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Sometimes in life, you just have to accept maybe you're never going to be happy. Today was one of those days that vividly reminded you of that fact. It felt like everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. Not only was it one of those days, but it was Saint Patrick's Day to top it all off. By the time you got home, the few small decorations in your condo felt mocking, and throwing them away hadn't helped to improve your mood.
After holding it in all day, you finally sat on the couch, ready to let the emotions of the day wash over you. Only a few minutes later, you heard it. A basketball game, the sound blasting right through the wall so loud it was unignorable. You are well aware that you and your neighbor shared this wall in your duplex, but typically it was a sound range deemed acceptable for a sharded wall. Something you could live with and had accepted.
Today though, this was louder than ever, and hearing a loud March Madness basketball game on St. Patrick's Day was the last possible thing you could handle. You take a few minutes trying to compose yourself, instead though, you felt anger spark in you so bright it was unignorable. Then before you know it, you were out your door and knocking strongly.
It took a few minutes before the door opened, and you had forgotten just how hot your neighbor was. Jake Seresin was tall and broad, and you had never seen him supporting anything besides a classic clean cut look. He didn't look that different than normal, but he certainly looked more casual than you were custom to. Typically you didn't interact with him much; you actually avoided him because he was one of those people that were overwhelming. He always supported wide smiles and flirty remarks exuding a sure confidence. And today, the way his green teeshirt and soft hair that clearly hadn't been touched with gel as it dried, looking picturesque and happy like he had the perfect Saint Paddy's Day, you hated him a little bit.
"Oh hey, clover," Jake says, his lips quirking up in a fond smile.
"Clover? Come on, Jake. No, I'm your neighbor, the one from next door."
"Yeah, I know who you are," Jake says, rolling his eyes. Then he lifts a hand and brushes it over his cheekbone, matter-a-factly adding, "You have a piece of four leaf clover glitter right here. It's cute though, a very festive clover."
You copy his motion brushing your cheek, trying to find the glitter piece, not sure where it could have come from. When you glance back at Jake, he is shaking his head, motioning to the other cheek. You felt a flash of embarrassment burn in your chest, quickly brushing your other cheek as well. Jake shook his head in response again. Then he reaches up, giving you time to move away if you choose to; however, you are frozen in place. His knuckles settle against your skin while his thumb presses gently near the corner of your left eye. The moment is quick, hardly more than a second or two. However, it feels like an eternity to you.
Gaining your bearings, Jake is already leaning back against the side of his door. His arms crossing over his chest, making his biceps bulge. Your eyes snap back to his green ones, and you refocus on why you were here.
"Thank you. Sorry to bother you, but can you please turn down your TV? It's blasting." Internally you try not to curse over how the niceties you didn't really feel inside spill from your mouth, cushioning your words.
"Sure thing. Sorry about that. You know you could have just texted me," Jake says, quirking an eyebrow with a shrug. He said the words so casually, like it would be obvious you have his number. He said it as if everyone in the world just gets their phone, and it automatically has Lieutenant Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin's phone number added to the contacts app.
"Just turn it down, please," you sigh.
"I will. Again, I'm sorry about that. Do you have some big St. Patrick's Day plans I was interrupting?"
"No, I just wanted to go to bed."
"Oh no, did your work hours change?" He asks.
"Same as they've been. I'm just tired, you know?"
"Yeah, I totally understand that, Clover."
"No, Jake. Clover is not the cute sweet name that you think it is."
"I think it is, actually, Clover," he tells you with a wide grin.
"Well, have a good night," you say, taking a small step backward, trying to end the conversation.
"If you decide you're not tired, please feel free to come over later. Some people are going to come over for dinner, and we were going to watch the games. I'm sorry about that. I didn't think it would be a bother on a holiday Friday. I'll pivot us out to the bar after dinner, though. Just text me if it gets too loud. It takes me almost twenty eight minutes exactly to get everyone into the taxi for the bar."
"Have you been timing yourself?" You ask jokingly.
"Yeah, of course. There have been several trials and drills, all meticulously timed from when the taxi is ordered, which is a contributing factor. I shaved off six whole minutes when I figured out the proper order to hang people's coats in the closet. It was a real game changer." Jake answers you very seriously, which makes you laugh a little at him. It's much too close to a giggle for your liking, though.
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm going to bed. You don't have to change your plans, though. I'll just go to my room and wear some headphones."
"It's an open invite," he reminds you.
"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you," You answer, taking another step back and raising your hand in a wave goodbye. As you do, a smoke alarm starts going off behind Jake. His eyes widen, and his smile drops. Spinning on his heel, Jake rushes back into his house, leaving his door wide open.
