The stranger's name was Elijah Harris.
He came by in spurts, but he always told Liza when he would return. "Can't make it for the next two days," he had told her once, "but I'll talk to you when I get back, okay?"
When he did stop by, he did so at exactly one o-clock. She'd never asked why, but he'd offered an explanation anyway: "It's perfect, because I'll have already eaten lunch and won't need a snack until at least three."
He did sometimes bring snacks with him; he'd told her that beef jerky and Oreos were his favorite.
It had been two weeks since she'd told him she was listening, and, thus far, that was all she'd been doing.
Sure, she'd make humming noises every now and then to let him know she wasn't "dead back there, window-girl?" But she hadn't truly spoken to him since the moment she'd admitted that he'd caught her attention, meaning he knew nothing about her, including her name.
Meanwhile, Liza knew quite a bit about her new neighbor.
Self-described, he was six-foot-two (when he'd told her, she'd immediately decided that this claimed height was a lie when compared to what she remembered when she'd seen him through the window), "super-ripped and handsome," and in possession of brown eyes and matching hair.
He didn't have any pets or family nearby but had chosen the condo because he was sick of living in an apartment inside the city and wanted the peace and quiet of a more rural location while still having the security of a neighborhood. She didn't know about his chosen occupation, but she knew he had an older brother, father, and stepmother he fondly called "Mom."
He also seemed to think that he and Liza were friends.
"I'm glad I moved in next to someone who's willing to put up with my ranting," he'd told her on the fourth day he visited. "My work-buddy always tells me I talk too much. I guess we make quite a friendship, don't we?" He'd laughed then, and her toes had curled at the deep, happy sound.
She hadn't heard laughter like that—real, true laughter—in so long she'd nearly forgotten what it sounded like.
"I don't even know your name, and you're getting to know everything about me. Ah, well, I'm trusting you, remember? You'd better not be posting all my dirty secrets on your Facebook page."
She hadn't told him that she didn't possess Facebook, nor had she mentioned that none of what he'd told her seemed all that dirty or secret.
Liza was pulled by her memories by the now-familiar knocking on the door. He still knocked three times, but he only did it once rather than repeating the pattern again. "Hey, window-girl," there was a light thudding as he settled against the door.
She wasn't sure, but—when she thought about it—she imagined that he settled with his back to the door, looking out over the scant scenery offered by the bushes and skinny trees that decorated the lawns and lined the street. He probably kept his beef jerky in a bag beside him, and she often thought he dropped his head against the door as well, since she sometimes heard an additional, smaller thud.
Liza scuttled off the couch, dropping down a foot from the door with her knees tucked under her, Milo sitting sentry beside her. He licked at her face, as if to check if she was doing alright, and she stroked her fingers over his snout in a show of thanks for his continued thoughtfulness.
Twisting to the dark oak of the door, she eyed it expectantly, waiting to hear what he would say next.
It was rather surreal, to think that she had been so terrified of Elijah Harris now that she was getting to know him better.
She was still terrified, of course, but now she was terrified by the realization that she was starting to enjoy his company.
"I brought Oreos today," he announced, the crinkling sound of plastic following shortly after. "They're the traditional kind, obviously. Austin says tradition is for whiny bitches—ah, shit, sorry—I mean, uh, pansies." He didn't even seem to realize that he'd cursed when apologizing for cursing, and Liza let a tiny, barely-there smile tug at her lips.
This stranger, who wasn't much of a stranger anymore, she almost . . . well, she almost liked him.
She shook her head to clear it. She couldn't afford to let anyone else unknown into her little world. She hadn't even let Dr. Whitney in, not entirely, and surely if she couldn't let a professional inside, then a random man from the condo next door wouldn't be allowed either.
"Anyway, who cares what Austin thinks, right? He has sucky taste. His last girlfriend was a model, but I swear to god she's the reason that whole stereotype of 'dumb blonde' exists. I shit you not, the woman asked me what she was eating when I had them over for dinner once. Do you know what I served them? Shrimp! She didn't know what shrimp were! After I told her, she asked, 'is it, like, a smaller type of chicken?' I had to complete a damn sudoku puzzle after they left just to bring my IQ back up."
"Who's Austin?"
There was a sudden, gaping silence as they both came to terms with the fact that Liza had spoken.
She was so shocked by her sudden question that she slapped a hand over her mouth, as though the action would somehow return the words to the dark cavern they had stemmed from.
Before she could panic, Elijah was swooping in to reply. "He's my work-buddy. Partner, I guess. Co-captain, if you will. If we've known each other for ages—since high school."
"Co-captain?"
Oh, God, like a ship or a . . .
A plane?
Her heart squeezed in her chest, and she grabbed the back of Milo's coat to remind herself that she was safely inside her condo, and not thousands of feet in the air where a single man's idiotic decision could end in catastrophe.
"Sure, we're partners in crime. I don't like to work without him; I don't trust the other guys, as mean as you might think that is."
"I don't think it's mean," she offered, and she truly meant that.
After all, Liza was well-acquainted with the dangers of putting trust into someone who shattered it into a million pieces, scattered across the dirty and debris like glass, decorated in blood and guts and—
Stop it.
