The Grumpy Neighbor Wants the Size 22 Girl Upstairs, and the Walls Are Thin novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Scream, It's My Ceiling

Molly goes down to talk about the noise notice and ends up on his kitchen counter with Costa on his knees, telling her to be as loud as she wants.

By seven that evening I had read the notice forty times, and it still said the same thing.

I did not take it down to Loretta.

I took it down to Costa.

His door was open a hand's width, and I heard a pan hit a stove.

"It's unlocked," he called.

"You should lock it."

"You should knock."

I pushed the door open with my hip.

His apartment was the same shape as mine, only bigger on the bottom, with a long kitchen and a narrow living room.

It smelled like garlic and lemon.

He stood at the stove in a gray T-shirt, barefoot, stirring something red.

The muscles across his back moved under the cotton.

I stood there holding the notice and forgetting how to talk.

"Chandler filed a complaint on both of us," I said at last.

"Chandler filed it against both of us."

"Loretta says nobody called it in."

"Nobody did."

"So why would he?"

Costa turned off the burner and faced me.

"Because he wants Loretta to sell this house," he said. "A tenant who gets evicted for noise can't fight a sale."

"That's evil."

"It's a sweater with a clipboard."

I laughed, and he went still, and my laugh slid to a stop.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing." His eyes were dark. "Sit down."

"I'm not staying."

"Then stand there and tell me why you came down."

"Because I wanted to say I'm sorry," I said. "About my voice. My mother says it's not a real job."

I had not meant to say that.

The room went quiet except for the tomato sauce ticking in the pan.

"You cried on Tuesday," Costa said. "On the phone."

I stared at him.

"I heard it," he said. "I'm not going to pretend I didn't."

"She says a real job has health insurance."

"Your mother has never heard you read," he said. "I have. Every night. It's the best thing in this house."

My eyes stung.

He crossed the kitchen in three steps, and he stopped in front of me, close enough that I smelled lemon and soap.

"Tell me to leave you alone," he said, very low. "Tell me and I will."

"I won't."

"Then tell me what you want."

I wanted to say something clever.

What came out was the truth.

"I want you to put your hands on me again."

Something in his face broke open.

He took the notice out of my hand and dropped it on the floor.

Then he lifted me by the thighs, easily, one arm under me, and set me on the kitchen counter.

The edge of the marble was cold against the backs of my legs, and the light over the sink was bright.

"Costa, the light."

"I know."

"Turn it off."

"No."

He stepped between my knees and put both hands flat on my thighs.

"I've been guessing for seven months," he said. "I'm done guessing. I want to see all of you."

"Nobody's ever," I said, and my voice cracked. "Not in the light."

"Then everybody else was a coward."

He slid his hands up my legs and under the skirt of my sundress, and he pushed it high on my hips.

I wasn't wearing anything special.

Plain cotton, a little damp, and he looked at it like it was lace.

"Look at you," he said hoarsely. "Look at these thighs. I could spend a week here."

"They're not small."

"That's why."

He knelt.

I will never forget it, a man his size going down on his knees on the tile.

His big hands curled around my legs, and his dark eyes stayed on my face.

Even kneeling, he was tall enough that his shoulders spread my knees wide.

He pulled my underwear down my legs, slowly, and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Hold on to the counter," he said.

I held on.

He put his mouth on me.

One long, slow stroke of his tongue, up the center of me, and my head dropped back against the cabinet.

"Oh my God."

"There she is."

He licked me again, deep, groaning low in his chest.

"You taste like I've been dreaming," he said against my skin. "You taste so fucking good."

His hands dug into my thighs and held me open, and I loved it.

Those huge palms gripped me.

He found my clit with the tip of his tongue and circled it, slow.

Then he pressed, and my hips jerked off the marble.

"Easy," he murmured. "I've got you. You can't go anywhere."

"Don't stop."

"I'm not stopping."

He sucked, steady and hard, and I made a noise I had only ever made into a pillow.

"That's it," he said. "Louder."

"Loretta's downstairs."

"Loretta's at bingo until nine, and I wouldn't care if she wasn't."

He looked up at me, mouth wet.

"Scream, Molly. It's my ceiling."

I laughed and it turned into a moan, and the moan turned into a long, cracked, broken cry.

He slid two thick fingers inside me, curling them while his tongue worked, and I came apart.

I came so hard that I saw white.

My hand was tangled in his short black hair, and my thighs shook around his ears.

He kept going, drawing it out, rough and patient, until I was sobbing his name and begging him to stop.

Then he stopped.

He rested his forehead on my thigh, breathing hard.

I felt him shaking.

"Costa."

"Give me a minute."

"You didn't," I said, and I looked down his body, at the straining front of his sweats.

"No." He lifted his head, and his eyes were blazing. "Tonight is yours."

"That's not fair."

"I've waited seven months. I can wait a night."

He stood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He helped me down from the counter and steadied me when my knees gave out.

He pulled my dress down for me.

He held my face in both his hands.

"You were beautiful in the light," he said.

I had never in my life been told that.

I went back upstairs in a daze, with my underwear gone and my face hot, and I fell asleep smiling.

At dawn I opened my door, and there was a folded yellow note taped to it.

SOMEONE WAS KIND TO YOU LAST NIGHT. I HOPE YOU BELIEVED HIM.

I read it twice.

I had not told a soul where I was last night.

My stomach turned over, because somebody in this house knew.

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