The first time I saw Mr. Miller I was nine years old. I remember him standing on his porch next door with a little chocolate-colored bulldog I would soon learn was named Gus. He watched as the moving truck rolled up and started unloading my family’s belongings into what would be our new home, looking like some hall monitor who wanted to make sure the movers never set foot on his perfectly manicured lawn of grass. Never smiling, just a slight frown that made me think, who’s the grouchy old man?

My parents met him soon after. I wasn’t there for the occasion. Too busy off at dance practice or playing with my friends I suppose. But I remember the voices. My parents made easy conversation with him often, until soon they became not just neighbors, but friends. He was a tall man. Taller than my father, and he was in his mid-fifties at the time, recently divorced, a round belly covered up in muted-colored shirts I figured he must have bought in packs at Old Navy or some cheap online store.

Our street was a short one, about four or five houses on either side, which meant most of us knew each other. There were the Kenshaws, a young couple who didn’t like kids; Rose and her husband Dick who always kept to themselves; and Carly who was a single parent to two little girls I sometimes babysat for once I was old enough. We all knew one another, and we all had our place in the little suburban world in which we lived.

In the summer, my brother and I would play outside, basketball, kick the can, badminton. Our friends would come over and join us until the sun started to change into a milky pink or bright orange and our mother called us in for dinner. Sometimes Mr. Miller would sit on his porch and watch us as he sipped from a cold can of Miller Light, Gus sitting beside him panting in the heat of a west coast summer. If we looked over, maybe he would wave, or if my mother came out, she would say hello. But he always kept his distance, watching, and at the time, I never thought much of it.

The summer I turned thirteen I was a hormonal, pimply teenager who had recently developed breasts that felt too big for my body and I would have done anything to make them disappear. Oversized sweaters and t-shirts became a regular rotation in my wardrobe, but even then I couldn’t quite escape the way people had started to look at me. At the school, in the mall, like there was a sign on my forehead that said “I’m a woman.” It felt like I was walking around in a body that didn’t belong to me anymore.

One particular humid Saturday in July, I woke up craving freezies. The light was streaming in through my bedroom window and as I peered into our backyard I eyed the perfect patch of grass for laying out. I had the house all to myself. My mother and father had left for the day, out running errands or taking my brother to soccer. After stuffing down a bowl full of cereal, I slipped into my favorite pink bikini and grabbed my towel and the book I was reading, some teenage romance novel. Then I took a cherry freezie from the fridge and headed to the backyard. Like I said, it was a bubble, our neighborhood, and while there were hedges around all sides of the house, if you really wanted to, you could peek around the corner and see into our little stretch of grass where I often sat. There were times where my mother and Mr. Miller would chat from each of their sides of the fence. They were often forced encounters. When all the privacy you’re allowed in suburbia is a little wooden fence, you’re usually invaded by nosey neighbors and polite, obligatory chitchat. Sometimes we would all ignore one another, pretend we didn’t see the other person in the backyard watering the lawn or mowing the grass. But that day, when I laid out on the stretch of lawn, I saw Mr. Miller, and he saw me.

At first I didn’t think much of it. I was reading my book, covered in a sheer mix of sweat and sunscreen. The thin straps of my pink bikini stretched across my skin comfortably and I felt at ease. There was no reason to concern yourself with the way your body contorted on a towel when it was in the comfort of your backyard. At the water park or the pool I thought long and hard about my wardrobe, but here in the backyard, I could be free.

As the hours passed by, I began to feel a little dizzy. Too much sun gives you skin cancer. I remembered my mother told me that one day after I’d laid out for a while. There was a sprinkler sitting in the yard, the one my mother used to water the plants, and occasionally, on really hot days, my brother and I would run through it. As I turned over the page in my book to a new chapter, I folded the corner down on the flimsy paper before closing it and sitting upright. I took the last sip of juice from my freezie, now warm from sitting in the sun, and as I turned to throw it back on the grass, I saw him. Out of the corner of my eye, Mr. Miller was standing in the little opening between our house and his.

His mouth remained in a thin line. Now that I think about it, I don’t know if I’d ever really seen him smile, and not wanting to engage, I flipped back onto my stomach. I opened back up my book and continued reading, or at least, I tried. But as my eyes floated down the page, I could feel another pair grazing the back of my body.

I flipped over quickly, and the moment I did, our eyes met again, caged in a trance that felt unbreakable. He was staring at me in a way I’d never experienced before. There was something different about this time, from all the others. Something about the fence that separated us, that gave him a safe distance to watch. That made me feel more naked, and more trapped behind a voyeur I couldn’t escape.

It built slowly, the discomfort. The first moments were a mix of confusion and naivete. And as my headache started to build, I decided I would turn on the sprinkler and ignore Mr. Miller. Just like we did all the times before. So I turned on the sprinkler and sauntered around in the water, letting dribbles of water soak my skin. I ran back and forth across the yard. It became such a game, me running, the water falling, him watching, that sometimes I forgot we were playing at all.

After I tired out, I looked back over the fence to see he was still there. We locked eyes with one another and it was then that I could see the slow movements of his arms going up and down, like he was petting his dog Gus, only Gus was nowhere near. I thought, say something, say something, say anything at all. We’re neighbors after all. But my mouth had been zipped shut and instead, I screamed words inside my head.