Concerned, you nervously follow inside after him. Noticing the shoe racks and small mud areas, you quickly toe out of your shoes, rushing in to help him. Jake's condo is an odd mirror of your own. Set up in nearly the same design but not wholly in the ways you were expecting. His kitchen is placed on the far side of the condo while yours joined the living room a bit more open.
Loud cursing leads you to him, and instinctually you open windows, trying to clear out the smoke. Jake is beating a newspaper toward the smoke alarm trying to clear out the smoke and get the device to stop its piercing shrill.
"What's on fire?" You ask, looking around the kitchen.
"The cabbage. I put it out in the sink." In the sink, you see the charred charcoal in a pan that remains of the leaves. Seeing a magazine, you stand near the window waving it, trying to bring new air into the space.
"What are you making?"
"It's Saint Patrick's Day. I'm, of course, making corned beef and cabbage."
"I see… is this your first time making it?" You are shocked that Jake looks almost sheepish. His shoulders hunching lightly with a slight grimace.
"It is, but I thoroughly read the directions. However, got cocky and thought I could try and roast the cabbage instead. I made that choice freestyle, though– no recipe. I just didn't want soggy cabbage that falls apart."
"Ahh well, if you want it crunchier, you just wilt it for a few minutes before eating. Also, you should really throw a lid on your corn beef and add more broth, or Guinness beer, or whatever you're using. It's going to dry out otherwise."
"Woah, are you secretly a chef?" He asks you curiously. The smoke mostly cleared out. Now you drift back to the kitchen trying to gauge what else he might be a little off on.
"Sorry for the unsolicited advice. But I've definitely cooked a few corned beefs in my life."
"I appreciate it. Personally, as great of an independent study I am, having a teacher really makes a world of difference."
"I'm sure you say that to all the girls," you tease.
"I don't," he answers thoughtfully, leaving the smoke alarm that had finally quieted. "Do you think I should, though? Would asking someone how to cook something be a pick up line?"
"I couldn't tell you. Let's focus on your dinner and make sure you have some edible dinner for your friends when they get here."
"Yes, Ma'am," Jake says, opening a drawer. You watch as he pulls out a notepad made of grid paper and a green pen that he clicks three times before leaving it poised on the page.
Offering advice quickly starts to become supervising Jake as he remedies the dish. Constantly stopping to take down notes whenever you happen to say something that he thinks is helpful. You aren't entirely sure how it happens, but you go from explaining why it's important to check the potatoes since they were added so late in his cooking process to talking about movies and books you two have read and enjoyed lately. Then starting to spiral even further into a story about the first time Jake saw Tristan & Isolde.
"Honestly, Clover, you are a lifesaver and my hero. I gotta pay you back for this." Jake eventually says after checking his apple watch and muttering the time to himself.
"No payment needed. I was just doing the neighborly thing. If you ever need a cup of sugar, don't hesitate to let me know," you laugh, trying to redirect his gratitude away, so it wasn't shining on you so directly.
"No really, it would have been embarrassing to offer people inedible dinner. Actually, you should come over tonight free drinks, food, and I have this friend I would love to introduce you to. Y'all are going to get on like a grease fire, I'm sure of it."
You feel suddenly hollow at Jake's words, a startling reminder of reality. Jake really was like the sun catching things in his gravity and constantly pulling, shifting, and bending reality and time.
"Maybe some other time, Jake." You answer as sweet and levelly as you can. "I really gotta go, but y'all have fun tonight."
"Okay, next time then," he says with his eyes slightly narrowed but otherwise leaving it. He walks with you back through his house, waiting as you put your shoes back on.
"Thank you for taking off your shoes. I would have hated to mop again today. Thank you for helping me, not just with the dinner but the smoke too. That was super kind of you."
"No problem. Now, don't lift that lid until people show up and are ready to eat."
"I won't. I took good notes on the directions, I promise." He answers you, holding open the door for you.
"I know. Have a good night Jake." You say, passing through the door and heading back to your own house.
"Happy St. Paddy's Day!" He calls after you.
You just throw a hand up in acknowledgment and close your door. When you make it back to your living room, you can no longer hear Jake's TV. You do follow through with your plans, boarding yourself up in your room with headphones on, trying to forget the day and your blossoming attraction to your neighbor. Later that night, when you find yourself having to check the mail, you are startled to find a glass Tupperware on your front porch with leftovers all bundled together in a beeswax cloth.
On top was a small note card with a detailed four leaf clover drawn on it. On the back side, in a flowing cursive, Jake had written: Thank you, Clover. The short note followed by his name. Running your fingers over the drawing, you feel the little crush you had become a CRUSH. Developing a real, tangible attachment to an unattainable uninterested man feels like the cherry on top of your bad day. It's also, unfortunately, a problem you don't think sleep and a weekend off work will fix. Yes, you're without a doubt doomed to not be happy, and Jake is the worst reminder of it yet.