Not a Word Read online

  “So this is your house huh?” Zak doesn’t seem to have noticed I haven’t spoken yet as he walks further into my home. “It’s nothing like ours, is it? It’s a lot bigger, for starters. Not that my mom and I need much space, y’know. It’s still bigger than the last apartment we had in San Diego, and even after one day I know the neighbourhood is better.” He winks at me as if he is including me in this analogy. “At least I have my own room now, with a real bed instead of a couch.” He moves towards the kitchen with Zen jumping at his heels.

  I don’t remember inviting him in—maybe because I haven’t said a word yet? But still, he shouldn’t just assume. My eyes follow his progress through to the kitchen, but my feet stubbornly refuse to move.

  “Oh my god, your kitchen is awesome!” he exclaims as if I’ve followed him. “Do you cook? You must cook—you’ve got, like, fifty different pans. Holy crap, you have one of those refrigerators that dispenses ice. We had one of those at home, and I asked Mom if we could get one here. She told me it was either have an ice dispenser or eat next month, and I figured eating was kinda more important.”

  When I finally manage to uproot my feet from the entrance hall carpet and follow him, he’s already sitting at my breakfast bench, draping his slim body across it and regarding me with bright eyes and an even brighter smile. His long, slender fingers are linked together, and he flicks his eyebrows at me in greeting.

  “I’ve been working in the garden all morning, and it’s hotter than an oven out there. I didn’t think it got so hot in the UK. Mom kicked me out of the house because I was getting in her way, and I guess she needs to organise more than I need to unpack everything at once like it’s Christmas. I got a little carried away.” He snorts then sits up and points to the bottle I still have in my hand. “So, are you gonna offer me one of those beers?”

  I frown. He’s getting a bit ahead of himself, isn’t he? Plus he doesn’t look old enough to even be thinking about drinking beer.

  “H-how old are y-y…?”

  “How old?” He laughs in apparent delight. “I’m twenty-three, dude. Drinking age is eighteen here, right? Do I look younger than that?” He shakes his head, his blonde hair falling over his eyes. He blows it away. “I guess I must, because I get ID’d all the time. You can see my driver’s licence if you want, except it’s on the table in my hall.”

  I purse my lips and narrow my eyes as he regards me with an earnest expression.

  “You don’t believe me?” He gives an exaggerated gasp, as if he’s taken my frown as a challenge. I find myself smirking at his shamelessness, unable to meet his eye for long without blushing.

  His eyes are so blue. They make my dull, brown eyes seem inadequate by comparison.

  He still hasn’t noticed I have yet to speak a full sentence in his presence. Is that because he doesn’t care? Or is it because he usually talks so much he’s used to everyone else not being able to get a word in? While I might not have spoken a full sentence, I don’t think he’s taken a breath between his. Every thought in his head seems to come out of his mouth without any sort of verbal filter.

  I reach into the refrigerator for a beer and hand it to him.

  “Thanks, er, Niall.”

  I gasp and stare at him with wide eyes. How the hell…?

  “I n-n-never t-t-told y-y-you…”

  He grimaces and bites his lip. “Sorry, I’m not psychic, I swear. I didn’t read your mind or anything creepy like that. Please don’t freak out on me. I just assumed this was your mail.” He indicates the pile of opened letters on the breakfast bench. “That’s a nice name, Niall. I have a friend at school, he’s called Neal. Do you think the names mean the same thing?”

  “Sc-school?” I question, since he has just told me he’s twenty-three.

  “I meant had a friend, jeez.” He rolls his eyes—at himself I think, not at me. “I left school five years ago. I went to college over in the States, but we call it school. I had to drop out, just before I graduated, for various reasons. So I need to enrol into a college here once everything’s organised and stuff. Don’t know if they run the same kind of courses. I guess I’m not fighting my case too well, saying I’m still at school when I’m trying to convince you I’m not underage, huh?” He jumps down from the stool and runs to the door. “I’ll go get my driver’s licence, then you’ll know for sure you’re not giving alcohol to a minor.”

  He’s gone before I can stop him. I try to call him back, but I barely stutter past the first four ‘N’s of ‘No need’ and he’s disappeared.

