Page 22 of Swept Away

I’m just about to walk away from the store, and the voice sounds familiar but not enough to instantly recognize it.

Finally, my eyes move over a woman wearing light gray leggings and a red top.

“Oh… Penny? Hey. Nice to see you,” I say and walk to the woman, holding a couple of brown bags in my arms.

“I thought you moved to New York. What are you doing here?” I ask.

“We did,” she says, smiling and setting her groceries on a wrought iron bench nearby. “We found a really nice place and bought it. Let me show you.”

Penny is in her forties, works as an executive in a big corporation in New York, has a husband and two children, and gets along with my aunt.

She left Boston last year, and I haven’t seen her since, although she and her husband still have a house here.

We live on the same street.

For a while, I was convinced they were renting out their place.

“Here,” she says, swiping her phone with her finger before giving it to me to scroll through her pictures.

“We have to commute to Manhattan for work, but living there makes it all worthwhile.”

It’s a nice neighborhood in New Jersey with nice houses, green lawns, and a variety of Halloween decorations if you happen to be into that and snap those pictures at that time of year, which she did.

For her kids, it must feel like heaven, and now I’m thinking I’ll probably never be able to afford a place like that. Not with my salary after I finish school and the extra cash I’m earning from freelancing.

We spend a few minutes chatting before I steer the conversation toward the house across the street.

She’s owned property on my street all her life, so she must know more about that house.

I don’t want to ask my aunt, because she’s nosy and I’d face a battery of questions from her little curious self.

She’d want to know why I’m asking that and how I know about the young woman I’m inquiring about.

The moment I’d say I heard the story from a man, she’d know there was a connection between that man and me.

No, thank you.

I don’t need her cheering me on from the sideline or giving me unsolicited advice.

She’s always told me to stay away from bad men.Like my mother and every other woman in our family.

That’s part of the reason I’m staying away from them.

Most men I got to know weren’t that good, although I’m sure she had something different in mind.

I still don’t know whether the stranger from last night was good or bad.

Hey, I’m alive and feeling good about myself with a stack of memories to pleasure myself to for a while.

“I saw a woman coming regularly to the house across from me. Do you have any idea who that is?” I ask, watching her tuck her phone into her messenger bag.

She cocks an eyebrow.

“A woman?”

“Yeah. She’s short and has an infectious smile.”

She’s thinking about it for a second.