“Yo, Vick, get up and eat something, I know you can smell the pizza. I can see your giant nostrils flaring at the smell.”

  “I don’t have giant nostrils, you jerk,” I say, blinking at the light, trying to push myself upright into a sitting position, then wobbling over to the kitchen table where Max has already put out plates and forks and knives so we can both pretend that we’re not animals that are gonna use our hands for each pizza slice.

  “Here, drink a lot of water, ’kay? You said you fainted yesterday, and the hot neighbor rescued you?”

  I frown at Max, looking down at my all-dressed slice of pizza, and Max has the jar of pepperoncini out so we can douse our pizzas in the juice and eat the peppers at the same time, the very height of culinary art.

  “He didn’t really rescue me…” I huff around a bite of pepper and pizza altogether, burning the roof of my mouth from the hot cheese.

  “Then what the hell do you call it then? You could’ve cracked your head open and bled out!”

  “Is that your medical opinion?” I ask, needling her, even when I know she’s telling me the truth. If I was alone in that hallway, or hell, if I had decided to take the stairs, like I do when I get impatient with the elevator, I could have died.

  All it takes is a good crack to the head and that’ll be your last headache.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “I guess I should do something nice for him. Since he did ‘rescue’ me.”

  Max stares at me, chewing. “You like him.”

  I hold up a finger. “Look, is he super hot? Yes. Do I know anything else about him other than he happens to be there at the right time which is suspicious, you know it’s suspicious, whenever my body decides to pass out on me? No, I don’t know a thing about the guy. He’s my next-door neighbor, that can go bad real fast.

  “So just send him a cake. Everyone loves cake. How about from that place we love, Pâtisserie Zachary?” She adds the French intonation to get on my nerves. “Or any kind of pastry really. You’re supporting a local business and saying thank you. I don’t see the problem here,” Max says.

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t see the problem.”

  Max raises her berry eyebrows, just like the rest of her.

  I sigh, dropping my slice of pizza, sucking on a pepper before biting it in half and putting that down on my plate, too. “I don’t want to appear flirtatious.”

  Max stills, coughs into her hand and I get the distinct impression that this fool is laughing at me.

  “I’m sorry, sorry, that was a dick move, but ohmygod, Vick. You? Flirtatious? You give everybody a death stare, even if it’s a kid bringing you delivery pizza.Or how about that old man at the cash register at the grocery store who always says hi to you and asks you how your day has been and you give him a glare like you’re counting down the days until the Reaper shows up. It’s scary.”

  I frown at her. “It’s just my face, I can’t help it if it’s just how my face is!”

  “That’s being lazy and you know it.” Max jabs her slice of pizza in the air instead of her finger, but I get the point, I do.

  Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  “You can be aware of it. If nobody merits that kind of reaction from you, you shouldn’t do it. Isn’t the crap everyone has to deal with enough, and then some stranger looks like she wants to eviscerate you for existing? Come on.”

  “It’s not my fault every time I go for groceries I’m off another bend, and all I want is food and coffee, and a really hot bath, and sleep for the next twenty-four hours. I don’t want to make conversation.”

  “Realistically, though, how long is this going to go on for? You can’t keep doing this. When Amber and I came over, it was awful in here.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I can’t be burning candles in the background of all my videos and looking my best with all that lighting and putting on makeup for fun, okay? I can’t do what you do, and you can’t do what I do.”

  “No one said that, you asshole. And I see you docking my candle collection, but I’m not going to be ashamed for it. I like my place smelling like freshly baked cookies instead of a public bathroom.”

  I flush, embarrassed now.

  I am embarrassed that I have to basically sit in one spot for the longest time, not move, just be totally focused on the game, and put all my bodily functions to rest, and potentially get sick. It’s not like gaming stops when I’m on my period and have to change out my cup—that takes time, time I usually don’t have when I have pricks like MAV3R!CK on my ass, trying to clinch my spot.

