Chapter Two #2
"I was not—that's not—I was just—" I'm stammering now, which is mortifying, but he's looking at me with this expression that's somewhere between amused and serious, and I can't tell which one is winning. "You're a customer. I watch customers. That's part of my
job—"
"You do not watch the other customers the way you watch me."
"That's—how would you even know that?"
"Because I have been watching you watch me."
I kinda saw that coming, but oh, to hear him actually say it...
Aaaaargh.
He's been watching me watch him, which means he noticed me noticing him, which means I'm even more pathetic than I thought, and I want the parking lot to open up and swallow me whole.
"I have to go," I say, and I'm backing toward my car now, keys clutched in my hand like a weapon. "Thank you for the concern about my tires. That's very—it's nice. But I'm fine. Really."
"You will not be fine if you slide off the road into a ditch." He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, and we're doing this dance now, this careful choreography of advance and retreat.
"Why do you even care?" The words come out before I can stop them. "You don't know me. We've never even had a real conversation. You just—you come in and eat breakfast and—"
"And count."
I stop backing up. "What?"
"I come in and eat breakfast and count." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "Thirty-six days. Same as you."
"I don't—I wasn't—"
"You were." His mouth does that thing again, that almost-smile that's more suggestion than reality.
"You counted ceiling tiles. I counted the seconds between when I arrived and when you would look at me.
Forty-three seconds, on average. Sometimes faster if the café was busy.
Sometimes slower if you were avoiding me. "
I can't breathe.
He noticed. He counted. He paid attention to the exact same meaningless details I paid attention to, which means—
What does it mean?
"I have to go," I say again, and this time I mean it. I turn toward my car, unlock it with shaking hands, reach for the door handle.
"Thea."
My name. In that accent. With that emphasis on the second syllable that makes it sound like something more than it is.
I don't turn around. If I turn around, I'm going to do something stupid like ask him his name or why he's been counting or what any of this means.
"Drive carefully," he says. And then, quieter: "Please."
I get in my car. Close the door. Start the engine.
It takes three tries.
Three humiliating, mortifying tries while he's standing right there watching, and on the third try the engine finally catches, and I put the car in reverse and pull out of my parking space without looking at him.
I make it out of the parking lot.
Make it onto the main road.
Make it about half a mile before I notice the headlights behind me.
They're keeping pace. Not tailgating. Not aggressive. Just...there. A steady presence in my rearview mirror, close enough that I can tell it's his car, and just having him follow me like this...
It just makes me feel warm, like having hot chocolate on a cold day, slow and sweet and unexpected.
I've driven home alone every single night for two years.
Six nights a week, fifty-two weeks a year, that's—
I do the math automatically, because that's what I do.
Six hundred and twenty-four nights.
Six hundred and twenty-four drives home in the dark, in the cold, in the snow and ice and wind.
And honestly, it’s in these quiet drives that memories of the past often claw their way back to the surface, and I’d find myself remembering when I was just seventeen when my father’s trial ended, and all I could do was watch as law enforcement took him away in handcuffs.
The road curves ahead, and I feel my tires slip slightly on a patch of ice. My heart jumps, and I overcorrect—too much, too fast—and for a second the car fishtails, and I'm gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles go white.
But I get it under control.
Straighten out.
Keep driving.
In my rearview mirror, his headlights are still there. Steady. Constant.
Like he's not going to leave until he knows I'm safe.
Thank You, God.
The prayer comes automatically, the way prayers do when you've been talking to God long enough that it becomes reflex.
I don’t know what role he’s supposed to play in my life, but I know all things work together for good for those who love You...
My hands tighten around the wheel.
And so whatever happens, thank You.
The drive back home takes twelve minutes. I know this because I've timed it approximately six hundred times, because timing things is just another form of counting, and counting is what I do when I need to feel in control.
Twelve minutes from the café to my apartment complex.
Fourteen steps from my parking spot to my front door.
Twenty-three stairs if I use the stairwell instead of the elevator, which I always do, because the elevator is unreliable and also smells like cigarettes and sadness.
But tonight, the twelve minutes feel longer. Or maybe shorter. I can't tell anymore, because I'm too aware of the headlights behind me, too aware of the fact that someone is watching me drive, too aware of my heartbeat doing something irregular in my chest.
I pull into the parking lot of my apartment building—a run-down complex on the edge of town called Aspen Deck, which is ironic because there are no aspens and very little grove. Just a collection of two-story buildings painted a depressing shade of beige, surrounded by a
parking lot that's more pothole than pavement.
