The Guy Next Door

Chapter 7

7

LEIF

C onsidering how much he surprised me in our first encounter, it’s nice to surprise him for a change. Is it terrible that I think he’s adorable when he’s all awkward and uncomfortable, which seems even more the case now that we’re sitting so close? Since I mentioned having more questions for him, he’s started digging his thumbnail into the side of his opposite hand. Am I wicked to leave him hanging for a bit longer?

But I go easy on him to start. “What sort of work do you do? To pay to rent this place…your car…your security system around my parents’ place?”

“Oh.” He chuckles. Clearly, that wasn’t what he figured I’d ask.

“I freelance online, mostly IT-type gigs—anything to do with coding or SEO, I’m pretty good at those. It’s not a lot of money, but I get by. And it lets me choose my hours.”

“That must make watching me easier,” I tease, and his gaze narrows like he’s wondering how I can joke about that.

Although, feels like that’s the only way to get through any of this.

“Did you go to college?” I ask. “Are you in college?”

He shakes his head. “No. I would like to at some point, but I’ve been able to get work just fine without it.”

He keeps it short and to the point; he’s not making this any easier than when I was trying to figure out what the hell he was doing in the house.

I try another question. “Where did you learn how to use a gun?”

“My dad taught Mike and me.”

Again, it’s a short reply. Makes me worry that this line of questioning isn’t going anywhere, but worst he can do is be as cryptic about everything. “The other night, when you mentioned you knew I’d been in a psych unit, you said you understood, but I was so hung up on not going there, I never asked what you meant.”

“I knew she’d fucking blab,” he says through his teeth. He pushes his hands against the table as he gets up, like all he wants is to get the hell away from this conversation, and instinctually, I reach out and take him by his wrist, which makes him freeze in place.

His skin’s so soft. So warm.

His gaze shifts to my hand, then meets mine again.

Did I make a mistake? God, what if he doesn’t like being touched?

I immediately release him. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, a smile tugging across his face. “Just…nothing.”

One second he’s frustrated, maybe even pissed, and now he’s smiling. I can never get a read on this guy.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll understand,” I say, hoping to set him at ease, and he sits back in his chair.

“What’s there to talk about if she already told you?”

I figure the best thing to do is be honest with him. “She didn’t tell me specifics, but she brought it up when she warned me to stay away from you.”

“Maybe you should listen to her.”

“Should I?”

He’s quiet, like he’s thinking it over.

“You made it sound like my time in the psych unit wasn’t a big deal,” I add, “so why don’t you want to talk about this with me?”

“It’s easy to say about someone else’s shit, isn’t it?”

His gaze settles on the table as he seems to struggle with the thought of sharing with me. I’m racking my brain, trying to think of a way to get him to open up, and fuck it, I go for it. “Freshman year of college, I was staying at the dorms at Georgia State. I’d never had any major issues. Life was pretty chill. Supportive parents and friends. Good grades throughout high school. Felt like I was gonna get my bachelor’s in culinary arts, hopefully work as a chef, and get on with a pretty normal life. Then all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, something shifted in me. I shut down. Started sleeping all day. Not going to class. Telling my friends I was busy. Calling in sick to work. I’ve never had anything like that happen before. Mom and Dad would call, and I’d act like everything was all right. Lie to them about attending class because I didn’t want them to know something was wrong. And then more days went by.”

Zane wears a sympathetic expression as he listens. And despite the tension that knots in my chest, there’s something nice about having someone to share this with.

“On one level,” I go on, “I knew I was gonna fail my classes if I didn’t go, but it was hard enough to go out just to get food. It was like being a zombie, walking around to exist but not feeling anything. The next thing I know, I’m having thoughts about jumping out of the window in my room. Somehow that got me on a website where I could chat with someone. And I can’t even remember what I said, but it was apparently enough for them to call the cops. They showed up and took me to the hospital.”

Zane reaches for me but stops himself. “I’m sorry you went through that.”

“I assumed something like that would only happen if I had some fucked-up trauma, but this was out of the blue…and so fucking heavy.”

His hand slides across the tabletop, even closer. I wish he would take my hand, but why would he? We’re fucking strangers. Maybe not strangers, but he definitely doesn’t know me well enough for that.

“How has it been since?” he presses in a gentle voice.

“After the hold, I stayed with Mom and Dad and worked with a therapist and psychiatrist to get my head on straight. Zoloft wasn’t much help. That still felt like a fog. Then Lexapro was better, and for the first time, the fog lifted, but it didn’t magically make everything go back to the way it was. I’m still not that person I was before…whatever the hell happened in my head. I don’t know that I ever will be again.”