Wait.
Okay, try again.
"Thanks, window-girl," Elijah said. "Glad you've got my back. Do you agree about the Oreos, too? Then I can tell Austin that—"
"No!" she shrieked before she could stop herself, cringing away from the door as though it had been the one to emit the horrible noise.
There was another pause, before Elijah soothed her with the words, "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. Don't worry, our friendship can be our little secret, okay?"
She swallowed down her emotions and croaked, "Okay. Sorry."
"You don't need to be sorry." It was amazing how his voice had changed, going from the light, happy tone she'd grown familiar with to something much sweeter and softer. "I understand. I don't think I want to tell Austin about you, anyway. I like having this special relationship. Say, I've never offered, but are you interested in an Oreo or two?"
Liza passed Milo a smile, since she couldn't give it to Elijah.
"That's okay."
"Well, alright, but one day you're going to have to eat one with me. Do you like Oreos?"
"Yes."
"That's good, then, we can still be friends," he chuckled. "My brother hates Oreos."
"How come?"
Another chuckle. "You're a bit of a Nosy Nancy, you know that? Lucky for you, I like to answer questions, especially when they come from such a cute sleuth. He says they taste fake, which is stupid, because they're Oreos. They're not supposed to taste like anything other than Oreos. It's probably because he's a professional chef; he's a bit snotty about food."
"A chef?"
"Yes, ma'am. He's alright, I guess." He dropped his voice rather comically. "He's actually fantastic, but I'm his younger brother, so he can't know I said that." His volume rose once more as he continued, "He works at a casino in Vegas right now. I don't remember the name, but it's pretty damn posh. He throws out gold flakes and truffle bits like they're substitutes for rainwater or some shit."
Liza blinked wide eyes at Milo. "Fancy," she murmured.
Elijah must have heard her, because he laughed again and agreed. "Yeah, he told me I could stay there on his dime once, but I'm way too 'normal' for a place like that. Maybe someday, when I wake up in silk pajamas and feel like a millionaire."
She nodded silently, but she was distracted. Her heart was pounding in her chest, but it wasn't like the normal, panicked thud-thud-thud. Instead, it was an unfamiliar slam-skip-slam.
She liked Elijah Harris. He was funny and nice and didn't push her. He sat outside her heavy oak door and never once asked to enter her safe haven. He didn't question why she talked so little about herself and was horrified at the mention of meeting his friends.
He was a wonderful person, and her throat grew dry.
There had to be something about him that would turn her off. Surely, surely there was some piece of information that would serve to remind her that, at their core, people were all the same: Decorated with fake exteriors that hid selfish interiors and ulterior motives.
"What do you do for a living?" She asked finally.
"Nosy Nancy seems appropriate for you," he teased. "I think you ask more questions than my stepmother, and that woman once solved a mystery that even the cops couldn't figure out."
"What mystery?"
"Who stole Mr. Greg's pocket watch. The police were questioning all the kids in the neighborhood, but it turns out Mr. Greg's Great Dane thought it was a treat. Mom told Mr. Greg that no kid in their right mind would look at that watch and find value, took one look at his dog, and asked, 'when was the last time Patches took a poo?'" He chuckled at the memory. "Anyway, Mr. Greg said the dog was constipated, so Mom told him and the cops—two were in Mr. Greg's house when she went over, of course—to, 'get that dog an enema and wash that damned watch when it comes out.'"
She smiled, titling her head back against the oak door and staring up at the ceiling.
Yes, something had to be wrong with him.
He seemed far too wonderful to be real.
"Did it come out?"
"Oh, sure. Mr. Greg even brought Mom a pie to show his gratitude for her help, but she didn't eat any of it."
"Well, why not?"
She could practically feel his childlike energy through the slab of wood separating them. "It was Mississippi mud. Mom said she didn't want to take a bite, find the pocket watch, and be that lady from The Help."
Liza laughed at that. "Your mom sounds nice."
"Well, damn, doll, what about me?"
Doll.
She liked that, and she hated that she liked it.
"What do you do for a living?" she repeated her earlier question, desperate to find a flaw.
There had to be a flaw.
"Alright, alright," he was quick to reply, but she could tell she'd caught him off guard with her sudden seriousness. "Don't worry, detective, I didn't forget. Anyway, I'm glad you asked. I'd tip my hat, but I can't see you, obviously. Still, imagine that flourishing show of dramatics, alright? It's what I'd do in person. Pleasure to meet you, ma'am; my name is Elijah Harris, and I am a cargo pilot."
And there it was.
A flaw.
A horrible, awful, terrifying, nightmare-inducing flaw.
The memory of screaming dragged her into darkness.
*****
A/N:
Has anyone recently gone down the Oreo aisle at their local grocery store?
They've got flavors that are absolutely insane. Wasabi? Swedish fish? Poptart?
Like, excuse me, but if I want a Poptart, I'll just sit down and eat a Poptart. I won't eat an *Oreo* Poptart.
What is the world coming to?! Oh, that agony! The horror!
ಠ_ಠ
Ah, well.
Till next time,
A. R.