6. Stetson
SIX
STETSON
March 17th, 2024
We step into the cool interior of the house, dusting off red sand as we go, shimmying as it rubs and scrapes against places that I’m sure I’ve never had to reach and clean before. I sigh, grateful the air conditioning works in this dump, the one thing not falling apart in this tomb of a house.
I stop mid-shake, the hairs on my arms and neck coming to attention. It’s that heat again. Something feels wrong, really wrong , like someone is watching me or creeping up on me. Maybe a normal person could brush off the tiny pebbling of their skin, or the small flutter in their stomach. But I can’t, not when that instinct is the only reason I am still alive.
I peer into the dimly lit entryway, shucking my boots with a fling of my feet. A puff of red sand bursts in the hazy streams of sunlight, little pebbles dinging against the washer.
“Geez, bitch, I was kidding about racing you to the shower. I can wait, although, it is rude to insist on going before your houseguests,” Dale chides as she hops on one foot, trying to get her second boot off. I storm into the kitchen, ignoring her, not sure what I will find, or what I will do when I find it.
It is a beautiful kitchen and has always been my favorite room in the house—not just because of its large floor-to-ceiling windows facing the field side, where the most beautiful morning sunshine trickles in. Not only because of the cabinets, all dark-stained wood, with brass knobs, filled with western plates and cutlery. It isn’t just the brass sink sunken into the island, a copper cooking hood over the stove, or even the white and brown speckled quartz countertop faded into a small horse-printed tile border that my mother hand-picked and installed herself.
It had been my mother’s favorite room in the house, too— the only room I have any positive memories with her.
It is a chef’s dream, and when I was little, that’s what I wanted to be. I loved to cook, still do. It is one way I can show people my appreciation or care for them. It is the one way I know how to show it to myself.
And now, sitting in the middle of that beautiful island I love so much, is a small glass vase, a vase my mother used to love, with tiny hand-painted horseshoes, filled with every Texas wildflower I can imagine—bluebonnets, cornflowers, daisies, even purple thistle heads.
I suck in a breath, my mind racing with possibilities and my eyes noting every detail. I hadn’t picked them. Which means someone else had.
“What the fuck? You act like someone is chasing you!” Dale screeches as she storms into the kitchen. She catches sight of the flowers on the counter and stops, a feline grin taking over her face.
“You bitch. Who the hell did you get flowers from? Nathan?” Dale is running for the vase before I can stop her. There’s a little brown card tucked in with the blossoms and she swipes it.
“I couldn’t find poppies, so I picked these instead.” Dale reads the card aloud, her voice teasing. But there’s nothing funny happening, no joke to find the punch line for. No one knows I like poppies, no one but my mother. I stopped buying them when I moved away. I stopped claiming them as my favorite when someone asked.
I have a single tattoo, a small line-drawn poppy on my ribs, that I got when I turned twenty-one. But I’ve never shown it off, and I never told another soul what it means.
My hands are clammy as my brain races to find a reasonable explanation. Nathan would never, at least not the man I met the other night. He is too self-absorbed to buy me flowers. And to bring them inside and put them in a vase for me? There’s no way. Not to mention the note— the fucking note.
“P.S. If I ever see you reaching for a door handle again, I will spank you raw with my belt.” Dale’s words come out as a breath, her eyes bugging from her small, rounded face.
That snaps me out of my spiraling trance, and I stomp over, snatching the note.
“It does not say that!” My heart is pounding as I read over the small handwritten words. Except it does.
And it also says, See you soon.
“I feel like we should call the cops or something.” Dale worries her bottom lip between white teeth, red sand creased between her eyebrows and dusting over her top lip. Too stunned to speak or reassure her, I just stare at her. Maybe I should get a washcloth and wipe down the faint mustache of red sand on her lip. Would that be weird? Are we close enough friends to do that kind of thing yet? I know I’d want her to do it for me.
“Hello?” Dale’s small hand waves in front of my face, and my eyes snap to hers, now sparking with irritation. Fuck, I don’t want to piss her off. What if she stops being my friend after this? I don’t want to go back to having no one.
“Uh, I don’t know.” My voice sounds far off and weak to my ears.
I don’t know who could have brought the flowers, who could know that little detail about my love for poppies. It isn’t public knowledge, or even friendly knowledge, which means this is someone who knows me well.
But that’s the thing. No one knows me well. I have been alone my entire life.
“Are poppies your favorite?” Dale’s question sends my heart racing. Her face is drawn up, clearly lost in thought, trying to piece together the mystery that is my life.
