The Guy Who Lives Next Door

“Mom, seriously… do we have to move?” My voice cracked somewhere between dramatic and desperate as I stared out the passenger window at the blur of New York City passing by. Cars honked like it was a competitive sport, people marched across crosswalks like an army, and the buildings—oh, the buildings—looked like they were competing for who could touch the sky first. Mom sighed, the kind of sigh that said yes, we’ve had this conversation a hundred times and yes, we’re about to have it again. “Ruby, we talked about this. I didn’t have a choice. The hospital transferred me. Better pay, better hours—” “Better hours for who?” I muttered. “Not me. I’m the one being ripped away from my entire life.” Mom shot me a look. You know, the classic please don’t start mom-look. “I know it’s hard,” she said, softer this time. “But this could be good for us. A fresh start.” I pressed my forehead against the cool window. Fresh start. Right. The phrase sounded like those motivational posters in counselors’ offices. The ones with the sunset that’s supposed to make you feel grateful and peaceful but actually makes you want to scream. “I didn’t ask for a fresh start,” I grumbled. Mom didn’t reply, and the silence filled the car, heavy and awkward, mixing with the noise of the city. The GPS announced, “Turn left in two hundred feet,” and Mom tightened her grip on the steering wheel as we moved deeper into the residential neighborhood. And instantly, my mood dropped even lower. The houses got nice. Like… really nice. No, not houses—brownstone mansions. Elegant architecture, giant windows, flower boxes, neatly trimmed hedges, and even fancier cars parked in driveways. I blinked at the scenery. “Wait… this is where we live now?” “Yes,” Mom said, trying not to sound proud but failing. “This neighborhood costs money,” I said, giving her a suspicious side-eye. She laughed. “Relax. The hospital provided us with a housing discount. And I got a raise, remember?” I looked out again, still surprised. The street looked like one of those places where rich teenagers walked tiny designer dogs and drank iced matcha while pretending they weren’t rich. Definitely not like our old town. We reached a quiet street lined with brownstones that looked straight out of a magazine. Mom pulled up to one of the smaller ones—still beautiful, still too fancy for my comfort. A moving truck was already parked outside. Mom placed her hand over mine. “Hey. We’ll make this place feel like home. I promise.” I nodded even though I wasn’t convinced. As soon as we stepped out of the car, humidity hit me like a wall, and a rhythmic thumping sound drifted from the other side of the hedge. Music. Loud, bass-heavy, headache-inducing music. At two in the afternoon. I frowned and turned toward the noise, and that’s when I saw it. The house next door. Calling it a house was… generous. It was a three-story mansion with black window frames, a stone walkway, a manicured lawn, and a balcony on each level. And from the top balcony, colored lights flickered even in the daylight. Oh no. No, no, no. A guy leaned against the balcony railing, laughing with a group of friends. I couldn’t see his face clearly yet, but I didn’t need to. The loud speakers blasting music at full volume told me everything I needed to know: annoying rich boy. Probably popular. Probably spoiled. Probably thinks he runs the whole neighborhood. A bad sign. A very bad sign. Mom followed my gaze and winced. “Oh. They must be having a… gathering.” “A party? At two in the afternoon?” I said. “Who even does that?” Mom didn’t answer, which obviously meant she agreed with me but didn’t want to say it. I dragged my suitcase up the steps to our new brownstone, trying to pretend the music next door wasn’t vibrating through my spine. As Mom unlocked the door, a loud cheer erupted from the balcony. I groaned. “Great. Noise pollution. Perfect neighbor.” Mom smoothed my hair, ignoring the loud WOOO! from next door. “You’ll be too busy with school to worry about parties.” “Yeah,” I muttered, “unless they go all night.” Mom opened the door, and I stepped inside. The interior was bright and modern. Hardwood floors, soft gray walls, sunlight pouring through big windows. It smelled like new paint and possibility. Okay… I could admit it. The place was nice. The living room had built-in shelves, the kitchen had shiny appliances, and even the staircase curved dramatically like something from a movie. “Wow,” I whispered. “It’s actually… beautiful.” Mom beamed. “See? Not so bad.” I gave her a half-smile. “The house is fine. The neighbor is the problem.” As if on cue, the music next door grew louder. Mom and I exchanged the same exact expression—annoyance mixed with resignation. “Let’s just get the boxes inside,” she said. We spent the next hour carrying boxes up and down stairs, unpacking basics, and arguing about where the couch should go. But even with the noise outside, I felt something shifting inside me. A mix of fear and hope. Mostly fear. By late afternoon, I stepped outside to grab another box and froze. A sleek black car—some fancy model I couldn’t name—was parked across our driveway. Blocking us. Completely. I stared at it. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered. Mom came out behind me and groaned. “Whose car is that?” And then I saw him. The balcony boy. He walked out the front door of the mansion next door, sunlight striking his dark hair perfectly, like he woke up with his own lighting team. He wore ripped black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a necklace that sparkled when he moved. He was tall. Athletic. Ridiculously attractive in a teenage heartthrob way. But his expression? Annoyed. Entitled. Distracted. He didn’t even look at us. He just strutted to the car, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. I took a deep breath, marched toward him, and tapped on the window before he could start the engine. He turned, slowly, like it physically pained him to acknowledge another human being. His eyes met mine—bright, sharp, and… bored? He pulled off his sunglasses, and I nearly choked. He was stupidly handsome. Like annoyingly, unfairly handsome. The kind of handsome that made girls act like they lost brain cells. Not me, though. I stood my ground. “Uh, hi. You’re blocking our driveway.” He looked at me like I had just interrupted a very important photoshoot. Then he glanced lazily at the driveway, shrugged, and said, “Oh. My bad.” No apology. No actual movement. He wasn’t getting out of the car. Was he serious? “Can you move it?” I pressed. He blinked. Slowly. “Sure.” Still didn’t move. I stared at him. He stared back. “Now?” I snapped. His smirk spread—slow, smooth, infuriating. “Yeah. Now.” Finally, he turned on the engine and reversed just enough for us to pass. Barely enough. Then he smirked at me again before driving off. I stood there, fists clenched. “What a jerk,” I muttered. Mom exhaled dramatically. “Let’s hope we won’t have to deal with him often.” But as I watched his car disappear down the street, something inside me whispered the truth: We’d be dealing with him a lot. And somehow… this was only the beginning.