Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Mina
Rain batters on the windshield, drumming faster than my pulse.
My trembling fingers reach for the neckline of my hoodie, yanking it up to hide my face and nose beneath the thick fabric.
It’s a miracle I haven’t caught pneumonia yet.
Blasting the heater runs the risk of revealing that there is a human being in this car, and said human is snooping.
Breathing hot air into my hoodie to warm my nose is my only option as I sit here and freeze while watching the dozens of videos Sabrina sent from her thrift haul today. The woman truly has impeccable taste.
Just as I finish the last video, another notification comes through with a text from the man of the hour.
Leo: I’m no wildlife expert, but if you come across a bear, I highly suggest that you don’t attempt to pet it.
I roll my eyes. We’ve been perfectly in sync since the very first message I received from him two weeks ago.
Excluding the fact that I lied about where I live, work, what my name is, and my life goals, there’s nothing fake about our conversations.
Anyone could say that we’ve been friends since we were born; we have the same interests, same humor, and same passions—minus the exercise and interest in the outdoors, in my case.
He’s exactly how I always imagined him to be.
Leo Duval is Blake.
Blake is Leo Duval.
And he’s playing his part so beautifully.
It guts me that it’s the borderline suggestive photos on my Leo-specific profile that caught his attention. Not the real me.
I’ve spent hours upon hours posing in front of my camera for the two Duvals—and to pay rent. The only thing that’s eased the burn is knowing that he doesn’t follow many—if any—women. But Leo followed me. Leo liked my photos. Not theirs. Mine.
We’ve been messaging nonstop, and he hasn’t once made a comment about my body or sexualized me like his friends did. Each text is making it harder to imagine that this might be the same person who dragged my name through the dirt for his buddies’ entertainment.
Pain shoots through my stomach, and I just about fold in half, whimpering. Of all the days for Aunt Flo to visit, she decided today was it.
I force myself to ignore the hurt and focus on moving my trembling fingers over the screen. Leo is and always will be the perfect distraction.
Mina: I’d happily die trying to pet a bear. It will sense my immaculate vibes and won’t try to harm me. Death would be worth it either way.
Leo: I’m going to pretend you didn’t just confess to being a risk to yourself. My concern for your general ability to keep yourself safe on a day to day basis already keeps me up at night.
My cheeks heat. Leo thinks about me before he goes to sleep.
Mina: The only thing I’m currently at risk of is being down for first degree murder. This one asshole has been getting on my last nerve lately.
Jack.
Jack has been testing my patience. I’m seriously considering beating him to death with a hockey stick. I thought Brad, who bullied me back in high school, was the most annoying piece of shit I’ve ever met. It turns out Jack wins that position by a mile.
I’ve deep dived into his life almost as thoroughly as I did Leo’s, and they’re shockingly . . . similar. Not that they’re the same person, but their lives are a copy and paste of each other; from living in the same cities, to posting pictures at the same place—but at a different point in time.
It’s weird. He might be bugging me a lot less frequently, but he’s the only one of Leo’s friends who hasn’t moved on with his life.
Besides me, of course.
Leo: I’m an exceptional gravedigger. I don’t slack off when it comes to upper body.
Just as I receive the message, movement outside snatches my attention. It’s hard to see clearly through the downpour, but there’s no mistaking the outline of Leo’s body in the gloomy afternoon light.
For the past month and a half, it’s been on my to-do list to buy a pair of binoculars.
They are necessary for any stalker’s starter kit.
I’ve either been camped out in front of his house or the ice rink almost every day in the hopes of getting just a glimpse of him—to put a real face behind the man on the other side of the screen.
I wish I could get close enough to study every pore and every angle of Leo’s face, the way the colors swirl in his irises, the shadows along his cheek that a lens doesn’t capture.
Except every time I watch him from afar, all I can think about is what might happen if he recognizes me as Mina, and not Jas.
He could run, or I could be reliving that night all over again.
Neither scenario is an option.
I need more time to wipe the slate clean before I approach him. For now, all I can do is keep pretending to be the girl who lives in a different state and will never cross paths with him.
Slowly, I let out a terse breath through gritted teeth as the pain in my stomach multiplies.