The rent is cheap. The heating is questionable. The neighbors are loud.
But it's mine.
Mine and affordable, thanks to Sarah's foundation covering part of the cost, and that's more than I had two years ago.
I park in my usual spot—number fourteen, which I chose specifically because fourteen is a good number, a manageable number, a number that's the same as the steps from my car to my door.
His headlights pull into the lot behind me.
He doesn't park. He just...stops. Idles at the entrance while I turn off my engine, while I gather my bag and my keys, while I open my door and step out into the cold.
I should just go inside.
I should walk to my door and not look back and pretend this is normal, pretend I haven't noticed that he followed me, pretend my heart isn't doing this complicated thing in my chest.
But I can't.
I turn around.
He's still there. Sitting in his car with the headlights on, and even from this distance—maybe thirty feet—I can see him through the windshield. See the shape of him, the line of his shoulders, the way his hands rest on the steering wheel.
I lift one hand. Awkwardly. It’s the best I can do, and I can actually feel him smirking more than I see it as he lifts one hand back.
Then his headlights turn, cutting across the parking lot, and he's pulling away, driving back toward town, and I'm standing in the cold with my keys in my hand and this strange ache in my throat that might be tears or might be something else entirely.
I watch his taillights disappear around the corner.
Then I walk to my door.
Fourteen steps. I count them automatically.
One. Two. Three.
He followed me home.
Four. Five. Six.
He wanted to make sure I was safe.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
He's been counting. The same days I've been counting.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
What does it mean?
Thirteen. Fourteen.
I unlock my door. Step inside. Close it behind me and lean against it, and I still can't quite process what just happened.
My apartment is exactly how I left it this morning. Small. Drafty. The carpet is the color of old oatmeal, and the walls are that generic off-white that every rental seems to use, and the kitchenette in the corner consists of a mini-fridge, a two-burner stove, and a microwave
that only works if you hit it in exactly the right spot.
But it's mine.
I drop my bag on the floor. Hang my coat on the hook by the door. Kick off my shoes.
And I just...stand there.
In the middle of my studio apartment with my heart still doing something complicated and my mind replaying the parking lot conversation and the drive home and the way he lifted his hand before leaving.
My phone buzzes in my pocket...and almost drop it when I see a message from an unknown number.
Your tires. Fix them. Or I will.
I stare at the screen.
Read it again.
How does he have my number?
I definitely didn't give it to him. I barely managed complete sentences in the parking lot. I'm not sure I even said goodbye. And yet he has my number, which means—
What does it mean?
I sink down onto my bed. It's technically just a mattress on the floor with a frame I bought from IKEA and assembled incorrectly, so it wobbles whenever I move. But it's comfortable enough, and right now I need to sit down before I fall down.
I start typing a response: How did you get my number?
Stare at it.
Delete it.
That sounds accusatory. Like I'm upset he has it. Am I upset? I should probably be upset. It's weird that he has my number when I didn't give it to him. But I'm not upset. I'm just...confused.
I try again—
My tires are fine. Thank you for your concern.
But find myself deleting it right after.
Too formal. Too dismissive. Like I'm brushing him off.
Am I brushing him off?
Another attempt: You didn't have to follow me home.
Delete.
That sounds ungrateful. He was being nice. Protective. Making sure I didn't slide into a ditch.
I put the phone face-down on my nightstand. Walk away. Walk back to the bed. Pick up my phone. Read the message again.
Your tires. Fix them. Or I will.
What does "or I will" even mean? Is he going to show up at my apartment with new tires? Is he going to follow me to a mechanic? Is this a threat or a promise or some weird combination of both?
I start typing again.
You're very persistent.
Delete.
Too flirty.
Am I being flirty? I don't know how to be flirty. I've never been good at this—at reading signals, at knowing what to say, at existing in that space between friendly and interested without falling into the gap.
Let it be for now.
It’s something I learned from Jolie. To step back and mentally and spiritually recalibrate. So I took a shower. Brushed my teeth. Read my Bible. And finally, when I’m back in bed, and I have my phone in my hands once again—
Thank you for following me home. That was kind.
I hit Send, and that’s it. I’m not going to ask him how he got my number. I’m sure I’ll find out how one way or another. But if I ask it now, it’s like I’m asking him to confirm that he’s interested in me.
Right?
I put my phone face-down on the nightstand and roll over and squeeze my eyes shut.
Argh.
I know I’m overthinking this. And that’s not good. Overthinking is never good because it can lead to pointless worries that can devolve into anxiety and depression and everything else.
So...just go to sleep, Thea.
Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today.