When I decided to share this, I figured it was to get him to talk, but after going further than I thought I would, I’m wondering if some part of me wanted to share that with someone other than a therapist. Whatever my motive, there was something cathartic about getting it out, and the sympathy in his expression soothing.

Maybe I told him for the same reason I came over here today. Because whatever he’s been through, maybe he understands what I’m talking about.

His hand rests on the table, halfway between us. If he won’t take my hand, I could take his. Tell him that, whatever his shit is, I’m not gonna judge him. But after how he reacted to me taking his wrist, I’m not gonna risk it.

“Thank you for sharing that,” he finally says. “It’s a wicked thing when a mind turns on itself, isn’t it?”

His remark speaks to what I already knew: that he would understand.

“I guess it’s my turn now,” he goes on.

“You don’t have to share anything you’re uncomfortable with. I just thought it might make it easier.”

“I’m worried the moment I say it, you won’t believe any of this other stuff. Then I’m like, fuck it, you probably already don’t believe me. But I know that whole back-and-forth in my head is covering up the fact that I really don’t want to share that stuff with anyone.” He takes a breath, his gaze shifting about as he seems to grapple with this internal struggle.

I wish he knew how much I understood.

“Maybe a different question,” I say.

“No.” That comes out harsh. Given how compassionate he’s been throughout our conversation, it takes me by surprise. “It’s not fair to put you through all this and then keep it from you.” He takes another breath, a final moment to sit with his secret.

“Bipolar I,” he says, almost a whisper through his teeth, like it was a strain to share. “Mine manifests as manic episodes with a healthy dose of psychosis. I’d always had issues with my moods, but it got much worse when I got out on my own. Particularly paranoia. I take a mood stabilizer and an antipsychotic to regulate. Mike had his shit too. He was studying psych at WCC because he wanted to help people who dealt with the same shit. That’s the kind of guy he was.”

I can hear his admiration in the way he speaks about his brother…as well as the pain of his loss.

“Not sure if Roth mentioned it,” he goes on, “but after my bro disappeared, I started slipping with taking my meds. Just distracted, and then that turned into me telling myself I was fine now and didn’t need them. And that was a mistake. I made a huge mistake.”

“She mentioned one of Mike’s professors…”

He shakes his head. “No, he’s a professor at the school Mike attends, but not his professor. When he went missing, his landlord told me he needed the rent money, which I could cover for a month, and he let me in to search his things. I was hoping to find some explanation. Mike kept a planner, and he mentioned ‘Meet with Tolle’ twice the month before he disappeared, once on a Tuesday and once on a Thursday. No time on it. Just that note. When I was trying to make sense of it, I discovered that one of the professors in the English department at WCC was named Isaac Tolle. I mentioned this to Roth, who asked him if he knew my brother. He claimed he was helping him with some essays.”

He huffs. “My brother never needed any help with an essay. I know that sounds like a wild claim, but I fucking knew him. He was the reader and writer in the family. He’s the one who helped me with my essays growing up. I got the science and math, and he got that. That’s the way it was, so that was a red flag for me. I showed Roth his transcripts, how he didn’t need any help there, but Roth didn’t think much of it.” He eyes me suspiciously. “You don’t buy that either. I get that it might not make sense to someone who didn’t know Mike, but I know with everything in me that he was the kind of guy who figured out shit on his own. Just like me. That’s part of how we grew up. So even if he had been struggling, he wouldn’t have found someone…and for this, definitely not.”

“I wasn’t doubting it,” I assure him. “I’m just listening.”

His expression relaxes. “Yeah. Sorry. I was remembering how Roth pushed back when I told her that was my reason for being suspicious. Was frustrating trying to explain Mike to someone who’d never met him. But after that, long story short, I had some experiences that led me to think he could have been involved with my bro’s disappearance. And since I wasn’t taking my meds, it got bad. Even thought I was seeing the guy around town. Like total strangers would look like him for fractions of a second. I convinced myself I was right. But I didn’t have enough to convince Roth, so as I figure she probably already told you, I made up this blog to make it look like Tolle was obsessed with Mike. I wrote journal entries about my brother, as though I were Tolle. I even borrowed pieces of his profile and website to make it seem legit. I found this quote: ‘I think the devil doesn’t exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.’ It’s from the author of Crime and Punishment . I don’t remember his name, something Russian…”

It’s Dostoevsky, but I don’t want to interrupt him.

“I know it’s fucked up,” he says, “but I was so fucking manic, it seemed like the right thing to do, and you know, part of being manic is some ideas you’d know are total crap when you’re fine seem real fucking brilliant. I thought I’d cracked the code. They’d look into it and find my brother…or find out what happened to him, at least.”