  I look down at Zen in surprise. “Well, do you think he’ll be back, Zen?” He tips his head to one side and gives a small whine, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. He’s wondering where his new friend has gone, while I’m feeling like I’ve been run over by a steamroller. Phew!

  “Hey!”

  I almost jump out of my skin when Zak returns less than a minute later and pops his head inside the kitchen before entering.

  “Whoa, sorry.” He snorts. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Here.” He thrusts the scruffiest looking California driving licence in front of my face. I have to move back in order to view it; even then it’s a little blurred.

  Giving him a self-conscious sideways glance, I pick up my glasses and place them on my nose. His licence comes into focus, and I see that he is indeed twenty-three. His former address was in San Diego. He’s already told me some of the reasons for him coming over here. I doubt I’ll get the opportunity to hear the full story.

  “Nice!” Zak comments, pointing at my glasses. “I have to wear glasses too, but only for distance and driving. I guess it comes with age.”

  I frown, and he gasps and shakes his head.

  “Oh, shit, no, I didn’t mean you. I meant me. That wasn’t a dig at your age, Niall. That’s a really nice name, did I say that already? I guess it’s safe to assume you’re a little older than me, since you got some grey goin’ on there.” He indicates my temples and the silvery streaks that have been developing over the last few years. They show up more in dark hair, unfortunately. My hand moves to my temple to smooth over the silver. His fingers wave close enough for me to feel the rush of air they create. “Don’t cover it up. It’s kinda cute, and dignified. How old are you, Niall? If you don’t mind me asking?”

  Oh god, a direct question, although it took him longer than most people to get to this stage. I feel my heartbeat speeding up, and my breathing becomes shallower in panic. What am I supposed to do now? I try to splutter it out, to no avail. I’m stuck on the ‘F’ like a broken record and holding onto the bench for support.

  “Shit, Niall, you don’t have to answer. I’m just being nosey, so don’t sweat it. You could just write it down if you want, or I could guess, and you can nod if I’m right. Makes no difference to me.” His words are casual, but it’s his smile that blows me away: so concerned, so gentle. That simple action changed his whole demeanour. He’s far more mature than was my initial impression. “But just so you know, Niall.” He continues as I try to concentrate on not blushing furiously. “I heard you talking to Zen just before, and you have a really nice voice, just like your name. Niall.”

  Okay, how many times has he said my name in the last twenty seconds? He’ll wear it out. It sounds nice when he says it, though, and when he elongates the vowels it starts sounding a bit too nice. I’m too caught up in that to worry how unusual it is for someone to just accept that I have trouble speaking and not think I am a complete freak.

  I write down my age. I am twenty years older than him. Gosh! That’s a sobering thought. I mean, I’d assumed he was younger, and it was a relief to find out he is actually over eighteen, but still. There’s a bit of an age gap, isn’t there? It doesn’t stop me looking; it just stops me acting on any kind of attraction. That’s all.

  “Forty-three!” Zak reads over my shoulder, and I see from the corner of my eye that he is nodding. “Cool. Although I gotta say, you don’t look forty-three, Niall. More like thirty, really.�
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  Is it my imagination, or do I detect a hint of disappointment in his tone? Why would that be? I turn to look directly at him but he won’t meet my eye, although it’s not surprising, because he towers above me when he’s standing this close. I’m five foot nine, and I’ve never felt so dwarfed. He must be six foot at least.

  He thought I was younger? I don’t think I look younger. I’m not exactly craggy, but as Zak pointed out, I do have a few grey hairs dotted about my dark head.

  “So, are you gonna show me around?” he asks quickly, a light blush on his cheeks as if he’s revealed something he didn’t want to, and now he’s embarrassed and trying to distract by changing the subject. I have no idea why.

  I think he’s being a bit pushy, and forward, but he’s here and doesn’t seem to give a shit about my stutter. I haven’t yet managed to string two words together and he hasn’t batted an eye. That’s a refreshing change, and he doesn’t appear to think I’m being rude—which I’m not, but a lot of people assume I am—when I just grunt an answer.

  He seemed interested in my garden before, so we’ll start there and see how long this lasts. I indicate that he should follow, and he grins, taking my hint, with Zen jumping about his feet as we go outside.

