"You're not going in my house," I say.
He ignores me again and walks right in. As he's shutting the door, I glance back at the walkway and realize I forgot to count my steps. I didn't finish. Dammit! I always finish. I've counted every day since the accident but today I didn't. Anxiety takes over the fear I had earlier of my deranged-killer-EMT-neighbor, and my mind starts racing. I should've counted. Why didn't I count? Dammit!
I take a deep breath. Why am I reacting this way? Why do I do this to myself? When did I become so obsessive and how do I make it stop?
"Do you have a washcloth in the bathroom?" the guy asks.
I notice I'm now sitting on the couch and my lunatic neighbor is walking down the hall to my bathroom.
"What are you doing?" I yell at him. "You can't just walk around my house! I didn't even invite you in!"
He's in the bathroom now so I don't know if he heard me. Moments later, he returns with a wet washcloth and a bottle of peroxide. He sits down next to me and lifts my leg up, resting it on his lap.
"You went through my medicine cabinet?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
"And your linen closet." He dabs the wet washcloth over my knee. "You have a lot of towels for one person. Or do you live with someone?" He glances around the room, then back at me. "You live with your parents?"
He asked because the house still looks like they live here. It's been over a year and I still haven't cleared out their stuff. My mom's knitting basket is still sitting by her chair with a half-knit scarf inside. The James Patterson novel my stepdad was reading is still on the side table next to the couch. And although this guy can't see them from where he's sitting, my little brother's toys are still in a plastic bin in the corner.
God, I'm messed up. Who lives like this a year later? Any normal person would pack up their dead family's stuff and get rid of it. But me? I leave it all out, pretending they never left, waiting for them to come home. What is wrong with me?
"It's my parents' house," I say, "but they're not staying here right now."
"Where are they?"
"It's none of your business," I snap. "Just hurry up and finish this."
"You get up on the wrong side of the bed today?" he asks, smiling. He has a nice smile. Nice teeth. Very straight. I have a thing about teeth. Crooked teeth really bother me. But this guy's teeth are very straight.
"Sorry," I mutter. "It's just not turning out to be a good day." It's true, but it's true for every day, not just today. From the moment they died, every day has been bad. A constant stream of bad days that repeat over and over as time continues on.
"Well, hopefully we'll get this knee fixed and your day will start going better," he says, focusing back on my leg. He uses the washcloth to wipe the blood off the front of my calf. My eyes go to his hand, which is large and tan, and there's a scar that runs between his thumb and forefinger.
"How'd you get the scar?" I ask, pointing to it.
"Nail gun. My idiot brother wasn't watching what he was doing and nailed my hand to a two-by-four."
"That must've hurt."
"It wasn't too bad, but the nail went in at an angle and I thought I might lose my thumb. Luckily the hospital was nearby." He sets the washcloth down and grabs the peroxide, but then puts it back down. "Do you have some cotton balls?"
"Under the sink in the bathroom."
He gets up and as he's walking there, I remember that all my tampons and pads are under the sink.
"Wait!" I call out, but it's too late. He's already in there. Oh, well. Maybe he won't notice.
He comes back with a handful of cotton balls. "Why are you blushing?" He sets my leg back over his lap.
"I'm not blushing."
"Your cheeks are bright red." He wets the cotton balls with the peroxide. "Is it because of what was under the sink? If so, you don't need to be embarrassed. My girlfriend always kept that stuff at my place."
So he has a girlfriend. Or maybe it's an ex-girlfriend, but he didn't add the 'ex' so it's hard to say. But he said she used to keep that stuff at his place, like she doesn't anymore. Or maybe he meant that she did when he lived at his previous place, which he doesn't now. What am I doing? Why do I care if he has a girlfriend? I'm not interested in him that way. I haven't dated anyone in over a year and I'm perfectly fine being single. In fact, I prefer it.
"Oww!" I yell as he dabs my knee with the peroxide. I try to yank my leg away but he holds it in place.
"Stop moving," he orders, leaning down to inspect my knee. "You really scraped this bad. How'd this happen? You just tripped or what?"
"Yeah." I roll my eyes. "I tripped when your truck shot at me."
He laughs. "It didn't shoot at you. It's just a piece of shit truck. Sorry about that." He sets the cotton balls down. "Now I feel bad. I didn't know that's what made you fall. How can I make it up to you?"
"You don't need to. Just forget it. Besides, it wasn't completely your fault. That sidewalk needs to be repaired. I'm surprised I haven't tripped on it before."