Kristan Higgins - Too Good to Be True

There was no answer to my feeble knock. I imagined what I most wanted to happen. That he’d open the door, and some soft music—let’s make it South American guitar, shall we?—would drift out. My neighbor’s face, which will sport only the slightest bruise under one eye, barely noticeable, will light in recognition. “Oh, hey, my neighbor!” he’ll exclaim with a grin. I’ll apologize, he’ll laugh it off. The scent of roasting chicken and garlic will waft out. “Would you like to come in?” I’ll agree, apologizing once more for my unfortunate mistake, which he’ll simply wave off. “It could happen to anyone,” he’ll say. We’ll chat, immediately comfortable with each other. He’ll mention that he loves dogs, even hyperactive terriers with behavior issues. A glass of wine will be poured for the lovely girl next door.

See? In my mind, this guy and I were well on the way to becoming great friends, quite possibly more. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be home right now, so he remained unaware of this pleasant fact.

I knocked again, albeit quietly, because I actually felt a little relieved that I didn’t have to see him, pleasant fantasies aside. Setting my offerings in front of the door, I eased back down the rotting steps.

Now that I knew he wasn’t home, I took a better look around. The streetlight gave an eerie, peachy glow to the yard. I’d never been over here before, but obviously, I’d wondered about the house. It had been neglected for a while… roof tiles were missing, and plastic covered an upstairs window. The latticework under the porch gapped like a mouthful of missing teeth.

It was a beautiful, soft night. The damp smell of distant rain filled the air, mixing with the coppery smell of the river, and far away, the song of springtime peepers graced the night. This house could be really charming, I thought, if someone restored it. Maybe my neighbor was here to do that very thing. Maybe it would become a gem.

The crumbling cement path that led from the street continued around the side of the house. No sign of the guy. However, a rake lay right across the walkway. Someone could trip over that, I thought. Trip, fall, hit head on the concrete birdbath just a few feet away, lie bleeding in the grass… Hadn’t he suffered enough?

I went over and picked it up. See? Already being a great neighbor.

“Are these from you?”

The voice so startled me that I whirled around. Unfortunately, I was still holding the rake in my hand. Even more unfortunately, the wooden handle caught him right along the side of his face. He staggered back, stunned, the bottle of wine I’d just left at his door slipping from his grasp and shattering on the path with a crash. The scent of merlot drifted up around us, canceling out the smells of spring.

“Oops,” I said in a strangled voice.

“Jesus Christ, lady,” my new neighbor cursed, rubbing his cheek. “What is your problem?”

I winced as I looked him in the face. His eye was still swollen, and even in the dim light, I could see the bruise. Pretty damn impressive.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he bit out.

“Uh, well… Welcome to the neighborhood,” I squeaked. “Um… Are you… are you okay?”

“No, as a matter of fact.”

“Do you need some ice?” I asked, taking a step toward him.

“No.” He took a defensive step back.

“Look,” I said, “I’m so, so sorry. I just came over to… well, to say I’m sorry.” The irony of further wounding him while on a mission of mercy hit me, and I gave a nervous laugh, sounding remarkably like Angus when he vomited up grass.

The man said nothing, merely glared, and I found myself thinking that the beat-up look was kind of… hot. He was wearing jeans and a light-colored T-shirt, and, yes, he had very nice arms. Big, powerful, thick muscles, not the overly defined, ripped kind that smacked of too many hours at a heavily mirrored gym. No. These were blue-collar arms. Iron-worker arms. Man-who-can-fix-car arms. An image of Russell Crowe in L.A. Confidential flashed to mind. Remember when he’s sitting in the backseat at the very end of the movie, and his jaw is wired shut and he can’t talk? I found that very horny.

I swallowed again. “Hi. I’m Grace,” I said, trying to start over. “I wanted to apologize about… last night. I’m so sorry. And of course, I’m sorry again, for all this. Very sorry.” I glanced down at his feet, which were bare. “I think you’re bleeding. You might’ve stepped in glass.”

He looked down, then turned an impassive gaze to me. Call me paranoid, but he looked quite disgusted.

That was all it took. Bruised, bleeding, smelling like a wino, and the pièce de résistance, disgust. I was undeniably attracted to this guy. Heat rose to my cheeks, making me glad for the dim light.

“Well,” I said slowly. “Listen. I’m really sorry. It looked like you were breaking in… that’s all.”

“Maybe you should be sober the next time you call the police,” he returned.

My mouth fell open. “I was! I was sober.” I paused. “Mostly.”

“Your hair was all wild, you smelled like gin, and you hit me in the face with a walking stick. Does that sound mostly sober to you?”

Sweat broke out on my back. “It was a field hockey stick, actually, and my hair is always like that. As you can see.”

He rolled his eyes. Well, the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Apparently that movement hurt, because he winced.

“It’s just…you looked suspicious, that’s all. I wasn’t drunk. Buzzed, maybe, okay. A tiny bit, yes.” I swallowed. “But it was past midnight, and you definitely didn’t have a key, did you? So… you know. It looked suspicious. That’s all. I’m sorry you spent the night in jail. Very, very sorry.”

“Fine,” he grunted.

Okay, well, that wasn’t exactly as nice as my wine-drinking, South American guitar fantasy, but it was something. “So,” I said, determined that we would part on good terms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it,” he said, crossing his arms and staring.

Sweet. “Okay. Nice meeting you, whatever your name is. Have a good night.” He still said nothing. Very carefully, I put the rake down, forced a smile, walked past the shards of broken glass, past him, painfully aware of my every move. The walk home, though it was only a matter of yards, felt very long. I should’ve cut through the yard, but there was the question of the long, snake-concealing grass.

He didn’t say another word, and from the corner of my eye, I could see that he hadn’t moved, either. Fine. He wasn’t friendly. I wouldn’t invite him to the neighborhood picnic in June. So there.

For a second, I imagined telling Andrew about this. Andrew, whose sharp sense of humor had always made me laugh, would’ve howled over this apology gone wrong. But no. Andrew didn’t get to hear my stories anymore. To quash the Andrew image, I instead summoned to mind Wyatt Dunn. Gentle, dark-haired Wyatt, who’d have to possess a lovely sense of humor and kind, kind heart, being a children’s doctor and all.

Just as had been true in the old days of my painful adolescence, the imaginary boyfriend took away some of the sting imparted by the surly neighbor whose head I’d just bruised for the second time.

And while I knew all too well that Wyatt Dunn was a fake, I also knew that someday I was going to find someone wonderful. Hopefully. Probably. Someone better than Andrew, possibly better looking than my grouchy neighbor, and just as great as Wyatt, and just thinking about this made me feel a little more chipper.

ANDREW AND I HAD MET at Gettysburg—well, the reenactment of the battle here in fair Connecticut. He was assigned to be a nameless Confederate soldier, instructed to shout, “May God condemn this War of Northern Aggression!” then fall dead in the first cannon barrage. I was Colonel Buford, quiet hero of Gettysburg’s first day, and my dad was General Meade. It was the biggest reenactment in three states, and there were hundreds of us (don’t be so surprised, these things are very popular). That year, I was the secretary of Brother Against Brother, and before the battle, I’d been running around with a clipboard, making sure everyone was ready. Apparently, I was adorable… at least, that’s what I was told later by one Andrew Chase Carson.