Chapter 6: White Suit, Trash Can, and Escape

The first day after being reborn was already exhausting. I was running on fumes.

After a shower and getting ready for bed, Mitchell’s calls came one after another.

My phone buzzed nonstop. I let it ring, the sound grating on my nerves.

God, in my last life, his calls made my day.

I’d drop everything, run to the phone, wait for his voice. Now, I wanted to throw my phone out the window.

But now, seeing that familiar name flash on my screen just made me sick.

I felt nothing but disgust. I hit “decline” every time.

I ignored his calls.

I turned my phone face down, unplugged the charger, and let the battery die.

Turned off all my phones and went to sleep.

I buried my head in the pillow, letting the darkness swallow me. I slept better than I had in months.

The next morning, I was woken by a loudspeaker outside.

It was like a scene from a bad rom-com, except I was the punchline.

A guy with a thick Jersey accent was yelling at the top of his lungs: "Nora, I miss you!" Of course he’d do this.

He banged on a metal trash can lid, the noise echoing down the block. I groaned, pulling the covers over my head.

Banging a metal trash can lid for effect.

He was relentless, like a marching band with only one instrument.

Over and over.

The neighbors must’ve been furious. I could hear someone yelling out their window.

Like a one-man parade.

I peeked through the blinds, hoping it was just a bad dream.

There were a few knocks on my bedroom door, and Auntie Carol came in, furious: "Mitchell is such a child!"

She was in her robe, hair in curlers, face red with anger. She waved her phone at me.

"Who does he think he is, Steven Spielberg filming a movie?"

I blinked, confused. I hadn’t had my coffee yet.

"Who?" I was totally confused.

She gave me a look, the kind only moms can give. "Generation gap. You’ve never seen ‘Say Anything,’ have you?"

I shook my head. She rolled her eyes, muttering about John Cusack and boomboxes.

I jumped out of bed, ran to the window, and looked down. The shouter was a local handyman, and Mitchell was standing next to him in a blinding white suit, rubbing his hands, grinning like a fool.

He looked ridiculous—like a used car salesman at a wedding. Someone was filming him with a phone, probably for TikTok. You can’t make this stuff up.

Of course someone was filming—TikTok fodder.

He waved at the camera, blowing kisses, acting like he was on The Bachelor.

Neighbors shouted at him to stop, but he just told them to mind their own business.

He had no shame. He was in his own world, oblivious to the chaos.

Seeing his smug face, I clenched my fists.

I wanted to run down there and throw a shoe at him. But I knew better.

In my last life, what fans hated most was being associated with him.

They unfollowed in droves. My DMs were full of “Why are you with this clown?”

If I went down now, I’d be playing into his hands. No way.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Thinking it over, I called the police: "Hi, there’s a disturbance in Maple Heights. Can someone come handle it?"

The dispatcher sounded bored, but promised to send a car. I felt a little better. I’ll take what I can get.

In the neighborhood Facebook group, people were already asking who Mitchell was and who he was looking for.

I scrolled through the posts, laughing at the comments. Someone posted a blurry photo of Mitchell, calling him “the white-suited menace.”

The group was full of complaints about how "one bad apple spoils the bunch."

People were ruthless, posting memes and GIFs. I almost felt sorry for him—almost. Not really.

I felt bad for the neighbors.

I posted an apology, promising it wouldn’t happen again. Aunt Carol rolled her eyes. She was over it.

I used Auntie’s account to post: "Looks like the influencer he’s after moved out—doesn’t live here anymore."

I hoped it would throw him off the scent. I didn’t want any more drama.

Someone asked: "When did that happen?"

I broke out in a cold sweat: "Just these past few days. I saw his TikTok last night—he said he was having issues with the influencer, so today he’s probably here to cause trouble."

I tried to sound casual, but my hands shook as I typed. I hated how nervous I was.

People in the group chimed in: "Saw the stream, seems like they’re really fighting."

The rumor mill was in full swing. I watched the comments roll in, trying not to panic.

Someone said: "At worst, just break up. Don’t come here making a scene."

Someone else: "This guy’s just barking up the wrong tree."

I smiled at that one. At least someone was on my side.

I was still worried Mitchell would make things worse, but the property manager was quick—security showed up first.

I watched from the window as two security guards approached Mitchell, arms crossed. He tried to charm them, but they weren’t having it. Nice try.

Then the police arrived.

Blue lights flashed, sirens blaring. Mitchell’s face fell. He tried to argue, but the officers shut him down.

When the cops showed, Mitchell shut up and slunk off with his camera crew.

He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The handyman shrugged, pocketed his tip, and left.

I never showed my face.

I stayed hidden, peeking through the blinds. I wasn’t about to give him any more ammo.

Even though he uploaded the video and played the lovesick fool again, it barely got any views.

The comments roasted him. People called him “the Maple Heights Menace.”

The few comments were all scolding him for disturbing the peace.

Someone even tagged the local police department. I laughed, feeling a little vindicated.