  “We’ve never had a garden before,” Zak tells me as he inspects the seedlings I’ve just transferred to my flower beds. “I’m looking forward to getting stuck into this one. I think I’ll need to do some research on what to grow in an English garden. Hey, maybe you could help me. You seem to know what you’re doing. Mom says I can pretty much do what I want. Personally, I think she’s saying that to keep me around.” He twists his mouth as he stands to look towards the fence separating his garden and mine. “I’d never leave her to do this on her own.” He whispers so quietly I don’t think I was meant to hear, but I did.

  I feel my breath catch as his entire demeanour changes again. He suddenly seems to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it ages him, making him look far older than his years and actions would suggest.

  “I’ve stayed too long.” He turns to me, and the smile is back on his face, but not in his eyes. He downs the last of his beer and holds the bottle up in salute. “Thanks for the beer, Niall, but I gotta go. Should I put this in your recycling?” I nod and smile, feeling strangely less self-conscious than I usually do when I can’t reply. “Cool.”

  Zen jumps around Zak’s feet as we move to the front door. He chuckles at my dog’s antics and crouches down to give him a farewell scratch.

  “Hey, buddy, I’ll see ya again. I’m just next door. Anytime you wanna escape under the fence feel free to come over.”

  He stands again and winks at me as he does. “Invitation’s open to you too, Niall, although I doubt you’d fit under the fence.” He snorts as I raise an eyebrow in amusement. “See ya, Niall. Thanks for showing me around.”

  He’s gone before I can tell him it was no problem. I think he probably guessed that much anyway.

  Well, there’s a first. I think Zen and I may have made a new friend. I feel like I’ve been hit by a hurricane. My new neighbour’s a bit of a whirlwind.

  Chapter 3

  In which Zen adopts my new neighbour

  Over the next few weeks, Zen takes Zak’s word as gospel and pushes under the fence at every opportunity in order to visit his newfound friend. This inevitably pushes his newfound friend into visiting me in order to return my errant dog to his rightful owner. As a consequence, I have spent quite a bit of time in Zak’s company.

  “I think he thinks we’re his second home.” Zak chuckles as he hands Zen over for the second time today.

  “C-come in f-for c-coffee?” I ask. Zak’s broad smile is the only reason I even attempt the question.

  “Mom says I shouldn’t bother you. I’m just returning Zen to you. I’m not bothering you, am I?”

  “N-not b-bothering me in the slightest, Zak, really.”

  He isn’t. He breezes in with Zen tucked under his arm and fills my house with noise. It isn’t unwelcome. If I’d been asked six weeks ago, I would have given an absolute ‘no’ to having any kind of regular visit from a neighbour. Now, I can’t imagine not having him here every day.

  Zen is still jumping about Zak’s heels and demanding more attention. I roll my eyes at his brazenness.

  “I a-apologise for my s-slut of a m-mutt.” I smile at Zak’s snort. “I c-could b-block the hole in the fence.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Zak looks up, horrified. For a moment, I am struck by how sharply he says this but don’t have time to wonder why, because Zak continues talking at his usual breakneck speed. “Zen’s kinda cute when he turns up on our deck with his nose pressed to the glass of our French doors, wagging his sweet, stumpy little tail. He makes me laugh, y’know? Reminds me of the dog I had when I was a kid.” He scratches Zen’s stomach hoping—I think—that I don’t see his sad expression.

  Zak talks constantly, but always I feel I’m not getting the whole story. He has plenty to say about his life in Southern California. He shares funny stories about his friends and their antics, interspersed with a little homesickness. He talks about what he likes to do and his plans for the future, but there is a distinct lack of information about his family, specifically his dad.

  All I know is that his dad died and had no family, so that’s why Zak’s mum wanted to move back to England to be close to hers. Zak says he was happy to come, but I wonder what it means for him to leave all the places behind that remind him of his father. He never talks about that, and I’m a little afraid to ask. Beneath his cheery, chatty, confident exterior, I think there is quite a fragile young man keeping it together for the sake of his grieving mother. But Zak is grieving too. I can see it in his eyes every time he stops himself from talking about his dad.

