Marguerite Ryan lived in a dumpy brownstone apartment with her single mother. Marguerite was 17, and her mother worked a lot of nights, leaving the lonely teen to fend for herself. One of their next door neighbors was Mr. Rensselear, a friendly 85 year old man who often provided a sympathetic ear and a snack when Rita came home from school and her mom was at work.

Rita was pretty and slim, but seemed determined to hide that fact with hair falling in her face and too-big, shapeless clothing. She was bright, but too quiet to be noticed in her classes. Her best friend, Lynne, was a glasses-wearing brainiac who tended to over-dramatize every minor challenge and annoyance that the two girls ever faced.

One day, Marguerite's mom told her that Mr. R had passed away. She watched sadly as his apartment was emptied and closed up. It remained vacant for several weeks—until the day that a moving van pulled up in front of their building. Rita, as her mom called her, watched out her bedroom window as furniture and boxes were delivered to the next-door apartment.

Rita peeked out her front door, hoping to glimpse whoever would be taking possession of the neighboring flat. She hoped it would be a family—someone with a teen her own age, or maybe a little kid that she could earn money by babysitting. But she didn't see anyone but the uniformed movers.

She could hear movement in the apartment over the next few days, but never saw anyone come or go; she asked her mom if she ever saw anyone on her way to and from work, but she said she didn't notice.

Rita decided she should introduce herself to the new tenant; she was shy, but her curiosity got the better of her, plus she thought whoever now lived there might like to know who lived next door. So, after school one day, she stopped at the door of 3-G and rapped. To her surprise the door swung open—apparently the latch hadn't caught. She said loudly "Hello?" She stepped just inside the door, and called again. No one answered. The living room was dark, and the furniture seemed to have been put down in haphazard fashion, with boxes still packed full scattered around the room.

Rita couldn't tell anything about the tenant by the few visible possessions; it occurred to her that whoever it was might be in the bedroom, or the bathroom. She tiptoed to the door of the bedroom—if he/she was there napping, she would just take a quick peek and run right out. But no one was on the bed; she stood listening intently—no sound came from the bathroom, either. She was just about to turn and leave, when she heard the front door open and someone walked in.

Her heart flew into her throat, and instinctively, she zipped into the bathroom, into the shower enclosure, and slid the door shut, cowering in hopes of not being discovered. She heard movement in the living room, and then footsteps heading into the bedroom. "Please don't come in here, please…"

The door opened. She tried to stay close to the wall, to blend in behind the translucent plastic door. She heard a man pee into the toilet, and a flush, and then—she thought she would faint—the shower door slid open.

Scars. The first thing she noticed was the scars. Deep and ragged, on each side of his mouth, plus an almost vertical indention in his full lower lip .A tall, slender young man with wavy blonde hair, handsome in spite of the ravaged skin. He stood, leaning against the shower stall, and said "Well, hello there." He was completely calm and casual, as if he was accustomed to finding strange teenage girls in his shower all the time.

"I…I'm sorry…I'm not supposed to be in here." Rita spouted out. "I'll just get out of here, now…" She moved to step out of the shower, but the man didn't move, just continued to stare at her with dark brown, piercing eyes.

"Find anything of interest?" he asked cheerfully.

"I…I didn't…I wasn't trying to snoop, I just wanted to meet…you. I just wanted to introduce myself."

"Ok…go ahead."

"My name is Marguerite—I live next door, with my mom. Uh, I used to know the man who lived here before, he died…"

"Yes. That makes sense that you would know him before he died," the man said thoughtfully, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"What? Oh, no, I meant…I'm really sorry, I should get out of your way."

The man finally stepped aside and let her get out of the stall; she was clumsy and caught her foot on the lip of the tub and almost fell, but a strong hand gripped her upper arm and held her while she steadied herself. She looked sideways at him, horribly embarrassed, but he just smiled encouragingly, and let her move past him. The area was tight enough that she had to brush against him, smelling the faint scent of his wool sport jacket and something else, sharp and citrus-y.

He followed her to the living room.

