The Neighbor's Son by B E Harmel at Inkitt

Chapter 1

POV: Marina

The road narrows the closer I get to home.

Not because it actually changes — it’s the same asphalt, the same curves, the same trees leaning inward like they’re sharing secrets — but because my chest tightens, like my body remembers something my mind has been trying to forget.

I slow down without meaning to.

Every sign feels familiar. Every turn feels personal.

I grip the steering wheel harder than necessary, my wedding ring long gone but the ghost of it still there, a pressure my skin hasn’t forgotten. The GPS announces my parents’ street like it’s a destination.

It isn’t.

It’s a return.

I left this town believing I was choosing a future.

I’m coming back knowing I survived one.

I remember leaving.

Not this time — the first time.

Jonathan and I were standing in my childhood bedroom, boxes stacked against the walls, my posters already taken down. We were so young. So certain. We’d been accepted into the same program, the same city, the same future.

Cardiology, together.

I remember my mother crying quietly in the kitchen. My father pretending not to notice. I remember telling myself this was what ambition looked like. That love meant choosing the same direction.

I didn’t know then how many choices I was making for the woman I would become.

The house appears at the end of the street, exactly the way it has existed in my memory for years. White walls. Blue front door. My mother’s insistence on flowers that require too much care and never quite look effortless.

I park and sit there for a second, hands still on the wheel.

A year ago, my hands were wrapped around a hospital bed rail, knuckles white, listening to a heart monitor lose its rhythm. Jonathan’s heart. A heart I understood better than most. A heart that betrayed him anyway.

Cardiology is cruel like that.

I step out of the car before the thought finishes unraveling.

The door opens almost immediately.

My mother pulls me into her arms with the same urgency she had when I was five and fell off my bike. Her blonde hair brushes my cheek, her blue eyes already shiny.

“You’re home,” she whispers, like it’s something fragile.

My father stands just behind her — taller than I remembered, or maybe thinner — his hair fully gray now, green eyes steady and warm. He kisses my forehead the way he always has, grounding me with a touch that says you’re still my daughter before anything else.

Alex comes last, grinning as he takes my bag from my hand.

“Welcome back, cardiologist,” my brother says.

Alex. Older. Broader. Engineer now. Confident in a way that comes from building things that don’t die on you.

Lunch is easy in a way I didn’t expect.

My mother insists on cooking too much food, like nourishment can fix everything. My father tells a story about the neighbors. Alex talks about a new project — another building, another expansion — and casually mentions that he helped with the structural planning of the hospital’s new wing.

“It’s not the same place anymore,” he says. “You’ll be surprised.”

I nod, chewing slowly.

I wonder if the hospital knows how much it took from me.

Or if it only remembers what I gave.

At some point, my mother says, “Oh — the Stokes asked about you.” she says, careful, like she’s testing the temperature of the room. “Such a lovely family.”

I hum in acknowledgment.

“They were so happy when they heard you were coming back,” my father adds. “Feels like everyone’s returning these days.They miss you. Brennan just got back too. Medical school. Can you believe it?”

I picture the Stokes’ house in my mind — warm, familiar, loud in the best way — and then stop myself.

“He’s a doctor now,” my father adds, proud. “Golden boy, that one.”

The last time I saw their son, he was all knees and elbows and potential. A boy who looked at the world like it owed him something exciting.

Now he’s a doctor.

The thought passes through me and leaves no trace. Or so I tell myself.

That afternoon, I unpack slowly, deliberately. My childhood bedroom still smells like clean sheets and old books. The walls are the same. The ceiling too. I sit on the edge of the bed and let the quiet settle into my bones.

I met Jonathan in college.

We were young and arrogant and convinced we could outsmart exhaustion. We studied together, survived med school together, chose residency together. When we decided on cardiology, it felt romantic — like a promise wrapped in ambition.

Two hearts. One specialty.

I don’t let myself follow that memory too far.

By the time the sun starts dipping, there’s a knock on my door.

Clara doesn’t wait for permission.

She bursts in like a memory made flesh — dark hair, loud laugh, zero respect for personal space — and immediately pulls me into a hug that smells like perfume and home.

“You look thinner,” she announces. “And hotter. Which is rude.”

Angela follows more calmly, her smile soft, her presence grounding. She works in HR now — organized, efficient, exactly the person you want controlling who gets hired and who doesn’t.

