That’s got to be it.
Before I have time to talk myself out of it again, I’m heading to my bedroom door. Crawling, because crawling makes me smaller, smaller feels closer to invisible, invisible makes me feel safer. I open the door, wince when it squeaks, like Luke’s party is at library levels of hush and is taking place on my landing.
I head downstairs, take the last step twice, and walk over to the porch window. Butt on the floor, I push my back up against the wall. My heart hammers in my throat. The music swamps me. An unintelligible tangle of notes, tangoing through the air. A bass line capable of causing earthquakes in Brazil. I feel the vibrations through the concrete, slapping against my back. They tap into my body and make my spine tingle. I close my eyes, see Luke on the backs of my lids. He’s drinking beer from a red plastic cup. Laughing. His whole face alive from it.
I must fall asleep – at least, I’ve drifted into some form of unconscious state because I find my eyes opening at the squealing sound of our rusty mail slot being lifted, and a stream of what I can only assume is drool is rolling down my chin.
I panic, free myself from the velour porch curtain that seems to have attached itself to my shoulder, and scuttle back, putting a good seven feet between me and the door. I’m breathing so hard, every inhalation lifts my shoulders up around my ears. I watch, a little frightened, a little feral, as a folded letter flies through the flap and lands on the mat.
Luke.
I stare at the note. Stuck. Too nervous to reach for it, just in case he hears that I’m home.
Minutes later, the flap groans again. It lifts, and another note sails through the air and crash-lands almost on top of the first. Curiosity spikes. Fear takes a step back – long enough, at least, for me to remember where I am and what my name is. I wipe the spit off my face with the sleeve of my sweater and clear hair from my eyes just as a third note drops to the floor.
What is he doing? Besides writing me a novel.
The flap lifts a fourth time, but instead of paper, a voice floats through it.
‘I know you were watching. I saw your curtains twitch.’
Horror. Red-hot. My jaw drops. ‘But I wasn’t,’ I defend myself without thinking and then slap my hand over my mouth, wishing I could suck the words back in. He laughs. That’s not fair. My eyes narrow and I glare at the door, turning toddler, my bottom lip curling under. I can feel a sulk coming on. Luke lets the flap fall, and it clatters shut.
Then nothing.
I turn an ear to the door, listening intently, hoping/praying/pleading that he’ll leave, but I don’t hear the sound of retreating steps. I don’t hear anything. My teeth find skin at the side of my mouth and I start to chew. Not knowing is unsettling; unsettling lurks beneath my skin like an army of crawling insects. Not that it matters. As much as I want to ask if he’s still there, my lips are too numb. I can’t make them move.
Instead, I turn my attention to the pile of folded paper on the mat, and my fingers spider-march across the floor towards them. It takes me a second to get the notes in order.
Neighbour,
Bonjour! How’s the assignment going?
Luke
Neighbour,
There are approximately one hundred people in my house and I only know two of them by name. What do I have to do to get you to come out here and save me?
Luke
Neighbour,
Also, you never told me which Transformers movie was your favourite . . .
Luke
A smile is spreading across my face. Unstoppable, like wildfire, making my cheeks sting. He’s ten per cent human, ninety per cent charisma. All he’d have to do is ask, and he’d know all the hundred names within an hour. But then, if that’s not the reason he’s over here, what is? I don’t know if I dare believe he’s left his own party because he’d rather be sitting here talking to me. But it’s already up there, the thought, and I can’t seem to destroy it.
I’m blinking hearts and holding back wistful sighs when something starts jingling on the porch. A cell. Luke’s cell, the same Tubular Bells tone as this afternoon. With my body behaving like a beached mermaid, I hook my fingers into the floor and drag my limp ass over to the door.
I hear movement, the crunch of a leather jacket. The ringing stops dead, but Luke doesn’t say anything. It rings again. I push my ear up against the wood because maybe he’s whispering to the caller. Still nothing. The phone doesn’t ring a third time. Or maybe it does and he’s switched it to silent.
I’m breathing like a claustrophobic trapped in a closet, my breath warm, splashing against the door and bouncing back in my face. My tongue twitches. Words suddenly have substance. They’re rising up my windpipe, thick, like a rolling rock in my throat.
‘I think . . .’ I begin, but my voice needs more volume if it’s going to get past the door. Filling my lungs with air, I try again. ‘I think somebody wants to talk to you.’