Page 7

I unfurl myself from my sofa nest. It takes an embarrassing number of seconds to straighten up because my back is kinked into a curve and my foot prickles, protesting my weight. I need an exercise regimen. Or a lobotomy.

Instead, I stagger over to the slide door, unlock it, and shove it open halfway. “Why are you still here?”

I wish for a trebuchet, the better to lob him back to Maui.

“I live here.” He lobs me an easy one. “Let’s be friends!”

“No!” No is such a versatile word. It can be an adjective, an adverb, or a noun. Those two letters adapt themselves to so many situations.

Hazel eyes regard me. He’s turned down the wattage, so that he looks almost—

Lonely?

No. It must be a trick. He’s luring me in with his charisma, and then he’ll do something awful like, say, kiss me and walk away. He’s singlehandedly (mouthedly?) responsible for my cynicism. I lean into it.

“But we’re neighbors,” he says, not for the first time.

He’s overestimated the importance of our proximity. We have a hostile détente at best.

“Are you worth the investment of my friendship? How long will you be living next door?”

Spoiler: this is a trick question. The answer is no. I won’t be friends with someone who kissed me and then forgot about it .

He gifts me with a one-shouldered shrug. “Dunno.”

I revise my earlier estimate of his intelligence. “How long is your lease for?”

He peruses his papers. He’s either never seen it before or signed it without reading.

“Six months,” he says triumphantly.

That’s doable. I can survive six months. I can stop using the elevator, shun the parking garage, lurk on the sidewalk until the coast is clear. I will cede the shared balcony to him, although I will never, ever tell him that. I am the best at avoiding human contact.

The Roomba nudges my ankles, off course. Its love tap sends me stumbling toward Ozzy.

Ozzy steadies me briefly, his big hand wrapping around my upper arm. His fingers are warm, callused, and gone faster than I would like. “Careful,” he croons to my tiny robot cleaner friend.

He bends down and swipes it up before it can careen off the balcony and dash its itty-bitty robot brains to smithereens on the unforgiving San Francisco streets. He lifts it to eye level. It whines and whirs in his big hands.

He rumbles, “Cute,” in his deep voice and sets it inside my loft.

The Roomba swoons.

I feel the need to point out the obvious. “It’s not sentient.”

“So,” he begins. Pauses. Backs up to put some space between us.

The irritatingly cheerful Ozzy Wylder isn’t quite sure what to say next. He’s lost his place in the script. He might be…off balance?

I wait for his internal software to reboot. It’s safer not to fill in the space.

Hazel eyes laugh at me. He’s reset to a clean state. “You got me arrested last night. All my dad’s worst fears came true. I’m officially the family black sheep.”

He looks neither repentant nor ovine.

“In point of fact, I did not get you arrested.” True story—and yes, I’m still disappointed.

I know that the cops took him downstairs and put him in the cop car.

After that, my spying skills failed me, but presumably someone called someone else and then Ozzy was sprung from his temporary captivity and the entire penis party reconvened in the loft next door.

Laughter filtered through the wall. Jokes were told.

I assume Ozzy showed them his driver’s license and the lease.

Checked with my doorman nemesis. Pulled up his YouTube videos.

Bribed them with free surfing lessons. However he managed it, I do know that when the cops pulled away, they did not take Ozzy with them. Their loss is my unfortunate gain.

“You tried,” he accuses.

“And you climbed up my wall in the middle of the night.” My eyes drill into his face.

Laughter has carved delicious crinkles into the delicate skin around his eyes.

These lines are a feature and not a bug.

His default mode is laughter and happiness.

He’s an absolute ray of sunshine. I have overlooked an important specification: he doesn’t know how to be mad.

I don’t think he’s dwelling on the ignominy of last night at all, whereas I can imagine all too well how it would feel, being kicked out, told he didn’t belong, that no one knew his name. If I don’t explode from internalized rage, it’ll be a miracle.

“Can we please talk?” he asks.

I concede the battle and step outside. Take that, Shonda! I said YES!

Well, not out loud. But…details.

“I locked myself out.” He shrugs. The cotton of his T-shirt stretches over an immense expanse of muscles. “I needed to get back in.”

Are these the same blue jeans he wore last night? Bracelets wind around his wrist. A string one that reads Free. One with turquoise-colored beads. A metal band that seems more like a keepsake, simple and silver.

“My spare key is right there.”

