighbor, wearing sweatpants and a loose shirt. My humor drops. There’s no romance in life, nothing like in the movies. He doesn’t feel the same attraction toward me, and he has no reason to. It’s always been like this. I’ve always been the girl nobody looked at twice.
He walks me to my tower’s elevator, presses the button, and waits for the doors to open. I slip inside, chewing on my bottom lip, keeping my eyes on the box in my hands. He presses the button to my floor. I murmur a “thank you”, and that’s it. It’s all I have of romance on my weekend. Probably the most I’ll have in my life. That’s what I get for daydreaming about a man obviously older, and super out of my league.
