Page 1 of The Guy Next Door
1
LEIF
Irecognize theguy taking his time at the bread aisle.
Like, a weird amount of time.
His complexion is something between ghostly and sickly pale, like he doesn’t spend too much time outside.
Probably around my age—late teens, early twenties.
Short, dirty-blond hair, nearly brown, and spiked in the front.
Guy can’t be over five-five or so, and even that might be a generous guesstimate.
I’m sure that’s the same black hoodie I’ve already seen on him a few times.
What’s his name again? Mom mentioned talking to the Rodgers about him, but for whatever reason, it’s not coming to me.
Feel like it starts with aZ… Zack? No, something less familiar.
Zander?
That’s not it either.
As he scans his bread options, I can’t imagine he has to make a serious decision about white, wheat, or grain. Maybe he needs gluten-free alternatives. Or maybe he has a preferred brand they’re out of, so now he must find an acceptable substitute.
With how he’s fidgeting, rubbing his thumbs across his fingers, I can imagine him being the kind of guy to give too much thought to the type of bread he needs to buy.
Maybe he’s not thinking about bread at all; my mind can drift off from time to time while I’m grocery-shopping.
Because of my previous interactions with him, part of me thinks it’s a little creepy.
That’s a shitty thing to think about someone.
Just because he’s different doesn’t make him creepy.
My parents live in a friendly neighborhood. Most everyone on our street has lived there for over a decade, so we all know each other. We’re the kinds of neighbors who wave and stop on the sidewalk to catch up with each other. This guy has only been renting the Morgans’ place next door for two weeks, so it’s possible he hasn’t had a chance to acclimate to the neighborhood yet. Although, I’ve made every effort to smile and wave if he’s in his yard when I’m driving by. I’ll even try to say hey when I pass him while I’m out for a jog or a walk.
And I get nothing, except maybe a glare.
It’s possible he’s an introvert—the quiet type who spends time staring at bread for a few minutes as his mind wanders. Can’t fault him for that.
He starts to turn, so I look back at the beef, picking up another packet to check the expiration date. I debate if I should try to approach him, maybe start a lighthearted conversation that will make him more receptive to my occasional waving to him in the neighborhood, but I’m not in the mood to get another glare, so I continue with my shopping.
After I finish, I return home. As I’m parking near the garage doors of my parents’ place, my phone starts buzzing. I put the car in Park and check it. Mom.
“There you are,” I answer.
Her voice comes through the Corolla’s speakers: “Are you in the car?”
“Yeah, and you are too now. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss you again. Gimme a second.”
I get out, and we go through a familiar dance until the car releases her back to my phone.
“How was today?” I practically sing out, pressing against what I know will be a sore subject.
She groans. “Can we start with your day?”