Chapter 22
S CARLETT
I didn’t go to school yesterday.
I needed to take a break from this story, and going to the school to expressly look at a picture of him and me, even though he was dressed as Santa, didn’t sit well with me.
Nothing has sat well with me since I talked to him the other night. Not the fact that we had that conversation and abruptly ended things. And not the fact that I looked stupid and he wasn’t entirely truthful with me.
It was a draw, and I hated it.
He didn’t call me. And I didn’t call him.
We’re not in a relationship, remember?
So today, it seemed like a good day to stop by the school and check that stupid picture.
I hated myself for having to go there, open the door, pick up the framed photograph, unwrap it, and look at it.
The frown on my face only deepened as I ran my eyes over the picture and remembered that moment.
But ultimately, I understood why the kids insisted on us taking it.
From afar, everything looked all right. A school teacher awkwardly posing with a telegenic Santa.
You couldn’t tell it was him, but his eyes had captured the light, making quite an impression on me and the camera.
I remember that moment when he snaked his hand around me, and I had to hover over his lap so I didn’t entirely have the imprint of his bulge on my butt.
A smile tilts my lips.
He was on a roll that night, not giving a damn about anything and anyone. And then everything changed.
What happened? I don’t understand.What made me off-limits to him?
And why had he insisted on being friendly to me?
I also have a few pictures of us, so now I’m checking those photographs.
I ended up hanging the framed picture above my head in my office, doubting that the kids would remember they’d have made the request.
In the meantime, the photograph serves as a reminder that people are complicated, and he is no exception.
The sharp knock on the door startles me, almost making me throw my phone across the room.
“What the fuck, woman?” I mutter, watching Miss Eisenhower press her nose against the window and look inside.
My neighbor has no intention of respecting boundaries.
“I’m coming,” I belt out, already annoyed, before pushing the chair back, sipping the last of my coffee, and spinning around to open the door for her.
Seconds later, I stare at her face. Her cat purrs in her arms, so my eyes dip.
“Is something wrong with the cat?”
She looks down as if unaware she’s carrying her cat with her everywhere.
“Um, no… There’s nothing wrong with Lizzie.”
Lizzie is her cat.
“Did you two see each other again?” she goes on.
My eyebrows nearly fall off my face, pushing toward my hairline so hard.
“Whom are we talking about exactly?”
“Your new friend,” she says.
I wish I could roll my eyes. I hate when people are trolling like that, but that's what happens when they have too much time on their hands. They make up things and don’t mind their fucking business.
I throw my arms across my chest, blocking a shiver from moving my shoulders.
It’s cold outside, and she wears warm clothes, unlike me, but she wouldn’t step inside even if I invited her to do that.
So, we talk.
“What friend?”
An amused look slides over her face.
I bite my lip.
“The one who gave you a ride home that night. I saw his truck this morning again.”
My attitude quickly dissolves.
What the hell is she talking about?
“You saw him this morning? Where?”
And where was I?
I was on the treadmill.
Even so, I always keep an eye on the street.
Who knows where she saw him and if it was indeed him?
She saw his truck. There are thousands of trucks like his in Long Island.
“He rolled down the road.”
She gestures at the road.
“Okay.”
My voice drips with disbelief.
“It was him,” she says with conviction. “I thought he was coming here.”
No, she didn’t.
And I’m sure it wasn’t him. She’s fucking with my brain.
“What makes you think it was him?”
She leans in as if sharing a great secret, the aroma of coffee drifting off her.
“I saw him.”
I stare at her with a serious look on my face for a few seconds before chuckling.
She’s nuts.
“You didn’t see him. You hadn’t even seen him that night.”
She nods a few times in disagreement, her eyes smiling behind her glasses.
“Yes, I did see him. He’s a tall, muscular guy, and he has unbelievably beautiful eyes.”
While I appreciate her giving me a full description of his looks, I now wonder where she could have seen him.
She couldn’t get that much from spotting him that first night in front of my house.
He wasn’t in her direct line of sight.
But what do I know?
She’s clearly seen him somewhere.
“I’ve also seen him on TV,” she says, and my heart stops.
“What??”
She nods a couple of times.
“It was a show about money. Don’t ask me what it was. My memory is not as reliable as it used to be.”
I’m convinced she’s fucking with me.
There is no way in hell, Ewan, my Ewan, the guy who sported a semi when he saw me for the first time.
The one who said I was off-limits, making no sense, is now on TV, dispensing financial advice.
But why not?
Sammy said he was a mobster.
And now he’s on TV?
So, which one is it? Is he a mobster? Or is he a businessman?
He can be both.
Ugh.
I’m getting angry.
My nosy neighbor knows more about him and has seen more of him than me?
Is it possible that he just rolled down the road this morning?
If this is his usual route, yes.
If not, was he checking on me?
It wouldn’t surprise me.
He likes to stalk me.
At least, he liked doing that at some point.
“Okay. All right. It doesn’t matter. Have you caught his last name, by any chance?”
Her eyebrows move up, and her eyeglasses threaten to fall off her nose.
“Did the TV host say who he was?” I ask again.
She brushes me off with a dismissive gesture.
“You don’t know his name?”
“That’s not what I have said. I want to make sure it is the same guy.”
She looks at me suspiciously.
“Have you two broken up or something?”
“What makes you say that?”
A slow smile stretches across her paper-thin lips.
“Everything?”
I gesture at her in annoyance.
“It’s nothing like that. We’re not, you know…”
She’s waiting while I can’t find my words.
“Sleeping with each other?” she offers.
“Together,” I set the record straight.
She purses her lips, and I expect a rebuttal.
“I didn’t catch his name,” she says.
I sigh.
“What else did you see this morning?”
Visibly irritated with me, she continues.
“He stopped his car at the crossroads and sat there for a few good minutes. He only left when you exited the house to get your steps in. And by the way, I still don’t know why you have to do both. Walking on the treadmill and around the neighborhood. It would kill my knees if I did that.”
It’s not her knees we’re talking about, but that’s beyond the point.
Besides, I’m too consumed with what she just said.
He was here this morning and waited at the crossroads?
I still can’t believe what she said was real, but something tells me that it was, and my heart swells, which is wrong.