Page 8 of Sweeter Than Fiction

The first ever time he said hi to me, it caught me completely off-guard. People in New York typically don’t go out of their way to make pleasant conversation—even with their neighbors.

Especially with their neighbors.

Makes me think that maybe Don isn’t from here. Not that I’ve been brave enough to ask.

“Oh, thanks,” I manage to get out in not much more than a whisper.

“Hot date?”

“Yeah, actually. Just getting home.”

“How did it go?”

The moment he asks the question, I know I’m totally screwed. My lip quivers as tears fill my eyes.

Oh lord, here we go.

Chapter Four

Don

When Abby goes suddenly quiet, I take a break from glancing at my mail to turn my gaze to her face. Even though she tries to avoid my eyes, I can tell something is wrong.

“Abby?” I ask, trying to get her attention. “Abby, look at me.”

When she finally turns her head, I can see her watery eyes, her red nose, and her tear-stained cheeks.

“Fuck, Abby. I’m so sorry. What did I say?”

I was just trying to be nice. Abby is always cute, but she almost goes out of her way not to be noticed. Tonight, she was all dressed up like she had somewhere to be. Maybe it was wrong of me to assume that it was a date.

“You didn’t say anything. Men are just pigs. Well, not you, but most men. And…and…and” She sniffles between each word. “I’m going to die a spinster who will be eaten by her cats.”

“What?” is all I manage to get out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you.”

“You’re fine,” I assure her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“You don’t want to hear about my problems.”

“Sure, I do.”

“No, you really don’t,” she insists before adding, “I appreciate you being so nice but really, I’m okay. I’m just a little rattled. I just need to get home and relax. I’m fine.”

With that, she walks away. And I stand frozen for a moment, completely in shock of what just happened.

When I finally come back to reality, I head upstairs. Once inside my apartment, I try to watch a little TV to clear my mind. But it’s no use. Abby continues to plague my thoughts.

I don’t know much about my neighbor, but she’s always been friendly to me—unlike a lot of others in the Big Apple. Being from the Midwest and coming here was like night and day. Most I meet are cold and distant.

Something about Abby was warm, though. She’s quirky, and somehow reminds me of home. I’d like to get to know her better, but she seems to be an introvert, and I don’t want to push.

The TV is doing nothing to calm me down, so I stand up and start pacing. It’s always been my nervous habit.

I have no clue what she was talking about, but I’d like to try to find out. Maybe it was growing up in the Midwest, or maybe it was growing up with just my mom and sister, but when I see a woman upset, I want to help.

And not in a “knight in shining armor who swoops in and saves the day” kind of way.

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