It Says Love Thy Neighbor, Not Love-Hate Thy Neighbor

The walk-up on Decatur Street had a personality.

Not charm. Not character.

Personality.

It groaned in the winter like it was personally offended by the cold. It sweated in the summer like it had something to prove. The pipes clanged with the kind of righteous indignation usually reserved for comment sections and family group chats. The banister wobbled just enough to make you wonder if today was the day.

Thomas O’Rourke—Tommy to literally everyone but his boss and his dentist—lived on the third floor in Apartment 3B, where the radiator hissed like an angry cat and the kitchen sink took twelve full seconds to decide whether it wanted to cooperate.

Across the hall, in Apartment 3A, lived Francesca DeLuca.

Cheska.

The problem.

He didn’t call her that to her face, of course. To her face he called her things like “You’re kidding me right now,” or “Do you ever sleep?” or, on particularly rough mornings, “For the love of—”

She called him “Tommy.”

Which, somehow, was worse.

It wasn’t the name. It was the way she said it. Like it was three syllables and an accusation.

“Tom-my.”

This morning, for instance, Tommy was running late.

He yanked open his apartment door, shrugging into his jacket, keys between his teeth—and came face to face with a potted monstrosity the size of a toddler.

He froze.

The plant froze.

Somewhere across the hall, Francesca’s door opened.

“Oh, good,” she said brightly. “You found Gerald.”

Tommy pulled the keys out of his mouth. “Why is there a ficus in the hallway?”

“He’s a fiddle-leaf fig.”

“That is a ficus with a LinkedIn profile.”

“He needs sunlight.”

“He needs to be in your apartment.”

“He was in my apartment. But the light’s better out here between nine and noon.”

Tommy looked at the window at the end of the hall. Then back at the plant. Then back at her.

“You put your plant in a shared hallway to tan.”

“It’s not tanning, it’s photosynthesizing.”

“It’s blocking my exit.”

“You’re very capable of walking around Gerald.”

“I shouldn’t have to detour around a houseplant to go to work.”

She crossed her arms. “Some of us care about living things.”

“I care about living things. I just don’t force them into communal traffic lanes.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being horticulturally aggressive.”

They stared at each other.

Gerald stared at nothing.

“Move it,” Tommy said.

“No.”

“I will waterboard that plant.”

“You touch one leaf—”

“Then move it!”

“No!”

He sighed, loudly, the sigh of a man wronged by both fate and interior decorating.

“Unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He stepped around Gerald with exaggerated care, muttering something about municipal codes and weaponized botany as he went down the stairs.

Behind him, Cheska watched him go.

Then she smiled, just a little.

Tommy worked at a print shop in Bushwick that specialized in wedding invitations, boutique business cards, and the occasional zine for someone who insisted they were “reviving the spirit of analog media.”

Jared worked there too.

Jared believed in three things: iced coffee in all seasons, longboarding to work regardless of weather, and minding absolutely none of his business.

“So let me get this straight,” Jared said, leaning against the counter as the Heidelberg hummed behind them. “Your neighbor put a plant in the hallway.”

“It’s not a plant,” Tommy said. “It’s the plant.”

“Oh, the plant.”

“She named it.”

Jared nodded gravely. “Unforgivable.”

“She calls it Gerald.”

“Okay, that’s actually worse.”

“And it’s just… there. Like it pays rent. Like it’s on the lease.”

“Have you considered,” Jared said carefully, “that you might be overreacting?”

“I had to navigate around foliage to get to my job.”

“Foliage is a strong word.”

“It has a trunk.”

Jared took a long sip of iced coffee. “You talk about her a lot.”

“I do not.”

“You do. It’s like—” he snapped his fingers, searching for the analogy. “It’s like when people say they hate a movie but then they’ve seen it six times and know all the lines.”

“I don’t hate her.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I just—she’s—she’s—”

“A woman who lives across the hall from you.”

“She plays music at night.”

“It’s 7:30.”

“It’s weeknights.”

“She bakes for the entire building.”

“She stress-bakes.”

“And then gives you free cannoli.”

“I didn’t ask for cannoli!”

“You ate six.”

“That’s not the point!”

Jared’s mouth twitched.

“You like her.”

Tommy blinked. “I do not like her.”

“You’re in love with her.”

Tommy dropped a stack of cardstock.

“I am not—what—no—”

“You are absolutely in love with her.”

“I am absolutely in love with not having this conversation.”

Jared shrugged. “Denial’s a stage.”

On the other side of the city—and several time zones away—Summer Smith picked up on the third ring.

“Do you know what he did today?” Cheska demanded by way of greeting.

Summer didn’t even open her eyes. “Good morning to you too.”

“It’s not morning there, is it?”

