Page 5 of Like You Want It

Honestly, this guy seems like a prick, coming in here and telling me I should stay away from his sister. I mean, how am I supposed to respond to that without just giving him the middle finger and showing him to the door?

“I’m sure your sister is capable of deciding who is allowed to bother her,” is what I finally say in response.

I watch him lift an eyebrow. Just one. He doesn’t look angry anymore, his face having remained in a neutral, flat look once he started speaking. That one eyebrow is the only indicator now that I’m speaking to a human and not a wax figurine.

We both stand in more silence and just watch each other. Though his eyes do dip just slightly down over my frame before popping back up and remaining firmly on my face.

And it’s in this exact moment that I take mental stock of what I’m wearing.

Did I put on pants when I got out of bed and decided to cause a raucous?

I step as inconspicuously as possible to the right, hoping to shield my lower half with the couch. Although that doesn’t help the up-top situation, because I know I amdefinitelynot wearing a bra.

I cross my arms.

I’ve been wearing the same shirt to bed every night since I was in elementary school. A large white cotton tee that says “My PenIs Huge.”

The ‘I’ is a pen.

My brother got it in high school and my dad, who is both incredibly conservative and a man who dislikes what he calls ‘inappropriate attention,’ promptly chucked it into the trash. My mother pulled it out, gave it a wash, and handed it over to me.

“Why does she get to wear it and I don’t?” Caleb had demanded in his teenage irritation with anything and anyone.

“Because when she wears it, it’s ironic,” my mom had said, the word going over my head at the time. “And she won’t wear it outside of the house, whereas you’ll wear it proudly at the mall, and I have no intention of the church hotline blowing up with yetanotherreason why I’m a horrible mother.”

Caleb likely forgot all about the shirt once he left for college that August. But I’m still wearing it in a regular rotation of sleep shirts almost fourteen years later.

Admittedly, the thing should go back into the trash at some point. It’s got holes along the seams and is slightly shrunken and rudely stretched, making it both tight and loose, if that’s possible. But it’s the most comfortable shirt I’ve ever had, and I’ll give it up on the day it falls to shreds in my hands.

But now, with this upstairs neighbor’s brother in my apartment, watching me in silence, I’m hyper aware of the fact that I’m pantsless in some bikini briefs, and wearing basically a see-through shirt, without a bra. And I know from my own observation that my stupid genetics gifted me with small boobs and large, dark nipples that are most certainly at least somewhat visible through the thinning fabric.

Great.

Why didn’t I go with myE.T.shirt last night instead?

I lean a hip against the couch, and let out a long and dramatic sigh. Obviously, we’re going to need to resolve whatever this is. And Señor Silencio over there doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to do so.

So, I buck up and decide to just be the bigger person and start the conversation.

“Look, I want to apologize for playing the music so loud this morning. Even though there’s no way it was as loud as the music I heard last night,” I say, giving him a pointed look, “I know it was an immature way to handle my frustration. Usually I’m really nice, but this morning got a bit away from me. The walls here are incredibly thin. Like, paper, which I think you gathered with my morning concert. I work at a coffee shop and I’m usually up pretty early. Stuff like last night can’t happen again. I slept for less than two hours.”

He watches me and still doesn’t say anything.

“So if you could just let your sister know? About the thin walls? I’d really appreciate it.”

He shakes his head. “You won’t have to worry about that happening again. Susie works from home. But, like I said, she’s pretty introverted and really quiet.”

I scrunch up my brows. “Then who threw the party last night.”

Mr. Talkative goes mute again, but I feel like his eyes are saying…

“Wait… so itwasyou that had the party upstairs. Even though you just said it wasn’t you.”

“I never said it wasn’t me. I said I’m not your new neighbor. I can’t help it if you weren’t quick enough to tell the difference.”

I tighten my arms around my chest and clench my jaw. It’s a nasty habit I have, and I’m pretty sure it has permanently fucked with my teeth. But I’m cranky. And I got no sleep. And this guy is to blame.

“Listen, mister… neighbor’s brother. You are not allowed to nearly break down my door, barge into my apartment, interrupt me, and talk to me like I’m too stupid to breathe,” I fume, counting each point off on my right hand. “This apartment is an aggression free zone, and you are absolutely ruining the vibe.”