"Well, Marguerite, or may I call you Rita? Lovely Rita? It's been a pleasure. Maybe sometime you'll come by and give me a chance to actually open my door for you on purpose."

"Uh, sure, ok. I'll do that. Um, what's your name?"

"You can call me Jack." He grinned and she couldn't help but notice that the scars seemed to disappear when he smiled.

"Oh, no, I'm not allowed to call adults by their first names," she said seriously.

"Ah…well, then, call me Mr. J." he said accommodatingly.

She gratefully slipped past him. She shakily slunk out and over to her own apartment. She took a look behind her, and saw that he was standing just outside his door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, observing her departure with a wry smile on his scarred face. "Come back soon—Rita," he said as though he'd known her forever.

Rita wasn't sure what to do now that she had met her new neighbor. It certainly wasn't like having harmless Mr. Renssalear next door; just the brief moments she had spent in Jack's presence had made her acutely uncomfortable. He made her feel the way her older cousin did when he used to wrestle with her when their parents were drinking downstairs at his house in the suburbs. Not quite a bad feeling, but like they were doing something…wrong.

She couldn't stop thinking about the strange man—the way he looked, and the way he looked at her. His complete ease at finding a stranger in his home; his dry humor. The familiar way he used her name. She wanted to see him again, but she was afraid. Finally one afternoon she decided to bake cookies to pass the time. When she had a batch ready, she took a deep breath and took them next door, and knocked on Jack's door. She heard movement—and after a few moments, the door swung open. Jack stood there, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. "Well, hello again. You've been such a stranger, I thought perhaps I made a bad first impression. Was it the scars?" He leaned close to her, bringing his head down even with hers, and peering straight into her eyes. "I sometimes scare small children—but you're not a small child, are you?" he smiled.

"I'm, um, seventeen, I just had a birthday," she offered.

"Mmm. Well, Happy Birthday," he acknowledged. Then, "What have you got there?" indicating the plate in her hands.

"I thought you might like some cookies—I just made them."

"Of course, come in." He gestured to the interior of his home, and she stepped into his living room. The boxes were all gone and the furniture had been placed properly.

"Oh, you've got it all fixed up now…"

"Yeah, all nice and homey, isn't it?" He gently took the plate from her, placed it on the coffee table, and stepped into the kitchen. "Glass of milk?" he asked.

"Ok." She answered. He poured two glasses and brought them to the table.

They sat quite close together and each ate a cookie. He smiled at her and said between bites "Excellent cookie making skills. You have quite a future ahead of you."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she thought a moment, then asked "What do you do?"

"About what?" he asked in a serious voice.

"You know, for a living." It seemed strange that he would be home in the middle of the afternoon.

"I…work at home, sometimes. I'm, um, a consultant." He raised an eyebrow and twisted his lips in an odd grin, and she felt a sudden sense of discomfort. Normal people didn't talk this way, certainly not to young girls.

She hastily finished her cookie, and stood up. "Well, I've got a ton of homework to do, so I better go. Enjoy the cookies. Oh, and thanks for the milk."

He stood up as well and stood much too close to her. "My pleasure. Listen, where's your mom? I never see her anymore."

"Oh, uh, she works a lot of nights. She's a nurse."

"Ah, I see. She's a nice looking woman. You take after her, don'tcha? Yeah. Same eyes, not that you can see 'em most of the time." He brushed her hair away from her face and for a shocking moment she thought he would kiss her, but he just ran his hand down the side of her face.

"Don't worry kid, it won't always be like this. You'll find your way, and you'll be…stunning." He smiled into her eyes and put his hands on her shoulders—she froze for a moment, but then realized he was trying to move her out of the way—slowly, like a dance move—so that he could open the door for her. Her legs felt like jelly nonetheless. Then she hastily ran out the door, and she thought she could hear him laughing from behind his closed door.

Jack sat back down on the couch and picked up another cookie, inspecting it as if it were a rare jewel. He was still laughing to himself at the look on the girl's face—like a scared rabbit facing down a wolf…and he slowly took another bite, savoring the sweet flavor, the crumbly texture, and went to ready himself for work.