Ricochet (2 page)

Moving day went smoothly enough. I only
had to cart up 97 plastic grocery bags full of shit. I ordered minimal amounts
of furniture from Amazon, blessed be thy Prime. Shitty couch, shitty dresser,
shitty bed, amazing memory foam mattress. Did you know those things came in
tiny boxes? They’re magical. I haven’t seen Cash since the day I came and
scoped the apartment. I’m half convinced that he was an actor, hired by Diana
to play the heart strings of lonely single girls to help her sell the
apartment. Without the cute boy, there was only the window. But it was a
beautiful window.

I
drag myself out of bed. I gather my clothes and track down the bag with my make
up. I hear water running in my bathroom, which is kind of alarming. I realize
the apartment next door must have the shower running. My thoughts instantly
turn to Cash, naked. His bronze skin glistening under the running water,
shampoo trailing
down
the curves of his spine. Nope.
Stop. I want to meet him in the hallway; I don’t have time to rub one out. I
quickly shower, tousle my hair, and wing my eyelids. I don’t have time to go
full magazine spread make up today. I run into the hall, and linger for a few
moments. I fear that I may have missed him. I press my ear against his door,
because that’s not creepy. I quickly duck back into my doorway. I rush back out
just in time to see him close his door behind him. Holy shit.

“Woah.
Nice suit dude. Are you some kind of CEO or something?” I ask, genuinely surprised
that Mr. Flannel Button-up cleans up so nice on Monday mornings.

 
“Are you kidding me? Would I live here if
I
was
a CEO? I push papers at an insurance company.
What about you? Do you work at the Gap or just really like their clothes?” he
teased. Okay, so fuck you, you’re funny.

“No,
I don’t work. I’m on my way to meet up with my sugar daddy,” I quipped back. He
gave me a side eyed smirk as we headed towards the elevator. I hesitated as I
began to step in. I’d been on several rides now, and it wasn’t getting any better.
I dreaded the ascent and descent to and from my building. Cash grabbed me by
the shoulders, and spun me to face him. The doors glided shut behind us.

“Listen
to me. I don’t think we’re
gonna
make it out of here
alive.” he whispered, inches from my face.

“What
?!
” I gasped.

“When
these doors open, they’re going to be waiting for us.
Lot’s
of them.
We’re going to have to run. Are you ready? Can you do this?” he
asks, excitedly.

“Yeah,
I’m ready,” I smile, finally catching on.

We
slid to opposite corners of the elevator, glancing back and forth from each
other to the door, our fingers held like guns. This is going to be a real treat
for whoever has to review this security footage. When the doors opened, he shot
to the center of the elevator, yelling “Go! Go! Go!” I spun out into the lobby,
shooting fast with my finger gun. Cash laid it on thick with the “pew pew
pews.” He let out a cry as he sunk to the floor, saying “You’re gonna have to
go on without me.” I burst into laughter.

“Okay,
get up. Thank you. You’re fantastic. I don’t even feel like I’m going to vomit,”
I laughed.
 
    

 
“Well, I do pride myself on not making
girls want to vomit,” he said, as he took off towards the mailboxes. I hadn’t
given this as my forwarding address, or attached my mailbox key to my keychain,
so I had no excuse to follow him. I headed to the parking lot instead.

Work
sped by, and I rushed home. I hoped that we had similar enough schedules to
bump into each other again on the ride up. I waited in the lobby a moment,
crushing some candy and obnoxiously finishing up some Song Pop challenges sans
headphones. No Cash. I pushed the button to my floor and thought about him the
entire ride. I thought about what adventure we might have tomorrow morning.
Should I be this enamored? I’m over a month post horrible breakup. But aren’t I
the portrait of unattached and emotionally available? Regan has been on me to
meet someone since hour 17
post
Hunter. “The best way
to get over someone is to get under someone else,” she would say, because she
is horribly unoriginal. I’m not really sure I need to get over him though. I
think I’ve been over him for a long time. I think I’m just ready to move on
with my life. My biological clock is ticking or some other cliché Regan
bullshit. I was so caught up in justifying my attraction to Cash I forgot to
even be afraid of plummeting to my death down a cold, four-story shaft in a
metal bread pan. I got this.