“It’s 6:14 a.m., Cheska.”

“Why do you live in Utah?”

“Because not all of us require sirens and subway delays to feel alive.”

“He threatened Gerald.”

Summer sat up. “He threatened the plant?”

“He said he’d waterboard him.”

“Okay, that’s funny.”

“It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny.”

“He’s impossible.”

“You’ve been saying that for three years.”

“He leaves his shoes outside his door.”

“So?”

“So they’re there.”

“In the hallway.”

“Yes.”

“Like your plant.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes! Shoes are… shoe-shaped.”

Summer made a noise that might have been agreement or might have been a yawn.

“You like him,” she said.

Cheska choked. “I do not like him.”

“You complain about him constantly.”

“Because he’s constantly complainable.”

“You called me last week because he shoveled the front steps and didn’t salt properly.”

“It was a slipping hazard!”

“You made him brownies.”

“That was a peace offering.”

“You put extra chocolate chips in.”

“That’s just how I bake!”

Summer flopped back onto her pillow.

“You’re in love with him.”

“I am not in love with my neighbor!”

“You’re in love with your neighbor.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Love you!”

“Goodnight—good morning—whatever!”

She ended the call and glared at her phone.

Then, because she was Francesca DeLuca and incapable of leaving things alone, she went into the kitchen and started baking.

The building lost hot water on Thursday.

This was not unusual.

What was unusual was the way it happened—mid-shower, with no warning, and with the kind of icy betrayal that made Tommy yelp in a pitch he would later deny under oath.

Ten minutes later, wrapped in a hoodie and righteous indignation, he knocked on 3A.

Cheska opened the door in fuzzy socks and a flour-dusted T-shirt.

“Hi,” she said, surprised.

“There’s no hot water.”

“I’m aware.”

“You’re aware?”

“It went out twenty minutes ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“How would I tell you, Tommy? Telepathically?”

“You could have knocked.”

“So could you.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point is that now I have shampoo in my hair and no way to rinse it.”

She blinked.

“You came over here with shampoo in your hair.”

“It’s subtle!”

“It’s mint.”

They stared at each other.

“…Do you want to use my shower?” she asked.

He hesitated.

“…Is it hot?”

“Yes.”

“…Why is yours hot?”

“I don’t know, Tommy, maybe God likes me better.”

Five minutes later he was in her bathroom, staring at a collection of labeled jars that looked like they’d been curated by a very organized witch.

Lavender.

Eucalyptus.

Sea Salt Scrub.

He used the plainest bottle he could find and got out as quickly as possible.

When he emerged, toweling his hair, she handed him a mug.

“Coffee,” she said.

He took it.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was a pause.

“You’re dripping on my floor.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Another pause.

Gerald watched from the window.

“…Your place smells like vanilla,” he said finally.

“I was baking.”

“I noticed.”

“I have extras.”

“I figured.”

“Do you want one?”

He did.

He really did.

“…Sure.”

That night, Tommy lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

Across the hall, someone laughed.

He didn’t know how long he listened before he realized it was Cheska, on the phone again, voice warm in a way he’d never heard it directed at him.

He rolled over.

Tried not to listen.

Failed.

In Utah, Summer said, “You let him use your shower.”

“He had shampoo in his hair!”

“You gave him coffee.”

“I’m not a monster.”

“You gave him a muffin.”

“I had extras!”

“You’re in love with him.”

“I am not in love with him.”

“Cheska.”

“Summer.”

“Francesca.”

“…don’t use my government name against me.”

Summer grinned into the phone.

“You’re in love with him.”

Across the hall, Tommy pressed his pillow over his face.

On Saturday, the fire alarm went off at 2:17 a.m.

There was no fire.

There never was.

But there was a building-wide evacuation, and a very cold stoop, and the shared misery of thirty-two tenants in various states of pajamas.

Cheska stood next to him, arms folded, breath fogging in the air.

“Your fault,” she said.

“My fault?”

“You made toast earlier.”

“At six p.m.”

“And now the universe is punishing us.”

“That’s not how toast works.”

They stood there for a moment.

Then—

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m not.”

He took off his jacket.

“Tommy—”

“Just—take it.”

She did.

Their fingers brushed.

Neither of them said anything.

On Monday, Jared said, “So when are you going to ask her out?”

On Monday, Summer said, “So when are you going to ask him out?”

On Monday, Tommy said, “Never.”

On Monday, Cheska said, “Absolutely not.”

On Monday, Gerald photosynthesized in the hallway between nine and noon, and the building groaned, and the pipes clanged, and the banister wobbled—

—and somewhere between annoyance and affection, between hallway plants and borrowed showers, between cannoli and improperly salted steps—

something shifted.

Neither of them would say it.

But they didn’t have to.

Not yet.