Pretty Little Thing

Vita, 15 years old

“That’s what I said! I can’t believe she’d go to Kyle—hold on, Al, Mom’s calling.” I press my phone to my chest. “What?”

Mom’s voice floats up from the living room again. “Come on, Vit. You’re gonna want to see this.”

I shove the history book off my lap—I wasn’t actually looking at it anyway—and slide off the bed. “I gotta go, my mom needs something. I’ll text you!”

I hang up on Alicia and pad down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Mom’s half-hidden by the wall near the front window, like she’s trying not to be obvious. She hooks a finger into the blinds and jerks her head toward the glass. “Look.”

I come up behind her and peer over her shoulder. There’s a huge moving truck parked in front of the old Holls’s house, its loading ramp lowered all the way to the ground. Two men in black polos with a white logo are rolling a dresser onto a dolly, moving like they’ve done this a thousand times.

“Oooh,” I coo. “The new neighbors. Have you seen them yet?”

Mom nods. “They’re behind the truck. They look like a nice couple.” She pushes off the wall, already smiling to herself. “I’ll whip up a pie so we can go introduce ourselves.”

I barely register her walking away. I inch forward to take her spot, craning my neck to see around the back of the truck.

There they are.

The woman looks about Mom’s age, with soft dark blonde hair pulled into a French roll. She keeps tugging at the edge of her cardigan, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands.

“Do they have kids?” I call over my shoulder.

Mom’s already in the kitchen, laying out ingredients. “None that I’ve seen so far.”

I turn back to the driveway. The man steps around his wife, grabs a nightstand from the truck, and hauls it up like it weighs nothing. He looks a little younger than Dad, and in better shape. He doesn’t say anything—just marches up the driveway and disappears into the house.

I watch a little longer, but no teenage-girl furniture shows up—no vanity, no cute desk, no full-length mirror—so I lose interest.

I head back upstairs and flop onto my bed, texting Alicia.

Vita: Sorry, new neighbors just showed up. Had to spy.

Alicia: Oooh. Any kids?

Vita: I don’t think so.

Alicia: Good. I’m not ready to be replaced by some new neighbor girl. I need you all to myself.

I snort.

Vita: Relax. I’m all yours.

I toss my phone onto the mattress and drag my history book back into my lap. Five minutes later, not a single word has actually sunk in. I sigh, blow a strand of hair out of my face, and lean back against the pillows.

So much for getting a head start before school starts again.

My eyes drift to the bay window across my room.

It’s the only window on this side of the house, hovering over our driveway and facing straight into the side of the neighbor’s place. The houses are perfect mirror images of each other. Mrs. Holls and I used to wave sometimes—me sprawled on the bench with my headphones on, her hunched over her sewing machine.

An entire room just for sewing. I never understood why she didn’t use it for something more interesting, but I guess when you’re seventy-two and a widow, sewing might be the most exciting thing you’ve got.

A flicker of movement in the neighbors’ window makes me jolt.

There’s a figure in the room across from mine—set too far back to catch any real detail, swallowed by shadows. I squint and lean closer to the glass.

Maybe it’s nothing. The number of times Mrs. Holls’s sewing mannequins scared the life out of me is honestly embarrassing.

I keep watching anyway.

Nothing moves.

After a few more seconds, I force myself to look away and drag my attention back to my history book. It doesn’t help. My eyes keep skipping lines, my brain snagging on nothing. By the time Mom calls me down an hour and a half later, I’m about ready to rip the pages out.

The smell hits me halfway down the stairs—warm apples and cinnamon—and I hover by the counter, eyeing the pie like I might be able to sneak a piece of crust without anyone noticing.

“Do not touch that, girl,” Mom says without even looking at me. “It’s for the neighbors. Come on. Let’s go give them a warm welcome.”

I wrinkle my nose. “And what am I supposed to do while you gossip with two middle aged people? Sit there and stare at our own view through their window?”

Mom arches an eyebrow. “Alternatively, you could go back upstairs and study some more history during your vacation.”

I school my face into something obedient. “I’ll join you.”

She grins, already pulling on oven mitts and lifting the pie dish. “Thought so.”

Two minutes later, we’re standing on the new neighbors’ front steps, the pie held out in front of us like a peace offering. The front door is open, but I ring the bell anyway.

The woman appears, blinking in surprise. “Hello?”

Mom brightens instantly. “Hi! We’re your neighbors—well, two of them. My husband’s away for work. But we brought pie.”

The woman looks genuinely startled. “Oh. That’s so kind. I’d invite you in, but we don’t really have anywhere to sit yet, and—”

“Nonsense.”

