After a few minutes, a cart pulled up next to mine and I heard, “I think this belongs to you, even though it looks like a twelve-year-old picked out the food.”
He was melting my soul with a wide million-watt smile.
“Yeah, um, sorry,” I croaked.
He laughed, “What are you sorry for? I upset you with a stupid comment and then ran off with your cart by mistake. Forgive me for both?”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Well, it’s been a slice. I’ll see you around.”
I froze, I couldn’t answer him. All I could think was I was blowing it again. Then he stopped and walked back.
“You know, I’m sorry about the twelve-year-old crack too. I’m in kind of a bad mood today. Please don’t hold it against me.”
I nodded, he smiled and walked away.
I couldn’t believe I met him twice and said all of one complete sentence. I watched him as he checked out three lanes over. He looked so confident, so sexy, as he talked to the check out guy. Then his countenance changed as he walked away out of the store. His posture slumped and his face wore a look of sadness. It was as if he was putting on a false front when he talked to people.
Later that night, I pulled my chicken out of the oven, and when I put it on the plate I saw the note on my counter. I got angry again and then I heard it. He started playing, but it wasn’t the same song. He was playing loudly as if he were banging on the keys. It was some fast Classical sounding thing and I assumed he was showing off to me and then he broke into something familiar. I listened and realized it was an old Alanis Morrissette song, “You Oughta Know.” I felt the anger in his playing.
I sighed at his obvious issues and began to eat my dinner. The music suddenly stopped and then he started playing the same old thing again. I growled and shouted, “Grow up!”
***
I stopped at the coffee shop the next morning and ordered my usual large Mocha Latte. While I was waiting, I heard his voice. “I keep bumping into you.”
I turned and he was there smiling. I lit up in a smile, determined to not blow it again, and said, “Yeah, hi. I’m Teagan.”
He offered his hand, “Smith. Nice to officially meet you, Teagan.”
I pulled out my card, wrote my cell number on the back and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, which made me think he was stupid.
“My phone number, dummy.”
He looked at it as if it were on fire. “I, um, I don’t really date, Teagan.”
He looked like a lost puppy. I smirked and said, “Who asked you on a date? I just gave you my number. You do talk to people don’t you?”
His false front fell, and I saw the hurt in his eyes. “Not really, no.”
My name was called for my order pick up. I turned to grab it and when I turned back he was gone.
“Smith,” the barista called. “Smith?” Nothing. She called again, “Smith?”
I looked around and he wasn’t there. I guessed I scared him off. I realized he must still hurting from whatever that bitch Lindsay Taylor did to him. I only hoped he’d call, and then I realized how silly I was being.
I passed a music store everyday on the way to and from work. On my way home that night, I decided to mess with my jerk neighbor a bit more, so I stopped in there and was looking through the songbooks when I saw my favorite Lindsay Taylor album’s songbook. “Maybe he’ll learn some good happy love songs to play,” I thought. I also thought about the songs being written by Smith and hoped buying that book benefitted him in some small way.
***
I shoved the thin book through his mail slot and walked into my garage. The garage door barely closed before there was a banging on my door. I took a deep breath and looked out the peep hole. He was turned and faced the street so all I could see was his back. I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t see a shotgun or a baseball bat, so I figured I wasn’t about to be killed. I decided to open the door and take my medicine. If nothing else, I could beg him to stop playing that song.
I swung the door open and as soon as he realized it he spun and shouted, “I told you, I know a million songs…”
I screamed and slammed the door shut. It was Smith sweet baby Jesus Carlisle. I leaned back against the door and wanted to cry. Then there was a softer knock, and I heard, “Teagan, I’m sorry.”
I looked through the peephole and he looked miserable. His eyes were puffy as if he was fighting back tears. I sighed and opened the door.
“I’m sorry Teagan. I have no excuse, I just…”
“Come on in,” I said and turned leaving him on my doorstep.
I walked into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of the wine I bought and poured two glasses.
I heard my door close and footsteps in the great room. I walked around my kitchen wall and silently extended the glass of wine towards him.
I said, “I figure there’s a story here somewhere and you might need this.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t the mega-watt smile I loved. It was sad. He also had the depressed posture on, rather than the confident one.