“Her name’s Milky,” Bradley says, entering my room and then shutting my door with the heel of his sneaker.
I need to buy a lock.
Glancing up at him from my spot on the floor, I ask, “Who?” Then add desk and chair to the list of things I need to buy.
Bradley rubs his face, his cheeks red, neck and shoulders drenched with sweat. I assume he’s been out for a run. “That hot chick next door. I just ran into her. Her name’s Milky, but I assume it’s a stage name.”
He’s smirking, and I don’t know why, but my interest is piqued, so I ask, “As in Broadway?”
After a snort, he jumps up on both my mattresses and gets comfortable. I remind myself to change the sheets and add lock to my list. “It’s her stripper name.”
I face him quickly, eyes wide. “Shut up.”
“Swear it. She just told me.”
I shake my head. “She’s fucking with you.”
“I don’t think she is, man. Besides, have you seen her body?”
I’m less interested in her than I am with her friend or sister or whatever. But right now, I don’t want to be interested in anyone, let alone a girl who lives on the other side of the wall I’m leaning against.
Bradley chuckles. “That other girl’s her twin sister.” His eyes are huge. “And Milky—she said it suggestively, you know? Like she was down for a three-way with her fucking twin.”
I shake my head. “You’re fucked, dude.”
“I will be,” he declares.
“You’re an idiot.”
He makes a show of jumping off the bed and stops at my door, facing me. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again, but nothing comes out.
I ask, “What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit, what’s going on?”
He shakes his head, drops his hands in his pockets. “Nothing, man. Never mind.”
“No.” I push off the wall. “What were you going to say?”
“Do you, uh… do you need anything from the hardware store?”
I fall back against the wall. “Why are you going to the hardware store? You suck at DIY, and if there’s anything that needs fixing, just call the landlord.” I put pen to paper again, try to regain my train of thought before he walked in. When I glance up, he’s still standing at the door, his hands still in his pockets, and he’s still hesitating.
“What’s going on, dude?”
“Well…” He exhales loudly, rubs the back of his neck. A nervous habit. “The lights in the kitchen, hallway, and bathroom downstairs—they’re fluorescent. So… I was going to change them to L.E.D. for you… you know… with the whole Christa—”
“Thanks,” I cut in. “I appreciate it, man.”
I cross out lock on my list of things to buy, and he leaves without another word. Then I order the shit I need online and pull out the books I need to study. But Bradley’s words, his actions, repeat in my mind, haunting me out of my focus until I’m pacing the floor and chewing my lip so hard I taste blood. I grab my keys and wallet, slip on my shoes, and make my way outside via the balcony.
One side of the house has a gate with a padlock and no key that I know of, so the only way to get to my car is through a narrow path on the side of the garage. From the few times I’ve been in the yard, I know there are large sliding doors that lead into where the girls live, but the curtains have always been drawn, and there doesn’t seem to be much activity behind them. I hope it’s the same now because I’m not in the mood to stop and talk to anyone, even for a friendly, neighborly hello. But I don’t get my wish. The curtains are pulled aside, and I have a clear view of the girl sitting on the couch, her wild coffee-colored curls adding an extra couple of inches to her height. She’s got a bowl of popcorn on her lap, her bare legs crossed in front of her. I start to move faster, hoping she doesn’t see me. But she does. She offers a wave, her hand raised but unmoving. I falter, just for a moment, and return her greeting with what I hope looks like a smile and not a cringe. And then I practically sprint to my car, my heart pounding, my anxiety high.
A recluse.
A shut-in.
An introvert.
All those words run through my mind, but I don’t think I’m any of them. The truth? I’m just extremely fucking shy.
Chapter Six
Andie
Between work and school, my schedule leaves me just enough time to go home, eat a quick meal, say a few words to Milky as she prepares for work, and then race off again. It doesn’t leave time for Milky’s glaring accusations about me stealing her “lucky” thong.
It didn’t take long for Milky and me to find our rhythm again. Sharing a womb, plus a life for eighteen of our twenty-one years can do that. After a few days, she stopped treading on eggshells around me. She also stopped trying to talk to me. Instead, she went back to the way things used to be with us: talking at me. And it’s comfortable and familiar and the only way we’ve learned to communicate.
“If I find it in your stuff...” she trails off, flipping the lid on the trunk that doubles as a coffee table and my closet. I don’t understand how a tiny piece of cloth can be deemed “lucky,” especially considering the types of people she wears it for, only to take it off again.
Keeping quiet, I peel the cling wrap off the leftover pasta and dig in, checking the clock every few seconds. I’d gotten used to eating quickly, the time allocated for meals at my previous living arrangement was barely long enough to take breaths between bites.
After a good few minutes of her going through the entire trunk, throwing my folded clothes over her shoulder, she stands, indents of our cheap rug on her now pink knees. Milky settles her hands on her hips, her gaze taking in the mess she’d made with my belongings. “It’s not there.”
“I told you I don’t have it,” I mumble through a mouthful of food.
“Where the hell is it?” It’s not a question that needs an answer, because she’s already in her room, sliding drawers in and out as she continues her search.
