Chapter 12. The Neighbor’s Advance

When I stepped across the threshold of the living room, reality glitched for a moment. On my usual couch, surrounded by the lace doilies my mom had embroidered and the floral cushions, sat the neighbor. Her presence cut through that conservative coziness like a neon sign in an antique shop: her bright pink hair looked like an unnatural stain against the beige wallpaper, and the intricate tattoos winding over the pale skin of her arms sharply contrasted with the delicate handles of the porcelain tea set from which she was sipping.

“Tom,” Mom beamed. She was practically glowing with delight at finally having company for her endless tea sessions. “We’ve got a guest!”

“I noticed,” I said, giving the girl a measured look. The feeling that she was following me with some hidden agenda grew stronger by the second.

“Hi, Tom,” she waved casually, not even bothering to set her cup back on the saucer.

“Hello,” my voice came out drier than a year old cracker. I shifted my gaze to Mom. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

“This is a friendly neighborly visit, Thomas. Don’t be such a grouch. Look, Stephanie even brought wonderful homemade cookies for tea.”

Stephanie. So that was her name.

“Got it,” I tossed back, already turning to retreat into the safe silence of my room.

“Where do you think you’re going, Thomas Ross?” There was a metallic edge in Mom’s voice that usually signaled a long lecture on morals. “Gonna bury yourself in that computer again? We’ve got a guest in the house, show at least a drop of manners!”

I froze. A wave of cold irritation rose inside me.

“Mom, I’m not fifteen anymore, I don’t have to entertain your friends on command,” I cut her off without turning around. “Every minute of my time’s accounted for. Right now, according to my schedule, I should be studying Spanish.”

I could practically feel her drilling into my back with an angry stare. A heavy pause settled over the room. To her credit, Stephanie showed unexpected tact: she did not interfere in our little family drama and simply went quiet, trying to blend into the couch upholstery as much as possible.

I had already taken a step toward the door, celebrating a small victory, when my brain suddenly issued a warning. Fatal error. If I pushed Mom into genuine offense right now, she would simply stop cooking. That meant my reactor, which required a colossal number of calories to maintain form and recover after training, would be left without fuel. I would have to cook for myself. Three hours a day at the stove just to avoid collapsing from exhaustion? No, every minute of my day was already planned, and that kind of time loss would be a strategic catastrophe.

I stopped abruptly and slowly turned back, pointedly glancing at the clock.

“On second thought…” I forced out something resembling a conciliatory smile. “I’ve got fifteen minutes till eight. I guess I can spare that time for our guest.”

“I was actually about to leave in fifteen minutes,” Stephanie said with a soft smile, and I noticed the crease of anger on Mom’s forehead smooth out instantly. Crisis averted at the last second. Pure tactics.

I dropped into the empty armchair, feeling the pleasant ache in my body after the gym. Pouring myself a full glass of milk, I grabbed a chocolate chip cookie. It turned out surprisingly good, crumbly and still carrying a faint hint of vanilla.

“What were you talking about?” I asked, trying to give my voice a casual, social tone.

“About dogs, but I doubt you’d find it interesting,” Stephanie replied, watching closely as I drained the glass in three gulps. “Tom, are you really studying Spanish? Taking it seriously?”

“Sí, amiga,” I gave a short nod, enjoying how easily the foreign word rolled off my tongue.

“By the way, Tom, did you know Stephanie has roots in Argentina?” Mom cast the line with such an obvious hint that I almost rolled my eyes. “You could practice together. Live communication’s so important!”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all for me to set aside a couple of hours a day to help you with pronunciation,” the girl confirmed, and for a brief moment something strange flickered in her eyes.

“I’m afraid my level’s still too low for full conversations,” I deflected the topic tactfully but firmly. “But I’ll remember your offer. Maybe I’ll take you up on it later, once I stop mixing up articles.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll happen very soon,” Mom said conspiratorially, winking at Stephanie. “My son has a real talent. He picks everything up instantly, mastering in a single evening what others study for months.”

“Must be nice,” Stephanie looked at me with a long, studying gaze. It held either genuine respect or a hidden, cold calculation. “Still, Tom, why do you need Spanish? Planning to rush off to Ibiza or Madrid this summer?”

“The skill’s necessary for work,” I answered with the plain truth, knowing that the best lie is one built from facts. “In the near future I’ll have to communicate closely with colleagues from Latin America. Business, you know.”

“Wow, seriously? Talking with foreigners is insanely cool! Where do you work now?” Her curiosity seemed almost childlike, but I did not let my guard down.

Mom, to her great credit, showed remarkable restraint. She pretended to be just as unaware of my activities, giving me room to construct my own cover story. The old tale about a boring office no longer worked: all week I had been running around the city at all hours, stopped wearing ties, and started to look like someone who spent more time at a shooting range than with Excel sheets.

“I got a very profitable offer from the defense department,” I said, not lying a single word again. “A contract with the army. I’m not allowed to disclose details, you understand, non-disclosure agreement and all that.”

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“Whoa!” Stephanie’s eyes lit up with genuine interest, and she even leaned forward. “I’ve seen you disappearing into the gym every day. Is that all because of army requirements?”

“Exactly,” I allowed myself a slight smile, realizing this tactic was the perfect shield. “Our military’s introducing new standards now. Even those who sit at computers and handle tactical planning are required to be in excellent physical shape. No exceptions.”

“And how did they find you? Did you apply yourself or were you… recruited?”

The question sounded too specific, but I answered with a joke that was only partly a joke:

“You know, if the army starts looking for you, it usually ends badly. So it’s better to think we found each other by mutual agreement.”