They sit on my bed, cross-legged, facing me like this is an intervention.

“How are you?” Angela asks gently.

I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.

“I’m… functioning,” I say. “Some days better than others.”

They don’t push. They never do.

I tell them about the last year in fragments. About Jonathan’s illness. The hospital rooms. The silence after. About deciding to come back not because I was ready — but because I couldn’t stay there anymore. I couldn’t work in the same hospital where my husband died, even after a year. When Angela offered me the job, I didn’t think twice.

Clara’s eyes shine, but she keeps her voice light. “Okay. Enough sadness for one night.”

“I’m not going out,” I say immediately.

“Yes, you are.”

“No.”

“You’re grieving, not dead,” she counters. “And you need a drink.”

Angela nods. “Just one night. No expectations.”

They look at me like they already know the answer.

An hour later, I’m dressed and standing in front of the mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me. Not the widow. Not the doctor. Just… Marina.

At the bar, the music is loud enough to drown out my thoughts. Clara orders drinks like it’s a mission. Angela keeps a protective eye on me.

I feel it.

That prickle at the back of my neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. I shift my weight, lifting my glass to my lips, pretending I don’t notice. I’ve had enough eyes on me in my life — colleagues, patients, pity-filled glances after Jonathan died.

I’m not in the mood for curiosity.

“Okay,” Clara says, leaning closer, her voice bright with mischief. “Who is that?”

I frown. “Who?”

Angela doesn’t even pretend subtlety. She turns her head fully, scans the bar once, then smiles slowly. “Oh. Him.”

I sigh. “That’s not an answer.”

Clara follows her gaze and lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That is a man.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re dramatic.”

“No,” Angela says calmly. “He’s tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. And he’s been staring at you like you’re the only person in the room.”

My stomach tightens against my will.

I tell myself it’s the alcohol.

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” I say, finally turning — just a little — to look.

At first, it’s just an impression.

A silhouette leaning against the bar. Long strong legs. A solid, masculine frame that fills his space without trying. Dark hair, slightly tousled. Strong jaw. The kind of face that makes your brain pause before your name catches up.

Hot.

Handsome.

And a face I already seen before.

And then — recognition hits.

Not like lightning.

Like gravity.

“Oh,” I murmur.

Clara perks up. “Oh, what?”

“I know him,” I say, my voice strangely steady. “That’s Brennan Stokes.”

They blink at me.

“The neighbors’ son,” I add quickly. “I’ve known him forever.”

Angela arches a brow. “And?”

“And that changes things.”

Clara laughs. “No, it doesn’t.”

“He’s younger,” I argue. “And I’ve known him since he was a kid.”

Angela tilts her head. “Marina… he’s clearly not a kid anymore.”

I look again — really look this time.

The boy I remember is gone. In his place is a man who looks comfortable in his body. Confident. Quietly dangerous in the way men are when they don’t need to announce themselves. His eyes meet mine — hazel, I realize — and he doesn’t look away.

Heat spreads low in my stomach.

I turn back to my friends, flustered. “This is a terrible idea.”

Clara grins. “When was the last time you had sex?”

The question lands heavier than expected.

I open my mouth, ready with a sarcastic answer — and then stop.

I count.

Jonathan’s illness. The hospital. The months before the end. The year after.

“Oh,” I say quietly.

Angela’s smile fades just a touch. “Marina?”

“Almost two years.”

Clara’s jaw drops. “We’re fixing that tonight.”

“No,” I say immediately. “We are not.”

“Okay, we won’t pressure you, let’s keep the drinking” Angela said.

“I agree with that,” I said before taking another sip.

They order another round anyway.

The alcohol loosens something inside me — not recklessness, but exhaustion. The constant vigilance. The voice that says be careful, be respectful, be good.

Across the bar, Brennan hasn’t stopped watching.

Not hungrily. Not crudely.

Like he’s waiting.

We exchange looks — brief at first, then longer. I know it’s wrong. I know the reasons. I’ve rehearsed them all.

But with each sip, they blur.

At some point, Clara squeezes my knee and stands. “Bathroom.”

Angela follows, throwing me a look that’s half warning, half encouragement.

I’m alone for exactly three seconds before a shadow falls across the table.

“Marina.”

His voice is lower than I expected. Calm. Familiar in a way that tightens my chest.

I look up.

Up.