Just as I think we might have a rational conversation, he points to a key frog on his otherwise empty half of the balcony. There is a flaw in his plan.

His illogicalness pains me.

“Spare keys should be by the door. The idea is to be able to reach it. Plus, the slider doors just have a simple latch. You’d have to climb back down and go around to use your key. Also, we have key cards and the doorman can let you in.”

It’s evident from his broad shoulders and capable hands—not to mention last night—that he’s more than capable of reaching the key on his porch.

Another shrug. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

The Roomba nudges my ankles, wanting to rejoin Ozzy on the balcony. It has no idea how dangerous his company is.

I turn to go back inside. Surely Shonda would agree that chatting up an almost-stranger on my balcony is not safe. Perhaps his niceness is a front. Perhaps he’s an axe murderer. Or one of those awful people who prank total strangers and post the video on TikTok.

“I had no idea my neighbor would be awake and on the balcony,” he says behind me. He’s closer now. “I apologize for scaring you.”

I don’t turn around. I would like to say that I continue my righteous march into my loft, but his voice is deep and low, all soft rumbles and concerned consonants. He’s paying attention to me. It’s deadly to my self-possession.

I raise my right arm and stab my fingers in the direction of his door. “That’s your side of the balcony. This is mine. Have a nice day.”

“It’s your turn,” he says. Then prompts, “To apologize.”

“I don’t think so.” I can see my face in the glass of the slider door. It’s tired with a side of grumpy. I wonder what he thinks about it. About me.

“Really?” Our reflections merge in the glass of the slider door. “Not even the smallest sorry ? You don’t even have to mean it. I promise.”

His scent surrounds me like flowers in a garden. He smells like laundry detergent and pine. Something outdoorsy and warm and solid. I think it’s his deodorant. I think I might have the same one.

“I’m not apologizing to you.” I mean it. Shonda wouldn’t, Rosie wouldn’t, I wouldn’t. He is totally in the wrong here.

Mostly.

Probably?

I turn around and wrap my arms around my chest. I’ve just remembered that I’m not wearing a bra underneath my pajamas.

“You could send me an edible fruit bouquet,” he suggests. He’s shamelessly peering around me into my studio loft. He’s taking inventory, memorizing the layout of my place. Which is the same as his.

Real estate is impossibly pricey in San Francisco.

My rented condo consists of one smallish room with exposed brickwork on two walls.

It’s barely large enough to hold my sofa, a standing desk, and my whiteboard.

A postage-stamp-sized kitchenette is tucked at the back, and oak-colored stairs lead up to the loft, where I sleep on the same futon I slept on in college.

I hope I remembered to shut the door to the bathroom but probably didn’t.

That’s one of the perks of living alone, the ability to pee with the door wide open.

Another included perk: to not quite pick up after yourself.

The sweaters I put on and take off with the regularity of a metronome are scattered everywhere. There are socks on the floor. A random flip-flop. And pillows. Lots and lots and lots of pillows. I may not have got around to hanging pictures on my wall, but I have pillows in abundance.

“You really like tassels, don’t you?” My eyes follow his to the pink fringe on a lumbar pillow. I like my pillows tasteless and over-the-top.

“Not illegal.” Unlike scaling the wall of a building. You need a permit to do that. Or at least permission.

“You could give me an apology pillow. It’s like a home goods store in there.” He laughs, his eyes crinkling with good humor.

“There’s nothing wrong with a good pillow.” It comes out defensively. I have a pillow addiction and I know it.

Now Ozzy knows it, too. He’s counting ostentatiously, taking inventory of my mountains and mountains of pillows.

“Or a pie,” he says musingly, as if my apologizing is a foregone conclusion and now we are simply negotiating terms. “I can give you a list of options.”

“Excuse me?” The words fly out of my mouth when I should have said get lost or no . No is nice and simple. I blame Shonda—she’s a bad influence.

“I speak all five love languages.” He winks at me. “I accept apologies in any currency.”

He is SO annoying.

“Climbing the building is illegal, and actions have consequences.” I’ve aged thirty years in the last ten minutes. I am now the age of my mother.

He nods, all seriousness. “You don’t want to kiss and make up? Should I send you a fruit bouquet?”

“Fruit what ?”

“Hold that thought.” He points a finger in my direction, vaults back over the waist-high wall dividing our spaces, and disappears into his loft. For a moment, I let myself hope that he is gone. I don’t think he has a long attention span, and I’m not that interesting.