I know what he means. To find out if his brother was murdered. I can’t imagine what it must be like for him to even express that…to have to entertain the possibility.

“Then maybe I could have some peace of mind,” he adds. “Not sure that’s true, but it’s what my fucked-up brain convinced me of.”

Even without his confession, since I spoke with Detective Roth, there’s been plenty of doubt in my mind. But now that he’s shared the truth with me, I can see why that’s not something he could’ve led with when trying to convince me I was in danger. Although, I have to keep in mind that, regardless of my doubt, someone did break into my parents’ house that night.

A coincidence? Possibly.

Or as Detective Roth suggested, someone Zane hired to cause a stir and persuade them to reopen the investigation? I’m not buying it.

Zane closes his eyes. “And now you don’t believe any of this shit, do you?”

“Would it be difficult for you to understand why I have doubts?”

“Yeah. I think there’d be something really wrong with you if you just took my word for it.”

It’s a relief to hear him say that—assures me he’s at least being reasonable. We’re quiet for a few moments as I process everything he shared.

Doing that a lot lately…

Finally, he asks, “What are you thinking?”

“A lot of things.”

“I’m on my meds now,” he tells me, as if to keep me from worrying. “I’m not going to let that happen again.”

I gaze into those steel-blue eyes. Is it strange to trust this guy? Even when I don’t really know him?

There’s something else there too. I like looking at his eyes.

“It’s still on the table, though.” I’m not sure what he’s referring to until he goes on, “Say the word, and I’ll be gone.”

If this is all a delusion he’s suffering from, it’s because he’s grieving the loss of his brother. And if he wants the cops to take him seriously, it might be shitty to be using me, but I’d actually get that too.

The way he looks at me, I can tell he’s waiting for me to tell him to get lost.

Maybe that’s what I should say, but instead I say, “I don’t really know what to think, but I’d rather you stay for now, and we play it by ear.”

His expression relaxes and he takes a breath, like he’s been holding it until my response.

“Thank you, Leif. I know you’re in a real spot here.”

“It’s okay. I’m becoming increasingly intrigued by you.”

That seems to catch his attention, and I notice him glancing at my mouth in that way that reminds me of how he looked when he first came to chat with me.

When he called me very attractive .

“Anything else you wanted to ask me about?”

I wonder if I should go there, but it might lighten the mood, so I just go for it. “You’ve made some comments in the short time we’ve known each other…about me being attractive, and then the way you look at me, you have this very determined expression on your face.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Do you need me to make it one to give me an explanation?”

He smirks, and for the first time in this whole fucked-up mess, his fair cheeks pinken.

God, he’s cute when he blushes.

Where the hell did that thought come from?

“I’m queer—gay,” he explains. “And you’re a very attractive guy, Leif…obviously, since that’s what I said.”

A pulse of excitement radiates through me. What is happening?

I’ve never been into guys. I’ve jerked off once or twice thinking about Timothée Chalamet, but that taste never translated into real life. And I imagine plenty of other straight guys have jerked off thinking about Chalamet.

But as Zane looks at me and tells me he finds me attractive, I’m…curious.

Maybe this is some kind of wild trauma response to how we first met that I’m mistaking for something else.

“Don’t worry, Leif. I know you’re straight. I’ve seen all the photos of your exes on Insta and Facebook, so I’m not creeping on you. And I can keep it professional when I’m watching you. Though sometimes that can be difficult, honestly. I mean, you’re pretty hot, and that ass…”

This eagerness in me pulses up once again, but he stops there.

Why does his mention of my ass make my cock shift in my pants?

“What do you like about my ass?” I press.

He stares at me, licks his lips. He hesitates before saying, “It’s firm. Notice it when you jog, how it jiggles. I imagine if I could…” He stops himself but licks his lips again. And I don’t know why my cock is so damn hard over that.

“Well, there it fucking is,” he adds. “Guess you really don’t want me being the one to watch you now.”

“I didn’t say that.”

His head jerks as he does a double take—maybe he’s as surprised by my response as I am. Or the way I can’t take my eyes off him.

His eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. As I said, you intrigue me, Zane.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “If after all that you aren’t telling me to fuck off, then I guess I’m not the only one who’s fucked up.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been determining in this conversation? That we’re both a little fucked up?”

His smirk spreads into a smile, and damn, he’s got a gorgeous smile.

I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve been curious about the guy since I first met him…since he first made weird comments about me being attractive, but now that he’s laid everything out on the table, I’m starting to realize it’s not only this complicated shit that brought him here that interests me.

What the fuck are you doing to me, Zane Grayson?