  “I don’t think you can keep going on like this, not for much longer. I’m worried about you. We’re supposed to live right next door to each other when we get our own houses, okay? How is that going to happen if you make yourself so sick that I have to wait another year for you, huh?”

  “Way to guilt trip me.”

  “I know my job seems easier than yours, and in a way it is, sure. I don’t have to force myself to stay awake, or stare at the screen until my eyes fall out of my head. What I do isn’t important in terms of ranking or anything like that—it’s makeup, and makeup isn’t the end-all or be-all of existence, yeah? I just want you to be healthy, to think about this next tournament and see if you can reconsider and skip it.”

  “But then I’ll lose my spot. It’s not like I can freeze my points if I don’t show up to play. It doesn’t work like that. It’s just bench-warming at that point, watching everyone else play and you’re the one staying still.”

  Max shrugs. “Well, I’m gonna say it again—you look like shit, and you’re fainting again. If this keeps getting worse, I’m gonna speak to Aunt Lisa and Uncle Tristan,” she says, referencing my parents.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would,” Max says, grinning like she knows she’s got me. “And I’d send the next-door guy a cake if I were you. It wouldn’t kill you to do something nice for the guy who literally saved your head.”

  “Fine. Will that get you to shut up?”

  Max smiles wide, practically preening at getting her way—again.

  “For now, Vick. For now. Eat up, buttercup.” She grins wide in her victory.

  It pisses me right off.

  THREE

  It’s not a surprise when Amber flakes out on our yearly tradition of watching Hocus Pocus (we even have t-shirts) on Halloween, and I’m stuck holding the bag with a giant amount of marshmallow popcorn (with orange food coloring for the occasion), and too many packages of double-stuffed Golden Oreos with a carton of almond milk in the fridge because Max is lactose-intolerant.

  I’ve got all this food, and Max is supposed to be coming over for supper since Amber flaked on us, but as usual, Max is running late.

  I don’t know how many times this girl does her makeup (full glam every single time), and she still doesn’t know how long it takes her to get ready. It should drive me up the wall, but that’s the way she’s always been, and I honestly don’t have anywhere to be.

  We had settled on sushi, finally, and I’ve just placed the order when I glance up at my door, hearing cursing outside of it. Naturally, I go and investigate at the peephole, finding Michael standing there, looking down at the floor that looks like something that used to be food.

  I glance back into my kitchen, looking at the overwhelming amount of snacks I have (that I’m sure Max and I can get through, but maybe shouldn’t, if I’m making the executive decision), and honestly, who doesn’t like double-stuffed Oreos? Who?

  The guy saved my head at least a couple of times, and head injuries are no joke.

  I should go out there, I should help Michael out this time around.

  I nab a package of cookies and sprint back to my door, unlocking it and swinging it open to find him on his hands and knees, picking up the discarded fruit and vegetables on the two plastic containers, grabbing at the pieces of pineapple all over the carpet, the runaway pieces of broccoli and cauliflower going deeper down the hall towards his own unit.

  And I just keep standing there, gawking at Michael, his face swung towards me, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

  I plop down on my knees, and crawl farther down the hall, putting the cookies down, and grabbing up the veggies that have escaped their plastic prison, crawling back towards him to put them back, frowning down at the carpet fuzzies that’ll easily be dislodged if he gives them a thorough washing.

  “Victoria,” Michael says, using my full name, because not everyone gets to call me Vick, even if I prefer it.

  I always hated Vicky. Another girl in my elementary school was an asshole and she went by Vicky, so instead of being a Vicky P., I just made everyone call me Vick.

  I blink at him, holding out two chunks of cauliflower, like I’m presenting him with some kind of treasure, me the commoner to his king, even though we’re both on the ground.

  I forgot how big he is, tall and wide, and his black hair falling into his eyes, his dark eyes doing nothing but blinking back at me.

  “Michael,” I say, nodding to him. “Doing okay?” I ask, because apparently, I can’t ask “how are you?” like a normal person. I blame his good looks and the way my brain doesn’t want to seem to function around him so I say stupid shit.

