Why does Hugo blast this song on this day?
Why does he cry every night?
I’ve never bothered to find out. The old me would stick my head in the sand and forget it, not get involved, not put myself out there, much less risk having to interact with a stranger and every mortifying possibility that comes along with it.
But once the question enters my mind, I can’t get rid of it.
Why?
And it’s not like I have anything better to do.
By the time I take a leisurely shower and get dressed in some jeans and a comfy tee, the music has stopped. Gathering the tattered remnants of my courage, I exit my apartment and walk down the hall to the neighbor’s. I knock, a few short raps, and then twist my hands together. I’m a little jittery, but I can do this.
I’ve seen him around, so I know he’s a big guy, but when the door swings open and he’s actually standing in front of me with a questioning—is it also menacing?—countenance, the reality is enough to make my throat close and my heart race.
Maybe I can’t do this.
He’s got to be at least six seven. His arms flex. Maybe a body builder or something. Hit man. Assassin.
“Can I help you?” His voice is a deep bass, his expression stone serious.
But the crying at night . . . there has to be more here than what it seems, and since there’s no tomorrow, I guess self-preservation has been tossed out the window along with my sanity.
I take a breath and blurt it out. “Why do you play that song?”
His brows descend, a furrow forming between his eyes. “I know it was too loud. I’m sorry, I’ve had . . . a bad morning.” The hard exterior dips slightly.
He’s apologizing? No dying for me today, I guess.
“It’s fine,” I rush. “It’s—I was curious and—” My gaze lands on a dress hanging just inside the door on a coat rack. “Oh wow, what a beautiful dress.”
It’s a vibrant red gown with a fitted top and tulle skirt. The tulle glitters under the light and I squint. Is there silvery thread embedded in the fabric? I’m itching to get a better look.
“Oh.” He turns, glancing at the dress and then back at me.
“May I?”
He blinks, stares at me in silence for a couple seconds before stepping aside. “Um. Yes. Sure.”
After a slight hesitation, I walk past him and pull it down, further into the light, handling it with care. Thick tank straps connected to an A-line skirt fluffed with tulle, and yes, silver thread weaves flowery patterns into the fabric. It’s clearly handmade and designed for someone of large stature. Someone the size of the man hulking behind me.
“Oh, no.” My fingers graze over a spot on the side. I pull it closer to examine the seam. “There’s a tear here.” I glance up at him.
He stares at me in silence for a lengthy beat, and I think maybe he’s going to kick me out or yell at me. This might be when the murder happens.
But then he bursts into tears.
Shocked, I stare while he blubbers with great heaving sobs, massive shoulders shuddering. What does one do in this situation? Is a hug appropriate?
I hang the dress back up and pat him awkwardly on the arm. “It’s okay.”
The shaking subsides, but the tears keep coming, tripping down his face.
Oh dear.
This is great, Jane. The first time you meet your neighbor after living next to him for however many years and you make him cry. Perfect.
“I can probably fix the dress for you,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I have matching thread, or something close enough, anyway.”
He doesn’t respond at first, covering his face with his hands.
I glance around but can’t find tissues or anything. His apartment is set up like mine, so, leaving him in the entry, I run to the bathroom and grab some toilet paper. The counter is covered in jars of makeup, foundation, eye shadow, a whole box full of lipsticks of varying colors. He has more makeup than I’ve owned my entire life.
“Hugo, here.” I hand him the toilet paper to wipe up his face.
After a few more hiccups, he gathers his breath. “How do you know my name?”
I freeze. Oh yeah. “Oh, the neighbor this morning. He was yelling it.”
And it’s hard to forget when I’ve heard it fourteen thousand times.
“Oh. That makes sense.” He shifts. “The dress.” He gestures to it with one giant, thrown-out hand. “It doesn’t fit me. I was measured for it three months ago and I think,” he blows out a heavy breath, “I’ve gained weight.”
I look him up and down. He’s literally all muscle. Weight where? “Oh. Hmm. May I?” I point at the dress and he nods.
I pull it down again, examining the seams and the tear.
“I can fix this and then let it out. Maybe an inch or two. Do you think that will be enough?” I lift my gaze to his.
Wide eyes meet mine. Hopeful eyes. Eyes sheened with moisture, but at least the sobbing has stopped.
I continue. “If we need more than a couple inches, I could panel in more fabric. I don’t have anything matching, but I might have a complementary color, and we could hide some of it under the tulle.”
Hope and wonder fill his eyes. “You could do that?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “I used to be a seamstress, just for fun. Before I started my real career.” The phrase is rote, something I’ve said numerous times. I smile but it’s strained. I suppose I should have said it was my real career. That turned out well, didn’t it? I might have a roof over my head but does it matter if I’m living in purgatory?
“Who are you?” His voice is gravel, threaded with curiosity.
“I’m your neighbor.” I stick out my hand. “Jane Stewart.”
“Hugo Lamaire.” He takes my hand and offers a courtly bow over my fingers that doesn’t quite match his intimidating appearance.
I laugh. “Well,
