Page 50 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I shake my head. “He’s… he’s trying, okay? That’s different.”
She glances at the board, skipping past strings to the circle around the mug he handed me with the lily. “You didn’t hide,” she says softly. “You stood there in front of him.”
My breath catches and I close my eyes. She’s right.
When? When did fear of the unknown slip away?
I open my eyes and stare at her.
“I’m protecting you,” I say.
She laughs, small and knowing. “You’re protecting yourself.”
The laugh echoes. I don’t deny it.
She pats the couch. “Come sit,” she whispers. “Tell me about him.”
I sit. She slides beside me, tugs a notecard listing her top ten weirdest moments (startled hedges, strange scanner, lily poetry).
“What is he?” she asks, voice casual but serious.
I look at the board. I know all the answers: alien, warrior, warp-time traveler. But how to boil millennia and heartbreak into a toddler explanation?
“He’s... someone finding his place,” I say instead. “He’s learning to live in our world.”
She studies me. “Does he know?”
I don’t answer.
She leans against me. “Mom... you look at him funny.”
“I’m tired,” I admit, tone low. “And confused. And… frustrated.”
She traces a red string. “But if you like him...”
“Mom!” I cut myself off, hand flying out to smooth her hair. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
She looks at me like I’m the world’s worst liar. “Mom.”
Silence settles. I swallow. I think about that smile he gave me at the fence—quiet pride, guarded hope. I think about the lilies and poetry. I think about the sprinkler incident and the way my heart refused to leap away.
“Maybe,” I whisper, “I do.”
She grins widely. “Phase One complete.”
She flicks off the lights. We sit in the darkness, the board gleaming overhead, a constellation of possibilities. My arms wrap around my daughter, whose belief shimmers stronger than any conspiracy.
Tomorrow, I face more evictions, more moral compromise. But maybe tomorrow—maybe I’ll stand at the fence again, not just as a neighbor but as someone ready to cross.
Tonight, in the hush, I learn there’s power in accepting the strange. And suddenly... that admission feels like breath.
Work has become a pressure cooker ticking with compromises. Lipnicky summons me early, grinning like a viper coiled and ready. His office is too quiet—acrylic desk polished just enough to reflect my exhaustion back at me. He slides astack of blank eviction notices across the lacquered surface, each stamped with property addresses on Maple Street, several spots not even behind on rent yet.
“This is for the ‘restructuring effort,’” he says, eyes locked on mine. Voice smooth and slow. “Spreads confidence.”
I swallow. Confidence for whom? The answer hangs unsaid.
“It’s unfortunate,” I begin, voice low. I push the paperwork back, index finger tapping the chance to refuse. “That block is full of long-term businesses. They serve this community. They pay on time.”