I thought about the story my best friend Nancy had told me. When she was on the train with her mother one night, a man had stuck out his penis and started touching himself right in front of them. She told the story at recess and all the girls gathered around listening to every word. I knew Nancy really well, so I also knew she’d probably made it up. At least the part about his penis being a weird purply-blue color, like it had been bruised. Her mother ushered her away after.

As I looked at Mr. Miller, his face started to turn from the weird smile that had been plastered there and instead became sort of pained. Like I was hurting him, standing there under the sprinkler. My body seemed to take over then, like it knew more than I did. I ran to grab my oversized t-shirt, quickly pulling it over my pink bikini and wrapping myself up in my towel right then and there. I grabbed my belongings and rushed to the back door. I didn’t need to turn back to see if Mr. Miller was still there.

As I tracked water across the kitchen floor, still wet from the sprinkler, I thought, my mother is going to be so pissed. Then I thought, where was she right now. Shouldn’t she be here? Shouldn’t she protect me, from what I wasn’t sure. Maybe the picket fences and the inevitability of men who make strange faces or even my own body with its rolls of fat that hang loose and unkept. I felt like crying but I didn’t understand why.

I stormed into my room and shut the blinds, throwing the wet bathing suit onto the floor that if left there would leave a stain and I thought to myself, good, leave a mark, this should be remembered. Even if deep down I knew I would never tell another soul. What was there to tell anyhow?

After I changed into the biggest pair of sweatpants and sweater I owned, I went down into our basement and turned off all the lights. Picking up the remote, I chose a movie I’d seen many times before and pressed play. At some point I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up to my father shaking my shoulder awake. He asked what I was doing downstairs on such a beautiful day and did I forget to turn the sprinkler off? There’s a drought and we can’t waste water. I apologized and said I’d forgotten. I think my father could tell that I wasn’t myself, because he didn’t press further and instead reminded me that we were having dinner soon.

For dinner that night, we sat outside. I begged my mother not to, but she ignored my pleas, saying it was a gorgeous day and there was no reason why we shouldn’t. So the four of us sat around the table eating juicy burgers and salad and corn on the cob, as I looked over Mr. Miller’s fence, waiting for him to appear, but of course, he never did. The next day I was leaving for summer camp and I tried to focus on the two weeks away. At the lake with friends, the campfires roasting marshmallows at night, and nowhere near my little street.

When I came home from camp I didn’t see Mr. Miller for a while, and soon I went back to school. Every once in a while I would see him sitting on his front porch or in the backyard, but I ignored him every time. Eventually I became such an expert at ignoring Mr. Miller that I didn’t even have to try.

When I turned eighteen I went off to college in a different state. If I came home for Christmas, maybe I would see Mr. Miller at my parents annual holiday party, or sometimes at the grocery store. But he became a secret I locked away inside my head, one I forgot existed as time went on. My neighbors, playing outside in the summer, and our little stretch of grass all became a distant memory. Instead I went to parties and studied art history and dated a nice boy who came from a different town and had a whole new set of friends.

It was summer when my mother called with the news. Mr. Miller died, she said to me over the phone, our connection staticky. Of a heart attack, alone in his home. It took a few weeks for anyone to find him. One of our neighbors, as it turned out, was meant to watch Gus one day and grew concerned when no one answered. Since the funeral was over summer break and I would be home, my mother insisted that we all go. I marked the date in my calendar and tried to forget about it.

I wore black to the funeral. I sat in the back with my family and looked around at the people in the church. Most of them were older, around Mr. Miller’s age. They were people I’d never met. Some were from the neighborhood and the parties my parents had hosted, and we all made small talk at Mr. Miller’s sister’s house after. She was the one hosting the wake. I sipped from a coffee cup and stood near the food table with my brother, waiting for my parents to tell us we could go home. I kept pulling at the sides of my dress, like if I could just get it to sit right, everything would feel better.

After I’d drunk two cups of coffee and eaten three brownies, I eventually wandered out to the backyard and sat on the steps, bored and waiting. There were a few girls from my high-school out there smoking, younger than me, but I remembered their faces. I was sure their parents must have been inside as well. They stood in a circle chatting a few feet away and I quietly listened in on their conversation.

“I can’t believe my mother dragged me here.”
“Same, I barely even knew the guy.”
“He was so weird. Always walking around the neighborhood with that dog and never smiling.”
“Totally, he creeped me out.”
“My sister told me that one time she was changing and her window was open and she caught him staring in.”
“I believe it. Apparently his ex-wife left him because she found all these creepy photos of young girls hidden under the bed one night.”
“That’s so gross.”
“I’m happy he’s dead.”
“You really shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not? He was a creep.”
“Still.”

When their cigarettes finished and they all had nothing left to say, they wandered toward the back patio door. That’s when they saw me for the first time. Some looked shocked as they walked past me on the steps, a look of concern on their faces, eyeing me like they were trying to figure out, was she the type of girl to tell? I smiled meekly back at them, a little nauseous from too much coffee or the stories they’d told. I didn’t really smoke, but I desperately wanted a cigarette at that moment.

As the last girl walked up the steps, Katie I think her name was, I asked for a cigarette, and she paused to look through her pockets while the rest wandered inside. She handed me the pack and a light with it, not saying a word as she did. She was the one who’d stayed quiet mostly, while the other girls talked, and I wondered if that meant she didn’t have a story to share, or if hers was one of those you didn’t want to say aloud.

“Did you know Mr. Miller?” I asked.
She nodded her head.
We sat outside smoking together for the rest of the wake, not talking, but then again, what was there to say?