I check the time again, willing myself to eat faster so I can clean up after her. I don’t have a lot of clothes, so what I do have, I treasure.
“Found it!” she yells. “Sorry about the mess!” She appears a minute later in her work attire: hot pink booty shorts and black crop top with the words Chubaret printed in glitter the same color as her shorts. Apparently, the strip club was once famous for nude cabaret singers. Now it’s just your regular ol’ strip club.
I dump my dirty dishes in the sink and make quick work of refolding the clothes strewn around the living room/my bedroom. I count each top, each pair of pants, each sweater. I make sure they’re all there—another habit I hadn’t known I’d picked up.
“How was your day?” she asks from her bedroom doorway, running a brush through her hair. Now that we’re together again, she wanted a way for people to tell us apart easily, so she dyed her hair a freakish blond and got it chemically straightened. My sister is toned in areas I can only dream about, tanned all over.
“My day was fine,” I tell her, offering a genuine smile. “I—I got asked to cover a Sunday shift, so that’s good. We could always use the cash, right?”
She nods.
“How was yours?”
“Good,” she says, but I can tell she’s lying. I know every one of her traits, all her slight giveaways. The forced eye contact. The smile that’s just a little too wide, displaying our matching dimples. The way she stands with her knees locked, shoulders back.
She went to see them: our grandparents. The people who raised us, loved us, cared for us... until they could no longer look at me.
Finally breaking eye contact, she expels a breath too loud to be natural. “You got class tonight?” she asks, even though she knows the answer. I don’t bother responding, my twin already busy adjusting her breasts. I almost laugh out loud. Almost. Because if our grandparents knew what she did for a living, they’d probably hate her as much as they hate me. But the sound is quick to die in
my throat, the feeling burning a hole in my chest, a reminder of why she is what she is and does what she does.
For me.
Chapter Seven
Noah
The store I ordered my new furniture from said to expect delivery between 2 and 4 pm. It’s 4:15 when two guys in their mid-twenties knock on my door and greet me without an apology for being late. They take one look at the staircase that leads to my room and shake their heads. “We can leave them out front for you,” one tells me, a smirk pulling on his lips. It’s Friday, so close to the end of their work day, and I can imagine how perfect it would be to dump my shit on the front lawn and bail out early to the nearest pub. I almost allow them to do just that so I don’t have to speak to them or be around them for longer than I have to. I already miss the solitude of my room, and it’s only been forty seconds since I left it.
Even if they did leave my furniture, I couldn’t carry it all up on my own. Bradley’s gone home for the weekend, and Miles isn’t due back for another week. I guess I could always ask the girls next door. But no. I’d rather dislodge my eyeballs with a crowbar. So instead, I find myself pointing behind me. “You can access it from out back,” I say, my voice stronger than my confidence. “The stairs are straight and the doorway’s wider.”
“Whatever, man. Just show us where to go.”
I lead them to the side of the house, past the girls’ place, willing myself not to look in there, and point to my stairs.
On our final trip to the truck and back, the girls’ sliding door opens, and I cringe when Milky (that can’t be her real name) steps out, barefoot, wearing nothing but her semi-see-through underwear and an open robe. The delivery guy who’s stayed silent the entire time hisses out a “fuck” and drops my sofa to the ground. I curse, too, not because of Milky, but because he may have just damaged my brand-new shit.
“What’s going on?” Milky asks through a yawn, her hair a mess, but everything else about her made of most guys’ wet dreams.
“Just doing our jobs,” sofa-dropper says.
I urge them to get back to work—in my head, not out loud—and offer a lip-tilt to Milky when her gaze meets mine.
After giving the guys a tip they don’t deserve, I wait until they’re out of my room before grabbing my tools to assemble the desk that’d been delivered. I hear voices downstairs, Milky and the guys, mainly her talking and them laughing, and I should really go down there, tell her to cover herself up, that it’s not appropriate. But that would mean talking to her, and I can already feel the blood rushing to my face at the thought of it. Besides, I’m not her dad. It’s not my place.
I tear open the box, pull out the instructions of mainly picture diagrams and get to work. I don’t get far before there’s a knock on my balcony door. Careful not to put a screw out of place, I get up and stride over there. Milky’s standing on my balcony, unchanged from her disheveled state, a clay bowl holding three strange rocks in her hands. She smiles, baring her perfect teeth, and shoves the bowl at my chest. I grab onto it quickly, so it doesn’t fall and smash to pieces. “It’s for you,” she says. “Well, for you and your friend. It’s a housewarming present.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Thanks” is all I come up with.
She giggles, her breasts bouncing with the force, and I look away, my cheeks flaming wildfire right in front of her. Then she flicks the brim of my cap, loosening it from my head. “You’re cute.”
I blink.
“You got a girl?”
I shake my head, using one hand to hold the bowl, the other to adjust my cap. The provocative girl in front of me oozes confidence, something I should be used to. All Christa’s friends were just like her: self-assured and sexy in their own eyes and the majority of the people around them. But Christa’s friends lacked substance. Not that I’m judging Milky as that. I don’t even know her.
