The Grumpy Neighbor Wants the Size 22 Girl Upstairs, and the Walls Are Thin novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: Sunday Pancakes

"Shannon," I said, "this is not what it looks like."

"It looks like a seven-foot man in his drawers in your bedroom."

"Six foot four," said Costa.

He pulled the quilt off my bed and wrapped it round his waist with enormous dignity.

Shannon looked him up, then down, then slowly back up again.

"Good morning," she said.

"Morning."

"I'm Shannon. I've been telling her for two years she needs to be touched by someone with hands."

"Shannon."

"I'm just saying. Look at those hands."

Costa looked at his hands.

For the first time since I'd known him, he turned red.

"I'll go put pants on," he said. "Both of you. Downstairs. I'll make breakfast."

He left with the quilt trailing behind him.

Shannon waited until the door shut.

Then she grabbed both my shoulders and shook me.

"Molly Hartigan," she said. "You've been sleeping with the grumpy neighbor and you didn't tell me."

"It happened twenty-four hours ago."

"Is he good?"

"Shannon."

"Is he good?"

I put my face in my hands.

"I couldn't walk right this morning," I said into my palms.

She screamed again, and below us a door slammed, and a gruff voice shouted, "I can hear you."

We went downstairs.

I had been inside Costa's kitchen once, the night before, mostly on top of the counter.

Now I looked around properly.

White cabinets, a long scrubbed wooden table, a coffeemaker older than I was.

On the wall hung a framed photo of an engine company in front of a red truck.

In the middle of the back row stood a big man grinning.

I wouldn't have known him.

I had never seen him grin.

On the table lay a yellow legal pad with a black pen on top of it.

The top sheet had a grocery list, written in neat block capitals.

EGGS. LEMONS. GARLIC. THE GOOD COFFEE.

He hadn't put on a shirt, just gray sweats.

When he turned from the stove, his chest and his scars were all there for Shannon to see.

She didn't stare.

She walked up to him and put a hand flat on his arm.

"Thank you for the pancakes," she said. "I'm going to love you."

"Good."

"Hurt my friend and I'll bury you under the stoop."

"I'm not going to hurt her," Costa said.

"I know. I can tell. You're just very large and very rude."

"I'm working on rude."

"Don't. It's my favorite part."

He slid pancakes onto our plates, thick and golden, with butter melting down the sides.

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