  “Uh, yeah, yeah. Thanks. How are you?” He leans back on his heels, and I look down at his jean-clad thighs, and my brain provides me with a singular thought: that is a lap I could sit on.

  Oh my God, what the hell?

  “Uh, good, good, good.” That’s it, that’s the most I’ve ever spoken to my hot next-door neighbor, and I feel like I’m about to combust, which could also be because I’m overdressed with my fourteen layers and a hoodie on.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” I say, getting up to my feet all by myself, no help needed, thanks, and grabbing one of the plastic platter thingies with the veggies, and Michael takes the fruit, and I stand in front of his door, waiting for him to pull his keys out to unlock it for us.

  I’m in my socks, but I still wipe my feet against the carpet in his entranceway, holding the veggie platter aloft like it’s Simba.

  His unit looks a lot like mine, just mirrored since we share a wall, his living room right up against where my kitchen is, his TV on the opposite wall, a console and what looks like an old N64 system on the TV unit underneath, a bunch of DVDs along the shelving there. I’m too far away to actually see any of the titles, wondering what his movie taste is like, wondering if he buys DVDs of his favorite shows or not.

  I keep quiet while Michael putters around in his kitchen, leaving the fruit platter on the kitchen counter, and I make the executive decision to place the veggie platter right next to it, plopping the Oreo package right on top. “Uh, those are for you,” I say, feeling dumb all of a sudden.

  Michael’s clearly bought himself fruit and veggies. Maybe he’s one of those types that have cut sugar completely out of their lives, or shit, maybe he has allergies that I don’t know about (obviously I wouldn’t know, both times he’s saved my head I bolted and didn’t ask him any questions).

  “Cookies? You’re giving me cookies?” Michael asks, turning to look at me, and I’m hyper-aware of just how big he is and broad, and how tiny and weak I feel in comparison with my poor diet, and my awful sleep schedule, and the way I haven’t really been out in direct sunlight unless it’s out of necessity. To be honest, I’ve been seriously tempted by the notion of getting my groceries delivered to my house, but then I’d never go out, and I’m pretty sure that’s not healthy for me.

  Especially comparing myself to a complete specimen like Michael Nash.

  “Yes?” Jesus, I don’t even know why I say it like a question when it’s a fact. “Yeah. Cookies. You eat them.”

  I shut my eyes as hot shame rolls over my body, take a deep breath to get the courage to look at him again, finally opening them again.

  You eat them, I can’t believe I said that. My cheeks are burning, my ears are burning, and I don’t know what to do with myself, but staring at Michael (God, he’s so gorgeous) seems like a great idea, the very best.

  His smile is world-ending, and I swear I can feel the flooring shift underneath me and—am I going to pass out again?

  He’s got a crooked front tooth, and I don’t know, I find it so endearing that I think I am in danger of passing right the hell out, right here, right now.

  What is happening to me? What is happening?

  “Thank you,” he says, smiling even bigger so his eyes close, and I’m getting heart palpitations at my young age, holy shit! “They’re actually my favorite.”

  Oh shit, I’m sweating, I’m actually sweating because that smile is directed right at me and there’s only so much a person can do when a literal sunbeam of a smile is directed at them other than to stand there and burn.

  “Welcome,” I mumble, inching closer and closer to his front door, needing to run for the hills, move into another condo building, move to a different city (really, I could live anywhere as long as the internet is exceptional, but I’d miss my family and Amber and Max way too much) so I never have to feel so weak in the face of that smile ever again.

  Why would you even see that smile again?

  Because! How could I never not want to see it again?! I’d do stupid-ass shit to make him smile like that at me again, oh my goddddd.

  “I have my cousin coming over,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder, knocking into the door before I can coordinate my limbs and hands to twist the doorknob open and make it out into the hall.

