Love, Milo

I remember it so clearly. That day was two years ago.This is property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

At least I remember half of it clearly. The rest is all a blur.

That day was responsible for the change in me. The Raelynn that my mother once hated had died. It made me hide behind the leaves of plants, the smell of nature, and the distraction that planting and gardening gives. Because after that damn day, the simple touch of a man had made me hurl.

Not that I remember the exact moment when he took advantage of me, but cold, chilling water pools down my face from the shower head as I remember being drunk. I remember hanging out with him. I remember a cup getting handed to me. I remember him leading me to a bedroom before I blacked out. Then, the worst of it all—I remember waking up clothes-less, cold, and crying the next morning.

Only I knew how the pregnancy that followed weeks later had occurred. They thought I was being careless and sleeping around. And for the most part, before that day, I had been, but it was far from that. Mom made me get an abortion. It’s all she ever made of the situation other than to remind me of how much of an embarrassment I was.

I didn’t tell a soul what happened. Not my mother, sister, or best friends at the time. I never trusted anyone enough—never wanted anyone’s pity.

He was popular, well-known, and liked. And I was known for being careless and wild, the Raelynn everyone was familiar with. Who would’ve believed a word I said? I didn’t see it happen; I couldn’t give any details. I missed the opportunity to go to the hospital. The blackout spared me the sight of the wicked act but also had rid me of my surety. To the point where even I questioned what I knew were facts. Nowadays, a woman needs proof for these sorts of things. Are the scars from his nails and scratches on my thighs not enough proof for them?

He’s the reason for my sleepless nights.

Jaden Caddel.

I knew him for no more than an hour, but I guess an hour is all it takes for someone to decide your worth to them.

I sniffle, tears running down my face along with the shower’s chilly water. God, can I get one day that I don’t think about this shit? At least one restful night of sleep, so I don’t look like the raccoon in my greenhouse the other day.

I turn the shower off, wrap my towel around my body, and catch a glance at the mirror. I pause to gaze at the reflection staring back at me.

Wet curls that end down the middle of my back drip water on the floor. My septum piercing glistens under the light, and the small ball of metal pierced into my tongue rubs against the room of my mouth. I got these piercings in high school and had to hide them from my mom for a few months. She still disapproves, but I’ll never take them out; they’re the part of me I sometimes miss, the Raelynn that didn’t care so much. Along with the snake tattoo trailing up my thigh and disappearing under the towel.

My eyebrows jump as I dismiss myself from the shit show thoughts down memory lane. Then, I walk to my room.

I look at the clock perched on my brown dresser. Five in the morning. Wonderful.

I don’t mean to be up this early. I just can’t seem to sleep through the night. And I still have to open the new flower shop in just a few hours. I could try to fall asleep now, but I’ll spare myself the hassle of staring at my ceiling.

The thought of Milo seeps into my thoughts as I rummage through my closet for clothes.

Besides my claustrophobia, being stuck with a man in an elevator increased my panic that day. I’ve gotten better at being around men; the closeness no longer turns me away or scares me. But I’ll always keep my distance from them every chance I get. But Milo, I can’t seem to understand why I don’t distance myself from him. I tried, but he implanted himself into my life like a nail in a plank. And now I’ve agreed to fake this stupid relationship, and for some weird reason, the idea does not entirely repulse me.

A soft laugh leaves me, and I shake my head at the wildness of it all, pulling out fluffy pajama pants with pandas.

I willingly kissed him in my garden.

I can’t help but feel proud of myself. I haven’t kissed a man in two years. It’s a step in the right direction, and Milo helped me without knowing it.

I pull off my towel and slip on my pants and one of my bleach-stained T-shirts. These kinds of shirts are the best; there’s nothing better than wearing an old, worn-out shirt to bed. If only clothes came this way at the store—

A knocking startles me.

My chest tightens. There’s no one around. I live alone, which in and of itself makes me paranoid. My eyes close, and a long breath leaves me, a weak attempt to calm my jumpiness.

I walk out to the front door and look through the peephole to see not a soul there.

My better judgment tells me not to open the door and check. I won’t be one of those people in horror movies who die because of curiosity and cluelessness.

Instead, I lock my door and return to my room.

Another knock fills the silence.

I paused in my tracks. It’s not coming from my front door. Looking at where the sound came from, I swallow hard as I stare at my fire escape window. The curtain covers it.

Maybe it’s a bird or hail—No, not hail, it’s the middle of April.

I pad my way to my closet and grab the bat inside it. Then, I walk towards my window, whipping the curtain open.

I scream.

He screams.

Milo sits on my fire escape behind my closed window in his most casual outfit yet, and his wide-opened eyes are on my bat.

His scream had muffled through the glass window. So do his words. I can’t hear a thing he’s saying.

I lower my bat, walking closer to the window. What the hell is he doing on my fire escape?

He raises his eyebrows, a hand gripping the center of his chest. Why is he acting like I’m the one who scared him? He’s the one creeping on my fire escape.

His hair messily covers his forehead, but I know it’s intentional. He wears a white shirt with gray sweatpants. Like I said, casual, yet unusual for him. That’s especially true when I notice he’s in socks.

Can this man get any crazier?

I attempt to read his lips.

Bat…

Sorry…

Scare you…

I shake my head as I follow his finger to the bottom of the window. He wants me to open it.

‘No.’ I mouth. Absolutely not.

His head tilts slightly, mouthing the word, why.

My jaw could drop. What does he mean why? Because you’re a man on my fucking fire escape, and I don’t know if I should trust you enough to let you in my apartment. Duh.

I cross my arms around my visible breast under the material of my shirt to cover them from him, but he doesn’t seem to be looking either way.

