Page 51 of The Guy Next Door
And fearing that I already know what this is going to mean for me.
13
LEIF
Zane’s been quietthe past few days.
Unusually quiet, and it started after I FaceTimed him so he could see me playing with my sex toy. Was that too much? I know I’m not playing it cool, but fuck playing it cool.
Zane gave me a taste, and now I’m greedy for more.
But I have other concerns at the moment. I struggle with what to tell Mom and Dad about the subreddit and Zane’s theories. On the one hand, I want them to take the necessary precautions for our family’s safety. On the other hand, if I tell them too much, they could get in touch with Roth, and she’d make them really concerned about the guy next door.
I want to talk to Zane about it, but now he’s suddenly less available than before. When I reach out on Monday and Tuesday, I get back quick responses about how he’s catching up on work.
On Wednesday, he gives me a similar BS excuse:Still gotta get some things in. Bills to pay, ya know?
He’s giving weird vibes.
Is he uncomfortable after what we shared, or is it something else? Something more concerning?
I make carbonara for dinner, and as much as I want my parents to enjoy the meal, I really made it forhim. When we finish eating, I pack some into a container and head on over to his place, mashing my thumb on the doorbell; I’m not meaning to, but I’m sure the ring conveys my frustration.
It takes Zane a minute before he opens the door. “Yeah?”
“This is really starting to remind me of the time I hooked up with a girl and she immediately treated me like I didn’t exist anymore.”
“Can you not do this on the front porch?” he asks, his eyes widening as he searches around me, like he’s worried someone might overhear me. He steps aside, letting me in, and closes the door behind me. He still doesn’t look at me, acting more like he did when we first started chatting after the break-in.
I figured with my parents home, he’d get more sleep, be more together, but he seems agitated.
I head to the kitchen and set the container with my carbonara on the counter. “I’ve needed to talk to you the past few days, and suddenly you’ve been mysteriously busy.”
“I do have to make a living.”
“Just stop. I can tell it’s more than that.”
He still won’t look at me, and I can’t keep on trying to act like everything’s normal. I notice the bags under his eyes are more severe than when I saw him the other night. Tension rises in me as my real fear intensifies—that he’s struggling again.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Why does something have to be wrong?”
“Nothinghasto be wrong, but you’re not acting like yourself.”
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.” He sounds annoyed.
“Something’s wrong,” I insist, standing by my gut instinct.
He finally looks at me.
“Dude, come on. What is it?”
“Oh, now I’mdude? Are we fighting?”
I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Yes, that’s what this is, if I didn’t make that clear when I showed up at your door and started getting onto you.”
“I have a lot on my mind recently.”