  So, yes, I want to ask, but I don’t—and not because it would take me forever to stutter through the questions—because I’m afraid if I do he might break.

  I’m sure he’ll tell me in his own time, someday.

  Zak and Zen have quickly become firm friends. Zen seems to just go gaga over him. It’s funny, really. I mean, Zen is my dog, but I know for a fact if I handed him over to Zak right now he wouldn’t even give me a second thought. It’s like they’re soul mates. Zen sits with him on the sofa, which was an honour only reserved for me before Zak came along. The funniest thing is Zen isn’t really that friendly a dog. He’s always been quite protective of me and wary of strangers—all except Zak, that is.

  So Zen escapes to Zak’s house whenever his canine whim takes him; Zak brings him back and stays to talk. It’s quickly become routine. I don’t really mind. It’s a bit of a novelty having someone visit who actually wants to be here, and Zak’s constant, unconditional chatter is quite refreshing.

  I guess he needs someone to listen, and I’m the nearest ear and someone who conveniently can’t tell him to shut up. Well, I could, but it would take me all day.

  He talks when I’m relaxing in the living room. He talks when I’m busy in the kitchen. He follows me around the house if I’m cleaning. He even helps, which means the jobs get done quicker. I don’t ask him to; I just stuck a cloth and some polish in his hands one day, and he started dusting without breaking his flow.

  He doesn’t seem to have any problem with the fact that I sometimes don’t say a word. I think he knows if I say anything at all, it’s important, because it takes me so damn long I usually don’t bother. At those times, he always listens, never tries to hurry me and never puts words in my mouth. He just waits, as if what I’m saying is the only thing in the world that matters. I’m sure that’s just my perception of it, though. He waits because he’s polite and patient, and he probably doesn’t have anything better to do.

  I suppose what I’m saying is that I enjoy his company, even though I know he’s really just here for Zen.

  “You’re like one of those Ents in Lord of the Rings, Niall,” he jokes as I hand him his coffee having given up trying to ask about his d
ay because I couldn’t get past the ‘H’ in ‘How’. When I scowl and turn away, he laughs and grabs my arm. “No, I don’t mean because you look old and craggy like a tree, because you really don’t.” I know what he meant, I’ve read Lord of the Rings. “I mean because Ents never say anything unless it’s worth taking a long time to say it. They take all morning just to say ‘hello’.”

  I still take offence, and then I want to laugh at the way he tries to backtrack and sticks his foot even further in his mouth. I eventually put him out of his misery and tell him it’s okay—taking about ten minutes to say it.

  “H-how is y-your m-m-mum?” I ask out of politeness, and because sometimes I feel a little guilty that he does all the talking.

  I’ve yet to meet his mum. I know her name is Rachel, and she’s waved to me from a distance, but I always manage to duck inside the house before there’s any danger of her making her way across the drive to talk to me. She probably thinks I’m a right grumpy bastard. I haven’t even looked at her long enough to be able to describe her. How neighbourly is that, for god’s sake? Not for the first time, I think I may have turned into a bit of a recluse.

  Zen jumps about Zak’s feet for attention, and Zak absently scratches at the dog’s ears before settling on a stool at my breakfast bench and replying to my enquiry.

  “Mom’s okay, I guess.” His usual lengthy response to any of my questions is not forthcoming, and it distracts me from my own thoughts. I regard him as he draws circles on my bench with his forefinger. He looks unhappy.

  I sit down beside him at the bench and try to meet his eye.

  “T-tell m-me,” I urge, wondering if he’s ready to open up a little more, or just share something about the grief he’s feeling but obviously can’t show at home because he doesn’t want to upset his mum.

  He smiles, laughing softly, then shrugs.

  “I don’t know, Niall. She always seems to get so pissed off with me. She tells me I should be out trying to make friends. What am I, six? I can hardly go to the play park and pick up a few best buddies, can I? I’d get arrested.” He rolls his eyes, and I can’t help laughing. He grimaces as he continues. “We had a fight last night, about how I should get out more and not spend so much time…” He stops himself. He does occasionally put his verbal filters in place, but I think he may have been about to say his mother thinks he comes over here too much.