We glance past her as the man from before steps into view, already extending his hand. “We’ve got a couple bar stools set up, that’s more than enough. Wouldn’t want to turn down pie.”

He shakes my hand first, since Mom’s hands are full. His grip is firm and warm, not uncomfortable—just solid.

“I’m Walter Fields,” he says. “And this is Susan.”

“Vita,” I reply, polite smile locked in place. “And this is my mom, Christa.”

Walter gestures us inside. “I’d give you the grand tour, but I have a feeling you know this house better than we do.”

The kitchen looks the same, just emptier and fuller at the same time—boxes everywhere, drawers half-open, bubble wrap scattered across the floor. Three bar stools sit at the island. Walter peels plastic off the nearest one and taps the seat. “Please.”

Susan, Mom, and I climb up onto the stools while Walter rummages through a box labeled KITCHEN – FRAGILE. He frowns. “Susan, love, where did you put the dessert plates?”

Susan slides off her stool, already scanning the stacks of boxes. “They might still be in the—”

“We’ve got some at home,” Mom says, already heading back toward the door. “Sit tight.”

Susan and Walter both turn their attention to me. I suddenly feel very aware of myself, perched there with my hands folded in my lap.

“Nice house,” I squeak out.

Walter laughs. “Give it a few weeks. Susan’s got an eye for color—she’ll have it feeling like home in no time. All that old wallpaper’s coming down. This place needs a serious update.”

I nod politely.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “I’m sure it holds a lot of good memories. Just not really our style—”

“An update would be good,” I say, a little too honestly. “I loved Mrs. Holls. Her decor… not so much.”

Relief flashes across his face. “Glad to hear it.”

He studies me for a second, then asks, “Do you go to Summit High?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’m a sophomore.”

“Tenth grade,” he says, smiling. “Then we might be seeing each other around. I’ll be teaching biology there this year.”

“Our son will go there too,” Susan adds quietly.

My eyebrows jump to my hairline. “You have a son?”

She nods. “Kaiser. He’s a senior.”

Excitement flares in my belly. A senior neighbor. I hope he’s hot.

Walter looks over his shoulder. “He should be around here somewhere. Did he go upstairs?”

Susan shrugs. “I never know where he is anymore.”

“Kaiser!” Walter shouts, making me jump. He notices and reaches out, planting a firm hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, kid. I’m louder than I mean to be. It’s my teacher voice, you know? Gotta be able to quiet down a whole bunch of rowdy kids.”

His words fade into static when a guy steps in through the back door, sucking all the oxygen out of the room with his arrival.

I go completely still.

He’s gorgeous. Dark hair tumbles onto his forehead, brushing his heavy brows. His eyes are the most unsettling shade of silver I’ve ever seen—they’re sharp and assessing, almost too old for his age. His build is broad and angular, more man than boy, nothing like the guys in my year who still look like they’re growing into their bodies.

His gaze flicks to mine, and heat rushes through me so fast I swear I might combust.

Then he looks away, unimpressed.

The fire snuffs out, leaving something colder behind.

Susan tilts her head toward me. “Well? Introduce yourself. This is our new neighbor, Vita.”

Kaiser doesn’t move. He flicks his eyes back to mine and holds them there, staring like he’s trying to look through me instead of at me.

I swallow, forcing my pulse to behave. “Hi.”

Walter lets out an awkward laugh. “I promise we taught him manners. They just… didn’t survive puberty. Now he’s just—well. That.”

Kaiser’s gaze shifts to his father, something hard bleeding into it. The tension tightens, winding sharp enough that I consider sliding off my stool and bolting.

Then Mom comes back in with a stack of plates. “Oh! You have a son?”

She sets the plates down and strides straight up to Kaiser, grabbing his hand and shaking it. “I’m Christa—Vita’s mom. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other around a lot.”

If Kaiser is affected by her cheer or her complete disregard for personal space, he doesn’t show it. He simply nods once and pulls his hand free.

Without a word, he turns and disappears down the hallway.

Mom turns back to us, laughing softly. “I’m sorry for scaring him off. I don’t normally deal with teenage boys.”

Susan waves her off. “Don’t worry about it. That’s just what he does. He doesn’t like a lot of people.”

Mom starts handing out plates and forks, elbowing me in the ribs. “I bet he’ll like my pretty daughter, though.”

My fork slips from my fingers and clatters against the plate. Somewhere upstairs, a door slams shut.

And I have the sickest, strangest feeling, everything is about to change.

Alright, first chapter down, what did we think of that? 👀 And don't you worry—this story is not a cute little teen romance 😏 Who's ready to jump to the present and see what adult Vita's been up to? ❤️‍🔥