The Boys Next Door
By Claire Trost
@clairetrost
“What would you do?” I asked, looking up at the man on the ladder.
He snapped another photo of what he explained to be water leaking from the skylight.
“Well,” he supposed, in classic old-man bluster, “I would think about whether needing new windows in the next few years is something you want to do. Otherwise, this isn’t the house for you.”
This isn’t the house for you.
Was this the house for us?
It was old, but not in a charming way. More like old in a mid-1980s way.
Nothing about this place was charming or even interesting, for that matter. The house was bland, dark, and boxy. The layout was weird. The kitchen was somehow updated and outdated at the same time.
And, per this inspector, the crawl space was a disaster, the septic was in a terrible location, an exterior door had rotted out, and the main source of light in most rooms—the skylights—were leaking.
A voice inside my head said, Run.
I looked around the room again. This house wasn’t anything special.
But there was something here that was.
I could feel it.
I looked out the back windows and out at the yard—the reason we put in an offer in the first place. Could the tall sycamore trees, patio perfect for hosting, and raised garden beds redeem the long list of problems the inspection had uncovered inside the house?
I let out a sigh as I noticed my husband coming up swiftly along the line of windows after taking a look at the air conditioning unit.
“Hey,” he whispered, wiping his feet and summoning me closer, out of earshot of the inspector.
Great, I thought. Here comes something else.
“The next door neighbor came outside and said hi while I was out there. She recognized our cars from the other day and asked if we were the ones who had put in the offer.” He paused. “They have two boys at the elementary school that Theo and Savannah will go to.”
***
For me, there is a version of my ‘90s childhood that exists somewhere between real life and television.
I had great real-life experiences, but I was also a media junkie. Home Improvement, Boy Meets World, Clarissa Explains It All, Full House—and so many more. In each of these classic sitcoms, there was always a neighbor. Someone who would show up unannounced, opening the back door like it was their own. They were equal parts nuisance and comfort, but their presence required no explanation. Like logging online with dial up, they were a little loud and required a bit of patience, but they opened up the main character’s world and made the whole cast feel connected.
I wanted my life to mirror those ‘90s sitcoms in a lot of ways, but I especially wanted that kind of neighbor. Someone who wasn't family, but could still be an active participant in my daily life. Someone you didn’t have to call to go see. You could talk on walkie-talkies from your bedroom late into the night. Or test whether the string-and-tin-can trick actually worked from one window to another.
I even wanted my little sister to get annoyed with them, a la Stephanie Tanner, and for my dad to forget they were even there—telling them to “go home” when he finally realized, wait, you are not my kid.
We would roll our eyes because it was fine.
All we would have to do is say, “See you in the morning.”
Because we would.
***
Andrew moved in when I was eleven.
By then, I was well versed in all the sitcom neighbors. But I had also become aware of the “boy next door” trope—or maybe even more so the “girl next door” version of it. My naiveté, storyteller’s heart, and adolescence collided with his arrival, and without knowing a thing about him beyond his address, I determined we should date.
However, while I was busy imagining us at prom (as a sixth grader … ), Andrew apparently didn’t suffer from media-fueled delusion and we were not on the same page. So instead, we fell into the trope of “awkward middle schoolers,” standing many yards apart and not saying a word at our shared bus stop.
Years passed and eventually something shifted.
We got our driver’s licenses. Our worlds expanded. What had once been awkward became easy and platonic.
And our shared property line? That became very convenient—and a lot of fun.
Our friend groups overlapped, and my preteen visions of prom together came true—just not as dates. Instead, we found our own romantic matches in each other’s circles. There were cookouts for Ohio State football games where we felt a little grown up, boys manning the grill, and girls bringing pasta salad.
There were so many nights gathered together, teenage bodies covering every surface in our basements to watch The OC—ironically, another show with its own version of the boys next door.
There were only a few shenanigans. Our parents were neighbors, too, after all.
But, thanks to our proximity, our whole friend group came to know our houses as their own.
And yet, at the time, it didn’t feel special.
It just felt like normal life.
***
Now, I stand at the window again.
There are the established trees, the patio, the raised garden beds, and my kids, Theo and Savannah, with the boys next door.