And now I feel like an ass.
“My sister got it for you,” she says, “Andromeda—she’s into all that shit.”
“Shit?” It comes out a whisper.
She tugs her robe around her, finally hiding her body, and points to my hands. “Like crystals and magical healing or whatever. I can get her to come around when she’s home. She can tell you what they all mean.”
I stare. Blink. Stare some more. Then I shake my head. Stay silent.
Milky giggles again. “You sure you don’t got a girl?”
Dropping my head to hide my blush, I deliver another head shake and pray the sweat on my palms doesn’t ruin the clay bowl.
“What about your friend?”
I look up, slightly composed now that the attention’s off me. “Bradley?” I smile.
“Wow. Your smile...”
Aaand I’m back glaring at the fascination that is my feet.
“You know most guys pay to see me naked. For you, I’d waive the fee.”
My gaze shoots up, my eyes wide, jaw unhinged.
She all-out laughs, hugging her stomach. Then she waves. “Tell Bradley I said hi.”
Chapter Eight
Andie
I’ve eaten five mouthfuls of cereal.
It’s also the number of times I’ve seen that strange neighbor cross the yard just outside our back door.
It’s like he’s pacing, but he can’t be because minutes pass between each appearance. At first, I thought he was getting something from his car that needed multiple trips, but he never comes back with anything in his hands. I’m intrigued by his actions as I watch, standing at the kitchen counter with the now soggy bowl of Cornflakes in front of me. I’m also mesmerized by his movements, his long legs fluid as he takes every step.
So maybe I’m simply compelled by him? I allow myself this one, harmless thought.
I’ve only seen him a few times since they moved in, and each time he’d been in dark denim and a faded leather jacket covering a threadbare t-shirt, all of which hugged his large frame. He wasn’t jacked, but he was lean, muscles in areas that counted. He wore caps pulled low on his brow, and the first time I saw him, I caught a glimpse of his dark brown hair curled beneath the edges. I noticed his eyes were blue when they took me in for longer than I felt comfortable, but they were dark, shaded by the brim of his cap. I wondered what they’d look like in the sunlight. Probably as vivid as Milky’s personality.
I stand taller when I see him again, his steps faltering just outside our door, his head tilting to look inside. The curtains are sheer, drawn to let sunlight in, but our house—if you can call it that—is dark, and he’d have no way of knowing I was watching him. He moves again, back to the stairs that lead to his balcony. I hear his footsteps climb them, then the slide of a door opening and closing.
Unexpected disappointment causes my shoulders to slump. I wanted him to knock on the door, to talk to me, regardless of how odd he seems. It’s lonely here with Milky working nights and sleeping most of the day. All my life I’ve had people around me, sometimes more than I could handle, but it was better than being alone.
Sighing, I empty my leftover cereal in the trash and go to dump the bowl in the sink, but it’s full, a mixture of soapy water and Milky’s thongs. Only in our house would this be normal. We don’t have a washer or dryer, and I planned a trip to the laundromat this weekend if we had the cash. She must be desperate.
I grab the laundry rack from the closet near the front door and pick out her thongs from the sink, dumping them into an empty fruit bowl. It takes some coordination to slide open the back door, but I do, and then I rest the bowl on one of the chairs that matches the small patio table. There’s a slab of concrete just outside our door, and Milky had done what she could to make our house as homey as possible before I moved in, getting the place fully furnished for us.
Setting up the rack just outside our door, I hope it’ll catch enough sunlight to dry her stuff before she leaves for work. I pick up a purple-sequined thong and place it on the rack. And then another. And another. And—“Hey.”
I turn just in time
to see my neighbor stand from the bottom of his balcony stairs. He runs his hands along his jeans and offers what I think is a smile, but I can’t tell because the morning light casts a shadow of his cap across his face. I force myself to wave back, Milky’s thong still in my hand. I hide it behind my back while he approaches, slow and sleek, footsteps silent against the concrete. He stops a few feet in front of me, rubbing the back of his neck. I stare at his eyes. He stares at my breasts, braless beneath my sleep tank, and I almost burst into flames with the heat of my embarrassment. I cross my arms to cover them, but in my haste, I release Milky’s underwear, and it somewhat gracefully flutters to the ground between us.
Now his gaze is on them, and my gaze is on his, and then he tilts his head up, his eyes wide and I was right: vivid against the morning sun, his eyes are spectacular. Bright ocean blue surrounded by dark lashes, flattering above his pink-tinged cheeks, and he’s cute.
Beyond cute.
Because he’s as embarrassed by our awkward encounter as I am, maybe more, and so I try to save the both of us. “They’re Milky’s.” Good save, loser.
His eyes go back to my breasts, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I figured,” he murmurs, then he shakes his head. “Not that you wouldn’t—or shouldn’t—or can’t wear—” His mouth clasps shut, his hand reaching up to remove his cap and scratch his head. I think he curses under his breath, but I can’t be sure. When the hat’s back in position, he heaves out a breath. “I just wanted to say thank you.”