Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
He steps forward and inspects my grocery purchases. There’s no other word for it. But me and my things being perceived by this particular man isn’t so bad. His interest doesn’t seem prurient like some. Then he gathers up the bulk of the bags in an impressive feat of strength and organization. What a useful person to have around.
“Just at the front door would be great. Thanks.”
He nods.
A cop car cruises down the street, but I don’t recognize the person behind the wheel. Which is a good thing. “I know you’re dying to say something about all of the microwave meals.”
“There’s nothing wrong with convenience,” he says. “I’m more of a frozen pizza guy myself. I actually need to stock up. Where do you recommend getting groceries that’s local?”
“I like the co-op.”
“Duly noted. Haven’t seen you in your bedroom window lately.” He stops and blinks. “That sounded sort of perverted and stalkerish, didn’t it?”
“Just a little.”
“Shit.” He deposits the bags by the door. One side of his mouth rises higher than the other and it’s charming as fuck. “Sorry ’bout that.”
Music is blasting from the student share house. And the old couple across the road are out working in their garden again. I refuse to worry about whether they’re watching or what they’re thinking. We’re not doing anything wrong. Marigold, daisies, dahlia, and zinnia are in bloom in their yard, making for a riot of color. End of summer is a good time for gardening. My grandmother used to love growing things. She had a theory that gardens should be half pretty and half purposeful. For every tomato plant or cucumber vine there had to be a flower. She was big on balance. Which is not something my life has seen much of lately.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“What about?”
“Flowers, weirdly enough.”
“Nothing wrong with flowers,” he says. “I have to go.”
“Thanks for carrying those.”
He nods and stands there. Not leaving. Not even a little. And there’s this energy between us. This awareness of each other that I haven’t felt in forever. Then he asks, “Talk to you later?”
My smile is as wide as can be. “Okay.”
“Keep your hands up,” says Mateo, throwing another jab at me.
The previous owners used the separate garage for storage and an office. I use it for something else. There’s a punching bag for me to practice hitting and kicking. Some hand weights, a skipping rope, mats and such. Mateo teaches mixed martial arts. How to throw a punch, guard myself, and get out of a hold. There’s a lot of focus on eyes, throat, groin. He comes over regularly to train me in private. Wednesday night suited him this week.
I started training with him not long after my ex got arrested. Some online forums theorized that I helped him. Others went even farther, claiming that the evidence pointed to me as the killer. Which is the truth. But there’s no getting around the fact that I had an airtight alibi. Then came the death threats from strangers. People yelling in my face in front of my apartment. And then some guy grabbed me and shook the shit out of me. His niece had gone missing the year before.
Mateo is about my height with more muscles than I can count, a buzz cut, and olive skin. We’re both wearing shin and foot guards, sparring gloves, and mouth guards to spare ourselves from the brunt of the attack. He blocks a particularly devastating roundhouse kick from me. Then says, “That was half-assed.”
“Harsh.”
“Go again.”
I assume the stance—my fighter’s kamae. Feet shoulder width apart with my kicking leg at the back. Twist my hips and bring my rear foot forward and straighten the leg.
He grunts as he blocks the hit. “Better. Keep your hands up.”
I throw a jab, which he dodges.
“Come on, Sidney. Show me who’s boss.”
I sway backwards, avoiding an uppercut.
“That’s it. Good work.”
Now I’m in the zone. Which is when I hear the rumble of an engine coming down the street. For a moment I think it might be Noah returning home early, but then the vehicle drives straight past. This second of lost focus is all it takes. Mateo’s right hook really is a thing of beauty. His gloved hand sails through the air and his fist slams into the side of my face, and oof.
“Hey,” says Noah as he climbs out of his car.
It’s Thursday night and the street is otherwise empty. Midnight is a quiet time when this place becomes a safe space for me to show my face and take a walk. There’s usually just me, the streetlights, and neat rows of houses sitting in silence. I didn’t account for him arriving home from work so late.
The smile falls off his face as he steps closer. “What the fuck? Sid, who hurt you?”