Every day, the back door of our new, old 1980s home opens and closes with a steady rhythm. Chatter and laughter filter in and out before I can even identify which kids are making which noises. Like the characters in my old favorite sitcoms, they are loud and hungry and full of life.
They collect more kids as they go across the street and down the block. Shoes pile at the back door. Bodies flop on the couch. They move in and out of the pantry like it’s a shared space.
And I let them.
I tolerate the smell of preteen, along with the sports balls that are constantly being thrown, bounced, and abandoned on the kitchen floor. I add ten, twelve, sometimes twenty extra chicken nuggets onto the pan and I have learned to make chocolate chip cookies very quickly. I even sometimes bellow, “Alright, if you are not a Trost you have to go home!”
I recognize this.
It is what I always wanted.
It’s what I saw on TV as a kid.
***
In a strange twist, Andrew and I ended up at the same out-of-state college. And because tropes persist in the sitcom of my life, his freshman dorm was right next to mine.
The boys he met befriended the girls I met, and just like that, another group formed.
We helped each other through first fraternity parties and first heartbreaks. Both our high school relationships were tested by distance. His rose to the challenge; mine ended.
We still watched The OC and football games, bodies now crammed into small dorm rooms instead of suburban basements. There were more shenanigans, and somehow, our parents still knew more than we wanted them to.
As we became upperclassmen, I moved into a sorority house and he into an apartment across campus. Andrew grew serious about his relationship and his studies. I flitted and flirted my way through those years.
Even though we were no longer next door, I made an effort to go to the occasional party he kindly invited me to and it was always a small thrill to run into him at the bars or in-between classes.
Because by then, I started to understand something I hadn’t before.
Sometimes you need people who knew you before you became who you are. In the constant duality of college—the roar of crowds and the quiet hum of loneliness, the thrill of possibility and the chaos of the unknown—there is a particular comfort to be found in the people who know your family’s rhythms, what your dog was like, and who still ask about your siblings.
***
I’ve told Theo these boys next door may be the closest thing he gets to brothers.
I try to help him see it’s special, but he's only ten, and right now, this is just normal life.
But, I see it. I can see the quiet agreement forming between them to be present for big and everyday moments, to be patient and to forgive quickly, to trust one another in a way that goes beyond ordinary friendship.
And so, I wonder what they will remember.
Will it be the afternoons playing basketball in the driveway and flopping onto our couch to watch a game? Will it be our dog—a pal who is just as temporary as their childhoods? The constant coming and going that never needed permission?
Or will it simply be the feeling of it? The comfort of belonging in someone else's space?
***
In the years since college graduation, Andrew and I lost touch in the ways people do these days. His name appears on LinkedIn from time to time. I catch glimpses of his life through the occasional social media post from his wife—my old high school friend, his once long-distance love.
But really, I don’t know much about his life beyond age twenty-one.
Like a ‘90s sitcom character, he exists in a kind of perpetual “boy next door” state for me.
Still, when my brother Dan died in 2022, he reached out.
Maybe it was because of everything we shared as young people.
Or maybe, for him, Danny wasn’t just my brother; He was also the boy next door.
***
Savannah is often the only girl in the pack of boys at our house. She is younger and can be a pest, in the way only little sisters can be, but they include her.
They humor her, "oohing and aahing” over her latest stuffed animal or art creation. They are gentle with her as she tries to play a logic game with them—sometimes even letting her win.
One afternoon, when Savannah had clearly had a little too much of all the boys, and stormed off, I joked with the oldest of the boys next door: “I bet you didn’t think you would ever get this close of a look at what it’s like to have a little sister, huh?”
In our 90s sitcom moment, he doesn’t roll his eyes or crack a joke, initiating a laugh track. Instead, he looks up, steady and honest.
“I love it,” he says.
There it was.
It was never the skylights—even if they had been perfect—or the trees or even the garden beds.
It was something that could never be put on a Zillow listing. It was the life and people we found here that made this home a full house.
Guest essay written by Claire Trost. Claire is an Indiana based writer. Her words on food, love, and life have been featured in Today Parents, Cherry Bombe Magazine, Edible Indy, and Coffee+Crumbs. You can find her on Substack.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.