‘I have a confession to make,’ he says, hissing a note through his teeth like he’s just been nipped under the arm.
Is this the irony? Is he about to fess up to being the serial killer/stalker/maniacal clown with a cleaver my mind wanted me to believe he was? He must see the look of horror wash over my face, note my features being pulled into a Munch-esque composition.
‘Wait.’ Luke chokes out a nervous laugh. ‘That sounded a lot less creepy inside my head. Let me explain. Remember the day I moved in?’ he asks, shifting to the edge of his seat.
That day. That day was a Monday, a doctor’s-appointment day. I remember labelled boxes, his boxes. I remember the blackbird bouncing on my windowsill. I remember the stack of books that left me feeling out of sorts.
‘I saw you having a hard time getting across the grass to your car.’ He whispers it, like he’s telling me secrets.
‘You saw that?’
He turns a slight shade of pink, rubs the back of his neck, and stares out of the kitchen window.
‘I wasn’t spying.’ For a moment he looks ten years younger. ‘I was hoping to get your attention. You see, I thought we were flirting.’
‘Hang on a second.’ I’m confused. It’s like being introduced to Advanced Calculus all over again. ‘You mistook an anxiety attack for flirting? How?’ Trying to figure out which part of my harpooned-squid impression could be considered anything other than tragic.
‘No. It was before that, by the window. When you waved at me.’
Maybe he gets high. I wonder if he sparked up before he came over here. A bong for breakfast. If that’s the case, he needs to leave. I’m afraid of all common-sense inhibitors.
‘I never waved at you.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘You did. I was carrying a box to my bedroom. You knocked on the window and then waved at me.’
The memory crashes into me like a runaway train, almost knocking me off my feet. That damn blackbird.
‘You remember,’ Luke says. He must see the recognition flash across my face. Smiling, all smug, he sits back in his chair, folds his arms across his chest. Oh, breaking this to him is going to be sweeter than cherry pie.
‘Um, sorry to burst your bubble there, Romeo, but I wasn’t waving at you,’ I tell him.
‘Yes . . . you were.’ But he’s not so sure any more. ‘Weren’t you?’
I shake my head.
‘Then who?’
A wicked smile pulls at my lips. Luke smiles too. ‘I was having a bad day, and there was this bird bobbing around on my windowsill outside. I knocked on the glass to scare it away—’
‘You were waving at a bird?’
‘Exactly,’ I say, working hard to stifle a giggle. He laughs and my knees go a good kind of weak.
‘Well, this is awkward. Again.’
‘Is that why you came over to introduce yourself?’ Anxiety is a million miles away as I flop back down on to my chair. Elbows planted on the table, chin resting in my hands. It’s like we’re old friends having a good gossip. He leans on the table too, folds his arms in front of him, wincing and groaning, before falling forwards and burying his face in them.
‘Yes. Of course it is. There you were, this cute girl waving at me. There was no way I was going to just ignore you.’ His words are muffled.
We’re both laughing. This moment right here, this is the best normal moment I’ve had in the past four years. I want to put it in a box and keep it for ever.
‘Hey.’ He turns his head to look at me. The light pouring into the kitchen catches his eyes and makes them flash bright green. My heart squeezes. ‘Are you afraid of going outside?’ All good things must come to an end. But I guess rarity is what makes a perfect moment perfect.
My turn to fold my arms, fall forwards, and bury my face.
The word yes is so small and simple. I can say it in four different languages – including French. After mastering Mom when I was a baby, yes was the second thing I learnt how to say. But right now, I’ve forgotten how, and all I can do is nod.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I’ve watched you go through that twice now. It looks painful and exhausting. It’s not nice to see someone suffer so much, you know?’
The general populace is compassionate. Maybe that’s not quite the bullshit statement I first thought it was. I turn my face to look at him. He throws a soft smile my way; I catch it and smile back.
‘You don’t like being touched?’
I shake my head. Pick at a scab on my wrist.
‘But you’re okay if your mom touches you?’ There is no accusation in his tone. At all. His curiosity is just taking a gentle stroll around the mysterious workings of my mind, but guilt gurgles in my stomach anyway. It sounds awful, like I’ve concluded he’s going to hurt me or something.