I put on my favorite band.
Interpol. The song “Evil” starts out slow and builds up, but it emits from my speaker so fucking loud that it’s like I’m in a competition with my neighbor. Whose eardrums can we blast out first? Truth, I’d be fine getting a permanent migraine from listening to Interpol. It’d be worth it.
Barely a minute later, a knock slams on my door. “Hey!”
The guy says something else, but I can’t make it out. Suddenly, the EDM music cuts off.
“HEY!” he screams, more clearly now. “Turn your shit down, man!” He bangs his fist at my door, and my pulse ratchets up.
She flashes in my head.
If Willow were here, she’d tell me to turn it down. Don’t start a confrontation. Don’t be that guy.
But she’s not here.
I stand up.
The pounding on my door intensifies. “Fuck, can you hear me?!”
Striding over, each second there feels like someone is clenching my heart in their fist. Pump. Pump. Trying to wake the cold, lifeless organ.
The chorus starts as I put my hand on the knob. I’ve listened to this song a million-and-one times, but tonight it sounds different in my head. I should turn it off. But something is wrong with me. I feel it deep inside me like dark ink bleeding into paper, and Willow can’t change me.
No one can.
I open the door.
My neighbor’s angered brown eyes pierce me. Baseball cap turned backward. Penn shirt and khakis. He looks like he should be at the Alpha Omega Zeta house, not some apartment building in Center City.
“Yeah?” I ask, not needing to raise my voice over the music since we’re close enough.
He holds out his hand. “I’m Jared, your neighbor. Sorry, man, I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself yet.”
I moved into this building the same time Willow left for Wakefield. I wanted a change. But it’s been a week, and Jared and I have crossed paths a few times already. He’s never said a word to me before. So this pseudo-fake-nice bullshit is just all for show.
“Cool,” I say, but I don’t shake his hand.
Jared pauses for a second and then drops his arm. “Hey, you think you can turn down your music? I’m kind of having a party. It’s my girlfriend’s birthday.”
I glance towards his apartment and notice three girls and two guys wedged in his doorway, watching our interaction. I’m not even sure how many more people are inside his place.
“Then it looks like I’m giving your girlfriend a birthday present.” I swing my head back to Jared. “Being introduced to Interpol is probably the best gift she’s going to get tonight.”
Jared laughs dryly, annoyance flashing in his eyes. “Look, we don’t want to listen to your music.”
“You’re right, yours is so much better,” I say, sarcasm on my lips. “It’s been nothing but pure bliss for the past hour.”
“Dude, I’m sorry.” Jared holds up his hands in defense. “We didn’t mean to be so loud. Maybe we can come to some sort of understanding.” His eyes scan me from my bare feet to my head. “You go to Penn? Come grab a beer with us. We’ve got plenty in the room.”
Three years ago, I might have taken that offer.
Today, I just want to be alone.
“I don’t want your beer. Just stop knocking into my walls—”
“Holy shit,” a girl from the doorway exclaims loudly. Her friends huddle around her, staring at the cell in her clutch. “You’re Garrison Abbey!”
Jared frowns, brows knotting. “Ana, am I supposed to know who that is?”
Ana glides over in heels, her blonde hair in a tight ponytail that looks honest-to-God painful. I don’t know how girls do that. She puts a hand to Jared’s chest. “Ignore my boyfriend. He isn’t well-acquainted with entertainment news or Celebrity Crush.”
I almost roll my eyes at the trash tabloid. Okay, I have picked up the magazine at the grocery checkout before. But it’s certified crap.
Jared shakes his head. “Wait, he’s been in Celebrity Crush?”
“Yeah, with the Calloway sisters,” Ana says, pointing to me like I’m not right here.
Jared looks me up and down like he’s trying to figure me out now. “So are you dating one of the Calloway sisters then?”
I almost laugh.
They’re all married.
None of them to me. And if any of the Calloway sisters heard that question, they would most likely die in their own fit of laughter. Willow—she’d probably wrap her arms around me. I’d wrap mine around her. Just to say this one is mine.
“Oh my God.” Ana’s face roasts a shade of red. “Please stop talking, Jared.” To me, she says, “I’m so sorry. The second I have the chance, he’s bingeing Princesses of Philly.” I haven’t heard someone mention PoPhilly in a while. The short-lived reality show happened years ago. I wasn’t in it. I didn’t even know the Calloway sisters back then.