My uterus has tried to kill me at least once a month, every year since I was fourteen, and painkillers barely do anything—I’ve tried them all.
But no way in Hell will I let it stop me from carrying on with my life.
I had surgery years ago to remove the endometriosis, but the fucker has grown back, and I don’t have the budget to get an “elective surgery.” I’d go back under the knife if I could afford it.
Leo locks the door behind him before jogging down the stairs, duffle bag in hand. In recent weeks, he’s started parking his car in the driveway instead of in the garage, which doesn’t make sense since the weather has been utter dog shit lately.
But I’m not complaining; it means I get to see him for a couple seconds a day.
And leave a tracker on his car.
Mina: From where I’m sitting, I’d say it wouldn’t hurt if you worked on your upper body a little more. For grave digging purposes, of course.
And send proof of the workout afterward, I think.
Even though it’s pouring down, he doesn’t run to his car.
No, the man walks at a leisurely pace like it’s the peak of summer and he wants to soak up the rays.
Leo’s indifference to the rain gives me a chance to drink in the sight of him for longer, imprinting every inch of him into memory.
When he turns his back to me to throw his bag into the trunk, my heart stops beating.
Is that . . . ? I narrow my eyes.
I have that exact hoodie. Quite literally, the very same one. I feel like I haven’t seen it in weeks.
It was a limited-edition sweatshirt from one of my favorite TV shows that got discontinued a couple years back. I bought it four sizes too big because it was the only one they had left.
I’m too busy gawking to notice that he’s facing my direction. I know it’s impossible because of the weather, but I swear our eyes collide.
In that second, every cell in my body expands and multiplies, filling every empty space with warmth, only to fizzle out into bleak nothing when he gets in his car and tears from the driveway into the street.
I’m being stupid. He didn’t see me. There would be fireworks and a whole orchestra playing if we really did make eye contact.
Or maybe he’d run for the hills and send his cronies my way before I get the chance to show him how perfectly we’d fit together. We quite literally like all the same things. It’s better than anything I could’ve hoped for—he’s only just started to see that.
Because of how well everything has gone, I’ve decided that today is the day I’m taking our relationship to the next level. I even marked it in my calendar last week to give myself five business days to emotionally prepare.
The gnawing ache in my lower abdomen soars when I twist in my seat to load the tracker app on my laptop, and when it opens, I watch the little dot speed along the map and onto the main road.
My jeans do nothing to make my hands any less clammy.
Nor does rubbing my temples stop me from clenching my jaw so tight I could crack a molar.
Taking a solidifying breath, I tighten my jacket and slip out of the car, fighting the urge to fall onto the ground and roll into the fetal position. I want to fucking cry. Or better still, rip my uterus out and sacrifice it to a god to make Leo fall in love with me.
Leo will be at the rink getting ready for tonight’s game, leaving his house unattended for the next five or so hours. It doesn’t make me any less nervous that I might get caught.
I pull on a pair of gloves, then lower the hood to conceal my face and keep out the rain.
My heavy breaths fog in the frigid air. I shove my trembling hands into my jacket pockets, then swivel my head left and right like a cop might jump out from behind a fence and drag me into a cruiser.
My jog to Leo’s house is at a pace akin to a child’s first steps.
It’s a quiet neighborhood. The perfect sort of suburbia for Leo to settle down in and have kids. With me. I’m not above baby-trapping him—something to discuss with a therapist, perhaps?
Adrenaline courses through my veins, making my surroundings sharper.
I can taste the petrichor in the air and the faint diesel fumes at the back of my throat.
Cloying and suffocating, yet refreshing all at once.
The pelting rain seeps through the fabric of my puffer jacket and drenches the thick material of my jeans, weighing down my already fatigued limbs.
All the while, baby Satan continues on his rampage for total destruction of my uterus.
I’m bloated. Cold. Wet. Achy. Sleepy. Plagued with hormonal acne. Hungry without an appetite. I’m pretty sure I’m leaking. The discomfort of wearing damp clothes feels like it’s eating away at my cartilage. And I’m one minor inconvenience away from doing something extremely stupid.
I should have taken a rain check on this venture.