Page 5 of Play Along With Me
My peephole hasn't worked since I moved in three years ago—a fact I've complained about to my landlord approximately 647 times. The last time I mentioned it, he suggested I "get a boyfriend with a toolbox," which earned him a formal complaint and me exactly zero fixed peepholes.
I tiptoe to the door like it might hear me coming, pressing my ear against it as if I might somehow recognize the genetic makeup of the person on the other side through osmosis.
"Collin! You—" the voice continues.
Collin? As in my neighbor Collin from 4B? The one who plays acoustic guitar at 2 AM and thinks he's the next John Mayer but sounds more like a cat caught in a ceiling fan?
Relief floods through me. This angry stranger has the wrong apartment. Not a serial killer, just an idiot with poor navigational skills.
I unlock the door and swing it open, prepared to redirect this misguided rage missile.
"Collin's in 4B, this is 4A, you've got the wrong—"
My sentence dies a premature death as I take in the man standing in my doorway. He's massive—at least a foot taller than my 5'4" frame, with shoulders broad enough to block most of the hallway light. Despite the angry scowl that was presumably on his face seconds ago, his features are now arranged in an expression of utter confusion. He's annoyingly good-looking in that rugged, probably-chops-his-own-firewood kind of way, with dark hair that looks like it's fighting a losing battle against his fingers running through it.
"You're not Collin," he says, his voice considerably less murderous now.
I glance down at myself—stained pajamas, ice cream drips, probably mascara tracks from my earlier crying session—and back up at him.
"Stellar observation skills," I reply. "What tipped you off? The boobs? The lack of a man bun?"
His eyes widen slightly, then drop to my chest where, yes, I realize too late, there's a chocolate ice cream streak that looks distressingly like I've leaked from a third nipple.
"I meant, um—" he stammers, his eyes darting away from my shirt with the speed of someone who's just realized they've been staring at a car accident. "I thought this was Collin's place."
"4B," I repeat, pointing to the door three feet away with its clearly visible brass numbers. "This is 4A. The 'A' stands for 'Absolutely not the apartment you're looking for.'"
Just as the stranger opens his mouth to respond, the door to 4B swings open and Collin emerges in all his douche-bro glory: artfully ripped jeans, a t-shirt that definitely cost more than my entire outfit including the ice cream stains, and that man bun I mentioned earlier.
"Dude! Jake! You made it!" Collin exclaims, completely ignoring the fact that Jake was just trying to break down my door. His eyes slide to me, and a smile spreads across his face that I can only describe as aggressively flirtatious. "Audrey! Looking... comfortable."
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of my braless state and the thin material of my ancient t-shirt. "Your friend tried to murder my door."
Collin laughs like I've just told the most delightful joke. "Jake gets intense when he's been ghosted. Sorry about that." He leans against his doorframe in what I assume he thinks isa seductive pose. "You know, you're always welcome to join us. We're just having a few beers, playing some Call of Duty."
This isn't the first time Collin has invited me over. It's not even the tenth time. His persistence would be almost admirable if it weren't so annoying. He hits on me with the relentless optimism of a golden retriever chasing a ball that's never been thrown.
"As tempting as the combination of beer, video game violence, and your unwashed sheets sounds," I say, "I'm actually in the middle of something important."
"What, eating ice cream and crying?" Collin asks, nodding toward my shirt.
Jake, the door-pounder, has the decency to look embarrassed on Collin's behalf.
"No," I lie. "I'm... conducting a scientific experiment on dairy product absorption rates in cotton fabrics. It's very cutting-edge research."
Jake snorts, quickly disguising it as a cough when Collin glances at him.
"Well, the offer stands," Collin says, undeterred. He winks at me—actually winks—and I feel my soul try to exit my body through my nostrils. "Door's always open for you, Auddie."
"Don't call me Auddie," I say automatically, the same response I give him every time.
"Sorry about your door," Jake interjects, looking genuinely apologetic. "And, uh, interrupting your... research."
I wave my hand dismissively. "It's fine. The door's used to abuse. My landlord has a restraining order against basic maintenance."
This earns me a real smile from Jake, revealing a dimple in his left cheek that makes him look less like he bench-presses small cars for fun and more like someone who might help elderly women cross the street.
"Come on, man," Collin calls, already retreating into his apartment.