I’m
going to ask him out. I’m going to see if he wants to get coffee, or pizza, or
whatever. I want to spend time with him. I want to get to know him. I want to
sit close enough to smell him and try to pinpoint what brand of ridiculously
overpriced cologne he wears. Should I wait for him to ask me out? Do I need to
sign up for Tinder and hope we both swipe whatever fucking direction we need to
swipe? I don’t know how dating works; I’ve been stuck with stripper fucker for
too long. I didn’t even date Hunter, the conqueror of pole dancers; a friend
hooked us up at a party. I have no idea how to date. My anxiety is spiraling
out of control and I decide I need to Occam’s razor this shit. I want to spend
time with him, so I’m going to ask him to spend time with me. Be upfront and
direct. Underutilized qualities. I plop in front of the TV and mindlessly tune
in to some cooking show. I drift off to sleep thinking of cranberry pecan
crusted pork chops.

I
awake with a start. What time is it? What day is it? Is it Christmas? My
stomach yells at me. Did I forget to eat today? I bump and curse my way into
the kitchen and blink until the clock on the stove comes into focus. It’s only
eleven p.m. It is better than Christmas morning, because I have seven more
hours to sleep, and sleep is the greatest gift of all. I make a disappointing
sandwich and decide I need to stop falling asleep to Food Network and learn to
be happy with my turkey and Swiss on rye instead of dreaming of fancy shit I
can’t afford or pronounce. I have an unexpected second wind and decide I want
to set up my studio and drink chamomile tea while I gaze out my dream window.
I’ve lived here for two weeks and haven’t set foot into that room except to
store the grocery bags full of junk from Hunter’s.

I
grab the bags from the craft store and set up my easel, line up my paints
neatly. I roll in the cheap computer chair, cursing at myself for not buying adequate
seating. I settle in, observing how the moon paints silver wisps in the small
ripples on the lake. A bolt of lightning illuminates the sky, spreading its
veins across the inky blackness outside my window. I begin mixing silver and
blues.
 
I bring my brush to the
canvas. Then I hear the scream.

There is a woman screaming on the other
side of this wall. I drop my brush, spots of shimmery blue trailing behind it
as it rolls across the floor. I don’t even care about my security deposit.
There is a woman screaming in Cash’s apartment. I rush to the wall, pressing my
ear against it. The outer walls were brick, but the ones connecting our units
were drywall. As if this hadn’t always been an apartment building, and the
separations were made hastily with the cheapest materials available. Should I
call the police? Maybe it was the television. Maybe they were in an argument
and she screamed out of frustration. Maybe she had a spider land on her. Surely
he isn’t some kind of psychopath. Then I heard his voice, very clearly.

AGAIN. COUNT this time. OUT LOUD

1…. 2…

Start back at one.

Please! No!

AGAIN!

1…2…3…4…5…

I backed away from the wall and sank
into the floor. What exactly am I hearing? I stood and walked out of the room,
shutting the door behind me. Maybe this is a bad dream. Maybe I will wake up on
the couch. I sank into my bed, feeling very uneasy.

When
I woke up the next morning, I decided to skip the shower. I washed my face in
the kitchen sink and pulled my hair into a bun. I rushed out the door, trying
my best to miss Cash. I wasn’t sure what I heard, but it made me feel
unsettled. I don’t want to ask, but I also don’t want to interact with him
without knowing, so I’m better off avoiding him altogether. I started going
into my workroom at night and pressing a glass against the wall. Some nights I
heard the screams, some nights I didn’t.
 
I decide I don’t want to hear it anymore.

It had been a couple of weeks since the
wails of the screaming girl had pierced the walls of my workroom, and when I
ran into Cash in the hallway, I had nearly forgotten. I was letting myself into
my apartment after work, and his words startled me.

 
“Hey! There you are. I was wondering what
happened to you,” he said, as charming as ever. All kind eyes and whiskey
smooth words.

“I’ve
just been really busy,” I replied, trying to seem as disinterested as possible.

“How
are our secret missions since you’ve gone rogue? I see they haven’t taken you
out yet,” he teased.

“Not
yet, I’m still kicking. See ya.”
 
I
rushed into my door and shut it quickly behind me. In all honesty, I hadn’t
been doing his missions. Ever since the screaming girl, I’d abandoned his
stupid elevator fantasy, and the panic returned. Whenever I began to use the
coping mechanism he taught me, thoughts flooded my brain about what he could be
doing to that girl. That he was this sick fuck who was all saccharine sweet in
the daylight but does God knows what to women behind closed doors. It would
throw me into an absolute panic. What if he has some woman held captive in
there? Or picks women up off the street to torture and kill them and has stacks
of dead bodies in his spare bedroom?

