When No One Is Watching(10)
She nods, but there’s no excitement or interest in her eyes. She grabs her phone, unlocking it and scrolling as we head out of the house.
We used to go for long walks together all the time, just because. Kim used to go on runs. Now? She has a treadmill in what was supposed to be my game room and she Ubers everywhere.
It started a few weeks after we moved in. She came home with tears in her eyes, saying a group of teenagers had followed her out of the train station, harassing her, after she’d told them to stop laughing so loud in the train car. I’d wondered why she hadn’t just put on her sound-canceling headphones, but she’d been shaking when she walked in, so it hadn’t been the right time to ask.
“It was terrifying! And I looked around and realized everyone was . . . I don’t know if anyone would have helped me,” she said. “There’s just so few of us here.”
I was confused. “Us?”
She pulled her head back to look at me and I realized that she wasn’t shaking with fear. She was furious.
“You know what I mean,” she snapped. “The neighborhood better change as fast as the realtor said it’s going to, because I’m not gonna put up with a bunch of—”
She sucked in a breath.
“I was perfectly within my rights. And their response showed that they were dangerous.”
“Yeah.” I’d rubbed her back, a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach.
She’d stared into my eyes, still angry. “You would have done something, right? If you were there and they tried anything?”
“Like what?” I’d asked.
She’d pulled away from me and stormed off.
Kim has a framed portrait of Michelle Obama in our living room, so she’s not . . . you know. She was shaken up, that was all, and at that point our relationship was held together by dollar-store glue. I didn’t want to push. Maybe I didn’t want to know what she would’ve answered.
Now, as we walk to the corner store, there’s a foot of humid air between us. It’s already super hot, and the sun hasn’t even reached the highest point in the sky. Air conditioners drone in every window we pass under, the sound mocking me, but I find it hard to be annoyed when I’m walking down our street.
Maybe it’s because I grew up in shitty small towns filled with falling apart single-wides, but the rich pigment of the brownstones, the slate gray of the sidewalks, the brick and concrete and flora that thrives in the minutest speck of dirt . . . of course I went along with moving to this place.
Our house feels like a prison, but our neighborhood is like something out of a movie. When I walk around Gifford Place, or even just watch from my window, I don’t feel crushed by the multi-car pileup of stupid decisions I’ve made. I feel like maybe this is a place I can belong, eventually. If I’m honest, that’s why I’m walking with Kim to the store, why I’m even trying—I don’t want to move. I guess the fact that I love our house more than I love her at the moment makes me kind of an asshole.
I look over at her; her fingers are tapping at the screen of her huge smartphone as she texts someone. I see the words roach-infested corner store and look away, my gaze landing on a high-end Range Rover I haven’t seen in the neighborhood before.
Mr. Perkins and his dog stroll in our direction, both looking this way and that for a neighbor to greet or for anything that’s amiss.
“Hey there,” Mr. Perkins says as our paths cross. “Having a good weekend?”
“So far, so good.” I lean down to pat the old dog’s side, sure my hand will come away smelling of corn chips. “Who’s a good boy?”
“Not this dog,” Mr. Perkins says affectionately, mock-glaring down at the hound. “Count stole the pork chop I was marinating last night when I nodded off in front of the TV.”
The dog drops his gaze to the ground, as if he knows we’re discussing his misdeeds, and we both laugh.
“Oooh,” Kim coos at the dog from next to me. “You’re going to get trichinosis because your owner was irresponsible!”
“Kim.” I knew she was an asshole to me, but this is different.
“I’m just joking,” she says.
“Right,” Mr. Perkins says, his usually friendly gaze wary. “I just wanted to tell you in case you didn’t see on OurHood, we’ll be having our annual Labor Day block party next Sunday. The final planning committee meeting is tomorrow night at my house at seven or so.”
“Sure,” I say. “We’ll come around—” I turn and realize that Kim has already walked away. I make a face of contrition, something I’ve mastered over the last year. “I’ll be there,” I finish, and when he nods and waves me off, I jog to catch up to her.
“What was that about?” I try to keep my tone light, but the fact that we can’t even walk a few yards without drama is pissing me off.
“I thought you were hungry.” I feel any semblance of goodwill she’d extended make a decisive retreat. I immediately regret saying anything. Now she’ll ice me out even harder, and the tiny step forward this walk was supposed to symbolize has taken us ten steps back. One day, one of those steps back is going to be right over the edge of a cliff.
“Yerrr, Preston!” a young man’s voice calls out.
The clicking spokes of bike wheels behind us follow the shout, and Kim turns with wide eyes, startled.