Free Love at First Note by Jenny Proctor Page B

“Hello.” We stood there face-to-face for what felt like an interminable pause. He was in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking my path, so I waited, wondering if he was going to step out of the way or, I don’t know, say hello back, maybe. Since that was generally the kind of thing neighbors did.
    “What are you doing here?” he finally asked.
    Wait. What? What was
I
doing there?
    He must have mistaken my confusion for embarrassment because he said, “Look—do you want me to sign something? A CD? A photograph, maybe?”
    Wait! What?
    Sign something?
    Words.
    I needed words to talk my way out of this one. I spoke slowly, without stuttering, without saying one single um.
Go me!
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    Elliott sighed. “First you show up at my apartment. Then you follow me to the family ward, even though I told you I wasn’t interested in singles activities. I’ve seen you lurking around all week, sitting in your car, watching me. I’m sure you’re a really nice person, Emma. It’s Emma, right? And I don’t mean to take any of this out on you personally, but I moved to get away from this kind of stuff.”
    Oh my
. I couldn’t decide if it was more hilarious that Elliott Hart had just accused me of being a stalker or more hilarious that he still thought we had a singles ward. I shook my head. “You’ve really got the wrong idea.”
    “Do I?”
    He was still blocking the sidewalk, so I cut into the grass and moved to the front of the house. “First of all, I’m here because I live here. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
    “You live here?
Here,
here?”
    “Right next door to you,” I said. “I’m Lilly’s roommate.”
    He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into his hand—a literal facepalm. Good. Decent of him to at least feel chagrined.
    “Second, there’s never been a singles ward in Asheville. The young single adults group pretty much consists of four freshman girls from UNCA, Darren Fishbaum, and me. That’s it.”
    He blinked. “Darren, the little tiny guy who spoke today?”
    “That’s him. ” I shifted my violin to my other shoulder and reached for the front door. “Honestly, Elliott, I knocked on your door last week because the bishop knew we were going to be neighbors and asked that I welcome you and say hello. I got a little tongue-tied—I guess it was exciting to meet you in person—but really, truly, I’m not going to bother you again. You can play your piano and make your music, and I promise to let Darren know whenever he wants a ride to the stake singles activities he better not call you.” I stepped into the entryway and nearly had the door closed behind me when he stopped me with a question.
    “Why did you pretend like you didn’t know who I was?” He didn’t sound defensive, just curious, like he was trying to make new sense of me.
    I turned back. “Why did you automatically assume that I did?”
    “Maybe I did assume. But I’ve gotten pretty good at reading people. When people know who I am, they just . . .” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “They see celebrity and think that somehow gives them the right to insert themselves into my life. They hang out in front of my house or send hundreds of e-mails to my mother or call up my old girlfriend to see if she’ll tell any stories about me. I know that’s not what you did, but from the way you were acting, it just seemed like . . .” He shook his head, his words trailing off into nothing.
    His answer held more honesty than I’d expected, laced with a hint of what seemed almost like regret. I could only imagine trying to date or have a normal life when so many people were interested in your personal activities. He was probably constantly wondering if people were sincere in their interest to get to know him or just enamored by the glitz of fame. Suddenly I understood why moving to a tiny duplex in West Asheville had such appeal.
    Still, he was wrong about me.