Page 31 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
And just below it, she’s drawn two stick figures—one enormous, one tiny—standing beside what appears to be a rocket and a box labeled “snacks.”
I stare at it longer than I mean to.
I tell myself it’s nonsense.
Just paper. Just a child.
But the tightening in my chest refuses to ease.
CHAPTER 8
VANESSA
Idon’t know when I stop thinking of Richard as just odd and start thinking of him as...suspect.
Maybe it’s the orange juice. The way he drinks it—no,absorbsit—like someone doing a poor imitation of thirst. He doesn’t sip. He calibrates. Like he’s timing the viscosity to match his internal hydration algorithm.
Or maybe it’s the second time I catch him shirtless. Not “oops, forgot my shirt while mowing” shirtless. No. This is back muscles flexing under unnatural weight, sweat glistening like diamonds down skin that looks too perfect, dragging something that absolutely doesn’t belong in a suburban basement—a long, coiled metallic thing that hums faintly and leaves scorch marks on the pavement. It’s got edges and nodes, and it lights up when touched.
And no, it’s not HVAC equipment. Don’t insult my intelligence.
I see it through the slit in my blinds—just a flash, just a moment—but it sticks. Like a splinter under my skin.
That night, I sit on the couch pretending to watch some mindless Netflix drivel while Sammy does her homework. She’s got her “Spy Journal” open beside her math workbook,scrawling diagrams of Richard’s garage, complete with squiggly arrows labeled “probable launch ramp?” and “space toaster?”
I glance over, trying to sound casual.
“What’s he done today?”
She doesn’t even look up. “He installed something in the yard. Looked like a tiny satellite dish, but he called it a ‘grill.’ Then he tried to cook a hot dog with what I’m 89% sure was a laser.”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Mom. You’re going to need His help soon.”
I arch a brow. “You think he’s dangerous?”
“I think he’sweirdly prepared.Also, he asked what time zone the sun sets in.”
I blink. “Come again?”
“Exactly what I said. He was out there with a measuring tape, like he expected it to move.”
I lean back and rub at my temples. There’s a dull ache forming just behind my eyes. A cocktail of exhaustion, too much caffeine, and the creeping horror that my daughter might actually be right.
It’s not that Iwantto believe Richard’s an alien.
It’s that I’m running out ofother explanations.
He doesn’t act like a person who’s ever paid taxes, mowed a lawn, or talked to another human without a script. He’s like a character built by committee—too smooth in places, too stiff in others. His movements have the grace of a soldier, but his words come out like Google Translate having a nervous breakdown.
And yet… he’s trying.
That’s the weirdest part. It’s not like he’s hiding in shadows or avoiding eye contact. Hewaves.He smiles—awkward and mechanical but genuine. He carries groceries with methodicalcare and once asked if I’d like assistance“transferring your biomass into food preparation mode.”
He meant dinner. I think.
But beneath all that? There’s something else.