“Yes.” It’s a simple admission, but one I hate all the same. Poppies were my mother’s favorite, her namesake , as she always told me growing up. We planted poppies outside the one spring I lived here, and I had picked them off our previous neighbor’s lawn every summer before that. They were a symbol of her, and her life and love .
And the life and love she had abandoned.
Poppies are a viscous, complicated, beautiful symbol to me. And I hate anyone knowing that fact— that weakness. Dale clears her throat, and I look over at her, my heart a thrumming roar in my ears.
“Do you want me to call the cops? This feels pretty personal and a bit threatening. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” There is kindness in her words, soft and loving. Kindness I don’t deserve.
Because no, I don’t know who could have brought me the flowers, or who could know those very painful details about my life, but I also am not scared. I’m aroused, and that’s the scariest part of all.
I try to dispel the very real and unwanted thoughts from my head with a shake.
Blowing out through my lips again, I force myself to look into Dale’s dark eyes. She’s looking at me like I’ve gone crazy, which, let’s be honest— I have . Her eyes, dark and rounded, ping around my face, searching. And I want to hide—hide from what she might see there, or more so, what she doesn’t see there.
“Girl, what is going on? I would be freaking out.”
“It’s just flowers.” Feeling scolded, I can’t manage more than a whisper. I don’t want Dale to hate me, to think me fucked up and gross.
“And a rather threatening note,” Dale counters, picking the small folded piece off the counter and waving it around.
I shrug, yes, and no . Not if you’re into being chased, controlled, dominated, and degraded. And as fucked up as it is, I am into those things— really into them.
But how can I explain that to Dale? How can I make her see that the fucked up things I like in the bedroom don’t affect who I am? They don’t change the kind of friend I will be.
“Dale, I…” I close my eyes, taking in a shaky breath. It’s now or never, and I promised myself years ago that I would stop hiding from the people I care about. And fuck, I care about Dale.
I peek out from between my fingers, still at a loss for the right words. A bark of laughter rips from my lips, a mix of anxiety and relief flooding through my veins. Dale looks back at me, a smile, bordering on unhinged, consuming her face. Both of her small hands rest on her hips, and I note how feral she looks at this moment—a crazed animal.
“You dirty slut. You like this shit! Do you know who this is? Is this like some kind of role-play? You do have a type! Who is it?” She throws her head back, a cackle ripping through the cool air. “Is he upstairs right now, naked and waiting for you?”
I rub my face with sweat and dirt-covered hands, hoping the darkness will swallow me whole. I’m embarrassed, the evidence of that climbing up my sun-kissed neck, but I also can’t fight the smile stealing across my face. I shove my dirty fist against my mouth, smothering a laugh.
This is crazy, absurd even. How can Dale be so loving, so accepting? How can she see me, understand me, and still be okay with it? I have been wrestling with this part of myself for years and I still have not accepted it—not fully, anyway.
I shake my head, my braid swishing with the movement.
“No, Dale. No one is upstairs. At least, I hope not. I don’t know who the note is from, but,” I shrug, trying to be authentic without putting too much of myself on the line, “it makes me a little nervous.”
Dale’s fingers punch into my chest, and she barks a laugh.
“And a little turned on. You dirty, dirty girl.”
I look at Dale, really look at her, and try to pick apart what she’s thinking. How is this making her feel about me? Does she hate me yet? To my surprise, I find only mischief and warmth.
Acceptance .
“What? I don’t judge you. I might be concerned for your safety, but I’d never judge. We all have our things.” Dale winks at me and turns back to the flowers. Her words seem genuine but also hold a note of something else. Maybe reservation? I look back at my friend and wonder what her things are. I should ask her. I should offer the same kindness and acceptance, the same readily available love and advice. Dale has always been so quiet about that part of herself, but maybe she just needs someone she trusts to show interest. I want to be that for her. As I’m opening my mouth to pelt her with my own interrogation, she speaks again.
“What are you going to do with them?” Her fingers absently run over the petals, clearly lost in her thoughts.
“Admire them, I guess.” I sigh, stepping closer to her. I will also be looking over my shoulder at every turn, both fearing and hoping to find a hot boogie man behind me.
I inwardly groan. So fucked up, Stetson. What the fuck is wrong with me?
God! I am going to be living in a constant state of fear and horniness. I barely sleep as it is, and now with this?
“Think whoever it is will come back?” Dale says it teasingly, but I know we are both thinking that this might not be so funny. Not deep down. Not if we were normal.
“If they ever even left.” My eyes roam over the kitchen again for any sign of movement. There is none, just like I expected. But that feeling of being watched still hasn’t lifted, and now, I kind of don’t want it to.