  “So I’m gonna go,” I say, nodding a little too hard, a little too fast, swallowing hard. “Have a good Halloween!” I wave frantically with both hands, bump my back into the door again before whirling around like a mouse about to get pounced on by the evil cat, and get the door open, running out into the hall and pulling the door closed behind me, bolting inside my apartment and locking the door with shaking hands.

  “What the fuck was that?!” I ask myself, taking deep, deep breaths, placing my head against the door, startling when there’s a knock and I unlock the door all over again and swing it open, thanking the delivery person for my food, towing it all inside after kicking the door closed.

  I feel like I need a cold shower, and I hastily pull my hoodie off, then the t-shirt underneath so all I’m left in is my camisole and sports bra, panting in the cooling air, even moving to the thermostat to turn down the heat so I can breathe.

  My phone rings obnoxiously loud because I need that kind of distraction when I’m super-focused on a game, or asleep and I need to be awake in case of an emergency.

  I shriek a little, looking over into my kitchen, as if I can use my non-existent X-ray vision to see through my kitchen and the wall into Michael’s living room, wondering if he’s eating the cookies I brought him.

  Why do I care? What does it matter?

  I’ve repaid my debt, it’s done.

  “Hello?” I press my phone to my ear. Max is panting on the other end.

  “Yeah, I’m on my way. I decided to try new makeup and it didn’t go well, I’ll tell you that much. I look like Billy Butcherson without the black teeth, holy shit.”

  I smile tremulously, hearing her car door slam and the heating in her car go from zero to full-blast as soon as she turns the ignition. I’ve got time to pull myself together.

  “Yeah, no problem. Sushi’s here, and I’ll keep it in the fridge for now. Don’t get into an accident for Hocus Pocus.”

  “Ummm, it’s the Sanderson sisters, okay? Anything for them. I dressed up like Sarah, who’d you dress up as?”

  “I’m dressed up like me, like always.” I deadpan, carting the tray of sushi to my fridge, frowning again at all the leftovers I have yet to eat because I don’t sit down and have a meal, like a normal person. I just pick here and there and then get a world-destroying headache by the end of the night.

  I chug some water in the meantime, Max chattering away because she can’t stand driving without some sort of noise, and I end up telling her about giving Michael the cookies.

  “Wow. Good on you! I know that was hard.”

  Max has been more understanding of my innate need to be a hermit, even if it gets lonely sometimes, than Amber, that’s for sure, so it’s nice to get a little bit of acknowledgment my way. It was hard, especially having to look at him and I know I’m already starting to get a crush on my next-door neighbor and I don’t even know who I am anymore.

  “All right, I’m pulling into the visitors’ parking, I’ll see you in a bit.” Max disconnects the phone call, and I keep looking into my kitchen, at the back wall where my oven and dishwasher are situated, where nothing but that wall separates my space from Michael’s space.

  His place was a lot tidier than mine, that’s for sure, and it even smelled fresh, like laundry detergent and lemon cleaner.

  I wonder if he likes candles, too, or if he bakes and cooks a lot on his own, wondering what he gets up to on the other side of that wall.

  Not like I’m going to ask, not like I’m going to place myself inside of his life now that I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that I shouldn’t compete in the next quarterly tournament, having sorted out my finances and figuring out my expenses and realizing that I really don’t spend that much money. Plus, I have a more than comfortable nest egg from working so hard over the past five years.

  I can afford the next three months off, let myself rest so I can come back stronger than ever, my mental acuity coming back to a hundred percent rather than struggling with all the brain fog I’ve been getting lately.

  I buzz Max in when I get the phone call, moving to unlock the door and open it a little, knowing she’s going to be bringing in the alcohol (the sweetest and most delicious Moscato the world has ever seen), and a dry Riesling for the sushi. It’s gonna be great, and I’m excited for our night to start.

  I hear a conversation outside the door, and I go to investigate, which I usually don’t do, but I’m starving and Max is taking her sweet, sweet time and really, it’s just plain rude now.