One Hot Night with My Brother’s Bestie

Payton A RED AND GOLD LEAF FLOATS ACROSS THE ROOM, SEEMINGLY WEIGHTLESS, BEFORE SETTLING ONTO the carpet between my spot on the couch and the TV. I glance at my open patio door where another gust of wind brings the scent of promised rain, but instead of getting up, I tuck my legs underneath me and pull my fleece blanket up to my chin, careful not to tip the bowl of popcorn resting on the cushion next to me. A storm is coming. You spoiled brat, I’m gonna teach you… I snuggle further into the corner of my couch. That was so long ago, I remind myself, inhaling deeply through my nose, willing new memories to replace the old. This is my home. I’m safe here. The low rumble of distant thunder calms me further. No matter how much they tried to beat it out of me, I never lost my love of violent weather. I never understood why I was supposed to be scared of storms. Didn’t understand why it made me different, or wrong, or stupid––like they claimed. It wasn’t the violence I craved, it was the change. The washing away. The cleansing. That smallest sliver of hope that a wave might crash through, dragging away the old, leaving something new. And maybe that’s why I still like them. There’s still that spot in my chest, deep inside of me, that wants to be sucked up into the sky, whisked away from it all, and dropped into Oz. As if summoned by the wind, the woman on screen opens her front door and the world around her morphs from black and white to color, and I let the familiar sense of nostalgia wash over me. The sounds of the nearing storm keep filtering in and out of my awareness, even as I sway my head to the familiar songs. My hand is halfway to my mouth, popcorn between my fingers, when the dull noise of groaning metal drags my gaze to the patio, the sliding glass door open wide. The gauzy curtains I installed last year are flowing eerily with the breeze, but the streetlamp outside is burnt out, so I can’t see beyond my tiny balcony. I’ve never really trusted that balcony, it’s as shabby as the rest of this building. But I figured it’d take more than a little inclement weather to knock it down. I give myself a mental gold star for never bothering with furniture out there as I lick the salt off my fingers. Another roll of thunder, closer this time, draws my attention back to the balcony. And the man standing in my open door. CHAPTER 2 Payton A SCREAM CATCHES IN MY THROAT, TOO STRANGLED TO BE HEARD. I’m dreaming. My eyes squeeze shut, and I force myself to breathe. I must be dreaming. But when I open them again, the man is still there. And coming closer. The man crosses half of my apartment in two long strides, putting him only feet away. Adrenaline courses through my body, yet I don’t move. To my own humiliation, I don’t do anything. There’s a man in my home. Aside from the television, the lamp in the corner is the only light on. And it does little to illuminate the man in front of me. He’s tall. I’m sitting but I can tell he’s tall. And… he’s wearing a suit. Why is he wearing a suit? Does that make this worse? “Evening.” His voice is deep. But gentle. Soft even. And my brain doesn’t know how to react. My heart is racing. My hands are shaking. But the rest of me doesn’t move. “You know,” he says, as he takes a few slow steps, crossing in front of the TV. “You really shouldn’t leave your door open like that.” My lips part, but my words get jumbled on my tongue and I have to swallow before trying again. “I’m on the second floor,” I whisper, still trying to understand what’s happening. He tilts his head, and it feels like he’s humoring my response, but I can’t focus on that. Because the angle allows the light to fall across his features. And… Dark eyes. Dark brows. Nearly black hair tousled yet styled back, and sharp cheekbones outlined with a trimmed beard in the same shade. I swallow again. He looks like he came from a photoshoot. Or a boardroom. Or a photoshoot of a boardroom. And an inner voice is shouting at me that that should make this even scarier. Should. I also notice that his clothes aren’t wet, which means the rain hasn’t started. And for some reason, that saddens me. Like that detail alone seals my ruin. This is why I’ve always been such a victim. My instincts are broken. My mind always steers away from the important parts. Zeroing in on ridiculous details, and not on a game plan. Keeping his body facing me, the man glances around my apartment. I don’t know a lot about men’s suits, but I’m guessing his clothes cost more than all my belongings put together. My stuff isn’t fancy, and it looks just as cheap as it is. A second hand couch and scuffed coffee table. The small TV on a cheap stand I had to assemble myself with an Allen wrench. My round table with one chair, tucked in the corner. And a thin stretch of island designating the divide between the living room and kitchen. A kitchen that’s more of a kitchenette, complete with laminate counters that are peeling at the edges. I resist the urge to sigh at the sight of my phone sitting on said kitchen counter. Mocking me with the idea of calling the police, knowing I’ll never get the chance. Not that they’ve ever helped me in the past. My single bedroom and bathroom are on the other side of the kitchen, but darkness swallows them. The man makes a noise in the back of his throat as he takes it all in. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Or why I should be so anxious for his approval. Like there’s anything in this sad setting to approve of. Or any benefit if one’s murderer likes their apartment. A police siren wails outside. Then another. And a moment later, I watch the flash of red and blue lights bounce down through the night as cop cars speed past my building. Slowly, I turn my gaze back to the man facing me. He lifts a shoulder, and the edge of his mouth pulls up into a smirk. This man is running from the cops. He’s running from the cops and he’s standing in my living room. Like nothing is amiss. Like he just decided to take a different route home. His body shifts and I think that maybe that’s all this will be. The police have passed by, now he can leave. But he lifts a foot and steps closer. Panic starts to flare brighter inside me, hitting its flash point, when another gust of wind lifts the edge of his suit jacket. Oh god, he has a gun. He doesn’t reach for it though. He just… lowers himself onto the couch. My couch. Beside me. Once again, my mouth opens with nothing coming out. What is he doing? What is happening? “I love this movie,” he says, almost to himself. What. In. The. Hell. Is happening? His large body fills up too much space on the couch. All my furniture is small. Small because my apartment is small. Small because it’s only ever me here. I sit frozen, wondering if I should say something, but he keeps his focus on the tv. Is he… is he just gonna stay here? I start to shift, wondering if I can just get up and slip away. “I’d rather you didn’t get up.” He doesn’t turn his head when he says it, his tone casual. But there’s no hiding the fact that it’s not a request. My breathing picks up, as I remain facing forward. Prickles running up and down my arms. Great, now my animal reaction decides to catch up to the situation. There’s no question that this man is dangerous. And he’s too close.