Chapter 3 Closer Than I Planned

It rained all week, the heavy kind that made the compound smell of wet earth and kept everyone indoors. By Thursday, I had run out of reasons to leave my apartment, and my work had run out of patience with me.

At eight that night, someone knocked.

Daniel stood on my doorstep with an umbrella and a tablet under his arm.

"Quick question. Do you have popcorn?"

"Popcorn?"

"I have a movie and no snacks, which feels irresponsible. I thought I'd check before I drove out in the rain."

"You are not driving out in this."

"That's what I was hoping you'd say."

I did have popcorn, as it happened, and a bar of chocolate I had been guarding. I told myself I was being neighbourly and carried both upstairs.

I had only been to his door before, never inside. Now I looked properly. The place was neat but not cold: shelves of paperbacks, a couch with one worn corner, a small speaker playing something quiet.

On the bookshelf, among the books, a framed photo lay face down.

I noticed it and told myself it was none of my business.

We spent twenty minutes arguing over what to watch. He wanted a thriller. I wanted something where nobody died.

"A comedy," I said, "or I'm going home."

"Compromise: a comedy with a small amount of suspense."

"That's a thriller with jokes."

"Exactly."

We ended up with a heist comedy that was better than either of us expected. I laughed loudly at the wrong moments, and he laughed at the right ones.

Halfway through, he said, "You steal the popcorn when you think I'm not looking."

"I'm not stealing. I'm redistributing."

His mouth twitched. "Of course."

Around ten, his phone buzzed on the arm of the couch. He glanced at it, and something in his face closed like a door. He pressed the side button to silence it.

"You can answer it."

"It's fine. It's nothing."

It buzzed again almost at once.

He stood. "Sorry. One minute."

He took the call out to the balcony and slid the door shut behind him. I could see his outline against the rain, one hand on the railing, head slightly bowed. I couldn't hear a word.

When he came back, he was smiling again, but it was the careful kind, the one you put on for guests.

"Everything okay?"

"Work. Always work."

At eight o'clock on a Thursday night, I wasn't convinced, but I didn't press.

To fill the silence, he found a pack of cards and dealt us each seven with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times.

We played until after midnight. I won three rounds out of four, partly because I'm good and partly because he was too polite to peek at my hand.

He caught me hiding a card under my knee.

I looked him dead in the eye. "That's strategy."

"That's cheating."

"It's cheating with confidence."

He laughed properly then, head back, and the careful smile disappeared.

It was a good laugh.

I wanted to hear it again, which was alarming.

Somewhere between rounds, I asked, "Does your family live around here?"

"My mother's in another city. We talk on Sundays."

"Any siblings?"

"A sister. She'd like you. She's loud."

"Like Bia."

"Then I'm outnumbered."

He shuffled the cards.

"What about-" I started, then stopped.

What about the person who called at ten at night? What about the photograph?

"Anyone else?"

His hands paused on the deck for the smallest moment.

"It's late," he said gently, "and you're about to lose."

He dealt the cards, and the question went down with them, face down, where I couldn't reach it.

The following Friday, Bia arrived straight from work, carrying two bags of takeout and an overnight bag she hadn't warned me about.

"I'm sleeping over," she announced. "Don't argue. I've had a week."

"I wasn't going to argue."

"You were going to think about it."

We were halfway through our food when someone knocked.

Bia raised an eyebrow. I got up.

Daniel stood there holding a new light bulb.

"Your porch light has been out since Tuesday," he said. "I kept meaning to say something, and then I kept forgetting I had a spare. Sorry, I didn't know you had company."

"That's... thank you. You didn't have to."

"It's two minutes."

He glanced past me.

"And you must be Bia."

Bia appeared at my shoulder with the speed of a woman who'd heard the words "bulb" and "man" in the same sentence.

"I must be," she said. "And you must be the neighbour."

"Daniel." He shook her hand. "Barbara said you'd be the loud one."

"What?"

"I said spirited," I said weakly.

"That's even worse," said Bia, delighted.

He changed the bulb with the steadiness of someone who didn't need an audience, tested the switch, then crouched to check the latch on the gate as well.

"It's sticking. I'll tighten it tomorrow."

When Bia offered him food, he thanked her but declined.

"You two have catching up to do. I've intruded enough."

At the gate he turned back.

"Bia, try the apple pie. If Barbara hasn't eaten it all."

"There's pie?" Bia said, as he left.

"There was pie," I said. "There is a very small amount of pie."

She waited until his footsteps faded.

"Spirited," she repeated.

"He changes your bulbs."

"Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

"I was about to say he seems nice. Which he does. Steady. Polite. Observant, you can tell."

She grinned.

"And bald. Very bald. You've told me for years that bald men aren't your type."

"They aren't."

"Okay," said Bia, in a voice that clearly meant sure.

The night went the way nights with Bia always do: dishes in the sink, her phone charging on my bed, a terrible reality show we both mocked and could not stop watching.

By one o'clock, we had stopped talking altogether. She lay on the mattress I had dragged out, while I stayed on the bed, the rain starting up again against the window.

"Can I ask you something?" Bia said.

"You're going to anyway."

"Have you ever asked him about his family?"

"I did, last week. His mum is in another city. He has a sister." I paused. "She's loud."

"That's it?"

"It's been a few weeks, Bia."

"Okay."

The mattress creaked as she turned over.

"Do you think he's honest?"

"Hmmm... Bia."

But she was already asleep, letting out a soft snore.

I turned towards the ceiling, replaying her question in my head.