I
was torn between equal parts curiosity of what in the actual fuck could be
going on over there and sheer terror that if I walked into that apartment I
would never walk back out again. Of course, this was probably somewhat
irrational; if I went missing the police would probably question the neighbors
first. But, a lot of my fears are irrational, and aren’t often backed up by
intermittent, horrified screams coming through the wall. I decide that I need
to know. Tomorrow, after work, I’m going to knock on his door and ask if he
wants to split a pizza. I’ll invite myself in, and find out exactly what is
going on over there. I’ll make sure I meet him in the hall in the morning, and
we can do our secret agent shtick and that will be a perfect segue into asking
him to hang out later that day.

The
next morning my alarm dragged me from slumber, kicking and screaming. I hadn’t
been sleeping well, and dreaded the morning. Groggy and disoriented, I
remembered my plan for the day. I gathered my clothes, and stood in the bathroom
until I heard the shower kick on beyond the wall. Once again my thoughts
drifted to Cash on the other side. I still hadn’t heard any of his famed shower
karaoke, and kind of hoped he would start belting out a tune so I could join
him and have something to bond over. As if our meet-cute hadn’t been eye-roll
inducing Rom-Com material already. By the end of the shower, I forgot that I
was on a mission to expose him as a creepy psycho, and had to use the massaging
showerhead to orgasm back into reality.

Disgusted
with myself, and feeling like I needed a post-shower shower, I quickly dried
off and got dressed. Full of endorphins and ready to Sherlock Holmes this shit,
I burst out into the hall as Cash’s door was opening. I expected to see him in
his tailored suit and shiny shoes, but was met instead by a tiny brunette in
ripped jeans and a pixie cut. Could she be the screaming girl? She didn’t have
any signs of duress or visible injuries. She was petite and could easily be
overpowered by Cash. She smiled when she met my gaze.

“Hi!”
she almost squeaked.

‘‘Uh,
hi,” I replied awkwardly. What was this feeling? Jealousy? Of course he could
be seeing someone. Did I never think of that as a possibility? There’s a chance
that this woman could be forced into doing things against her will.

Raped.

Beaten.

Tortured.

And
I’m jealous?
 
Stop.

My
internal monologue was interrupted by the ding of the elevator and we stepped
inside. I was too confused at this point to be nervous, and needed to know
where she fit into this mystery.

 
“Ground floor?” the girl asked, timidly.

“Yeah.
Uh, are you Cash’s girlfriend? I’m his neighbor; we’ve not met,” I said,
surprised at my own balls to pose this question.

“Um,
no, I’m… we’re just friends,” she replied awkwardly.
 

“Oh.
Does he have a girlfriend?” I continued.

‘‘I
don’t know,” she replied, “If he does he’s never mentioned it. He lives alone.
I don’t know.”

I
spent the rest of the day thinking about this interaction. If she was just a
“friend,” why was she leaving at such an early hour? Obviously she had spent
the night. Pangs of jealousy made their way back into the pit of my stomach. I
wonder how many other “friends” he has, and if the screaming I heard was just
him
showing one of them a good time. Pixie Cut couldn’t be
the screaming woman. Her voice was too small, her vocal chords not capable of
producing those sounds. If Pixie Cut screamed, it would sound like a child
screaming. Which honestly would have been even more horrifying. Maybe I
shouldn’t try to get into his apartment. Maybe I should just go back to
avoiding him. Otherwise I might just end up another “friend,” and I’m not
interested in that type of relationship right now. I’m jumping ahead of myself.
I need to satisfy my curiosity about the screaming woman so I can sleep at
night, instead of fantasizing about what kind of relationship we could end up
having. The plan is back on.

Upon
returning home, I lingered in the lobby, hoping to run into Cash. I didn’t know
his schedule or what time he got home from work, only that we left at the same
time in the mornings. I decide to go back to my apartment and assess whether or
not he is home. I freshen up, touch up my make up,
fluff
my hair. I press my ear to the wall. I hear the faint sounds of the television,
but this means nothing. He could have left it on. I go into the bathroom and
check my reflection in the mirror. I hear the toilet flush next door. Good.
Someone
is home.