He nods after sitting for a minute. He mouths something, then gets up, starting down the stairs where his window is below mine. I inhale, leaning in and pulling the gate open, then the window, high enough for my body to stick out.

‘Hey!’ I shout, causing Milo to halt. He’s just a few steps from his window, but I see him below through the rusted, chipped black painted metal bars. He looks up and beams that stupid smile at me.

‘I thought you were dead,’ he says, walking back up. ‘It worried me.’

I furrow my brows. ‘Why would I be dead?’

‘You didn’t answer your front door.’ I must’ve been in the shower when he knocked.

‘What if I just… wasn’t home?’ I reason as he crouches in front of me, half my body till hanging out the window. I make it a mission not to let my eyes wander to anywhere other than his gray eyes.

‘This early in the morning?’

I nod. ‘Some people work that early.’

‘Well, you clearly don’t, since you’re still here,’ his eyes trail down my half-visible body. I force myself not to shy away. “Cute PJs.”

I huff. ‘Why are you on my fire escape? What do you want?’

‘Do you have milk?’

‘Milk?’

‘Yes, milk,’ he grins. ‘You know that white substance. You swallow it, and it comes out of cows. It reminds me of—’

I close my eyes, raising my hand to stop that sentence before it ruins milk for me entirely. “Don’t—”

“Vanilla. It reminds me of vanilla ice cream.”

I roll my eyes. ‘And you couldn’t just… go to the store?’

He shrugs. ‘And miss my chance at bonding with my fake girlfriend? Why would I do that?’

I slip back into my room. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

‘I like your bottoms.’ I turn halfway to see him still outside, his eyes on my legs, or more so, my ass. I feel my face burn, whether from blush or insecurities, I don’t know. ‘Pandas look good on you, Love. It’s adorable.’

I struggle to hold eye contact with him; eye contact comes naturally to him, it seems.

Love. I wonder if he calls everyone that.

‘Stop staring at my ass,’ I say with a slight curve to my lip.

He only smirks.

I start to walk out of my room towards the kitchen when I pause and turn back to Milo, still sitting outside the window on the metal of the fire escape. I would’ve expected him to make his way in by now. But he only scales my room with his gaze.

‘If you want…” I debate my next words for several seconds. He patiently waits for me to finish. “You can come in,’ I say.

He looks at me. ‘Yeah?’

I nod. “For your milk.”

I watch him move to enter, but I walk up with a smirk, grab the gate, and shut it.

“Change of plans?” he says.

“Come in, but through the front door.”

I watch his broad figure take the stairs to his window, his sweatpants riding low on his waist. I swallow. I can’t deny it. He’s an unbelievably gorgeous man.

Before completely disappearing, he glances up at my window, catching me gaping at him. Oh, for fucks sake.

He raises an eyebrow, and I roll my eyes, walking to my kitchen before he can torture me about my wandering eyes some more. I flick the lights on, leaving my front door open for Milo, and return to my kitchen. Flowers in flowerpots decorate the majority of it. It’s a small kitchen, clean and stocked because I have no one but me to feed. Which isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes, I wish there were someone around to spend time with. I shake the thought of my loneliness out and open my fridge, grabbing the skinny milk jug.

I walk to the living room to see Milo sitting on my couch, his legs crossed, his feet on the coffee table, and arm under his head, watching the TV.

Who does this man think he is?

I roughly set the milk on the table, pressing my hand on my hip. ‘Get up. Now.’

He darts his eye from the TV to me, then to the TV again. Then, to the posters hanging on my living room wall. Spider-Man posters.

‘I didn’t know you were a Spider-Man fan,’ he says, ignoring me.

‘Maybe that’s because you know nothing about me,’ I walk in front of the TV that’s playing the first Spider-Man movie. Then, I shove his feet off my coffee table. Thanking God that they don’t stink.

‘Milo, I have a shift in a few hours. Here’s your milk. Now leave,’ I demand.

He sits up getting off the couch. ‘Where do you work?’

I think over my words. If he had ill intentions, I would know by now, right? It’s not like he means anything to me, nor do I want him to. Like he said, we’re neighbors, acquaintances. Practically business partners at this point. And there’s just something about him that I find unthreatening. If I’m being honest, nothing about this man is even threatening. The only thing he’s successfully been is a pain in my ass.

‘Flower shop a few blocks away.” The words burst out of me. I take the milk back off the table just to have something to keep my hands busy with. I haven’t had anyone else to share this exciting news with, and it feels good to spill this thing to someone I’ve been planning for over a year. ‘It’s opening for the first time today, and I own it.’

His brows raise like he just heard the most impressive thing. He walks around the coffee table, and I have to crank my neck as he gets closer. I take a step backward out of habit, but he doesn’t notice.

My heart races as his eyes dart across my face, lips, and the milk in my hand. He slithers his long, soft fingers around my hands before reaching the container handle. I swallow.

‘Congratulations, Raelynn. I’ll see you in a few hours then.’

‘What? No—’

“Can you, by any chance, take me to your fire escape?”

“My window…?”

He nods.

Why on Earth does he want to see my window? I pivot one-eighty degrees, amazed at how strange this guy is, and walk to my room, where I raise my arm to show him the famous window, but he’s already walking towards it.  He slips his way in and on my fire escape, milk in hand. Is he allergic to front doors? He gives me one glance and a crooked smile as he makes his way down the stairs to his apartment fire escape.

I blink, jaw hanging wide, and burst into uncontrollable laughter, with snorts and a cackle I haven’t heard in years escaping me.

Poor guy.

He must think he’s Spiderman.