Basic Neighbors

Chapter 9

Alton was to be avoided at all costs. His presence sent a shiver down my spine and I made sure to time my outings to ensure that our paths wouldn't cross. I needed at least 15 minutes of buffer time from when he left his apartment until I could safely leave mine. The mere thought of having to engage in conversation with him filled me with dread, and I couldn't bring myself to face him anytime soon.

My apple butter, my pride and joy, had done something incredible. It had freed me from the 9-to-5 grind, the clattering subway rides, and the gray cubicle walls that seemed to inch closer every day. For over two months, that sweet, spicy spread had been more than just a hit at the local farmers' markets; it was my ticket to a life handcrafted by my own hands.

The city hummed outside, a relentless rhythm of car horns and distant chatter. It was like a current, always threatening to pull you along whether you wanted to go or not. But here I was, paddling against it, with nothing but jars of apple butter and a dream that smelled like cinnamon and success.

"Jade Sullivan," I whispered to myself, "what are you so afraid of?"

Was it the thought of my jars, lined up on Budget Bunker's cold shelves, stripped of their homemade charm? Or maybe it was the idea of success that felt too much like surrendering. Either way, my heart was a pendulum swinging between 'sell out' and 'sold out', and I wasn't sure which side I feared falling on more.

"Get a grip," I urged myself, feeling the weight of the city bear down on me. The apples wouldn't pick themselves, and the butter wouldn't stir itself into existence. That much was clear. What wasn't clear was if I was ready to let go of the reins and let my creation gallop into the sunset without me.

With a sigh, I stepped away from my hideout, leaving the canned vegetables to their silent vigil. Alton would have to wait because I had some serious soul-searching to do. And soul-searching, much like apple butter making, required patience, a dash of spice, and a whole lot of heart.

The week dripped by like honey—slow, sticky, sweet with the tension of avoidance. Every time I'd see a flash of blond hair or catch a whiff of cologne that had Alton written all over it, my heart would do a little skip. Not from excitement, but from the gnawing need to dodge yet another conversation about my apple butter's future.

"Stay casual, Jade," I'd mutter, taking the stairs two at a time to escape the possibility of bumping into him in the elevator. My sneakers scuffed against the steps, a rhythmic reminder that I was running away from more than just my neighbor—I was dodging the crossroads of my own making.

I'd hear the shuffle and clank from Alton's apartment through the thin walls, his moving boxes gossiping about his busy life. It was a relief, really. His preoccupation with cardboard and packing tape meant my daily ballet of evasion went unnoticed. Or so I hoped.

"Good for him," I said out loud one evening, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers. "Good for me." But the words tasted like stale bread—unsatisfying and hard to swallow.

As the city hummed its relentless lullaby outside my window, I couldn't help but wonder if Alton got the hint. My lack of enthusiasm wasn't exactly subtle. I was a marquee without lights, a song stuck on mute—a woman fiercely guarding her small batch legacy against the tide of mass-market appeal.

"Is silence enough?" I pondered, tracing patterns in the condensation of my tea mug, lost in the labyrinth of steam and indecision. The quiet between us grew louder each day, a crescendo of unsaid things, like the space between stars—vast, mysterious, pregnant with the unknown.

"Maybe he's too caught up in his own chaos to notice mine," I speculated, wrapping my fingers around the cup for warmth. But deep down, I knew Alton's absence was just a temporary reprieve. Sooner or later, we'd have to face the music—a duet of ambition and friendship, playing to the tune of what could be.