17. Julia
Julia
Monday morning finds me standing in front of my bedroom mirror with one earring in, the other balanced between my fingers, wondering whether there will be a black envelope waiting outside my front door.
The thought has no business being part of my morning routine.
Coffee, shower, makeup, finding something reasonably professional to wear without having to iron it, checking that I remembered my laptop and deciding whether the weather requires a coat should be the full extent of what occupies my mind before eight in the morning.
Anonymous correspondence from a man who watches my house should not have earned itself a place anywhere between mascara and remembering to take my vitamins and yet, here we are.
I push the second earring through my ear and stare at my reflection while fastening it.
It has been exactly one week. Last Monday, the envelope had been waiting against the door when Mrs. Pritchard arrived with her basket of bagels.
I hadn’t noticed it until that evening because opening the door had knocked it into the hallway, where it apparently spent the entire day waiting patiently for me to come home and step on it.
For the first few days afterward, I expected another one constantly.
Every time I opened the front door, I looked down.
Every time I came home, my attention went to the porch before I even put the car in park.
Nothing appeared. Then the expectation gradually became less conscious, which somehow made it more irritating instead of less.
I stopped actively anticipating another letter, but there was still a tiny part of me checking the mailbox too carefully or noticing dark shapes on the porch before realizing they were only shadows.
A week later, I am apparently still doing it.
I pick up my perfume and spray it once against my neck.
“This is deeply embarrassing.”
My reflection offers no useful commentary.
I’m dressed in a navy skirt and soft cream blouse today, hair pulled into a loose knot because Minneapolis has decided wind is a personality trait and I have no interest in spending half the morning removing strands from my lip gloss.
I look exactly like myself — competent, presentable and entirely normal.
Nothing about me suggests I have spent seven days being intermittently relieved and offended that my stalker may have lost interest.
I grab my bag from the bed and head downstairs.
The coffee maker works this morning, apparently having reconsidered its attempt at retirement after I threatened to replace it last week.
I carry the mug around the kitchen while packing lunch, check an email that absolutely could have waited until I reached the office and eventually glance toward the hallway again.
The front door sits there looking completely innocent.
After rinsing the mug and gathering everything I need, I slip into my coat and stand with my hand on the doorknob for a fraction longer than necessary.
This is ridiculous. If there is a letter, there is a letter.
If there isn’t one, that is objectively good news.
Someone deciding to stop watching me is not a rejection.
I would like that formally entered into the record.
I open the door more slowly than usual anyway.
My eyes drop immediately. Empty porch. Nothing leaning against the doorframe.
Nothing beneath the welcome mat. No thick black paper catching against the pale wood.
Only a couple of dry leaves trapped near the step.
The little pinch of disappointment arrives before I can stop it.
I stand there long enough to become annoyed with myself.
“Seriously?”
I close the door behind me, lock it and walk toward the car with considerably more force than the situation requires.
Apparently I have reached a new level of emotional dysfunction where I am offended by the absence of threatening mail.
Excellent, I should mention that to Kai.
Except then I would have to mention the letter, which I am still absolutely not doing.
The drive to work does very little to improve my mood.
Nothing is actually wrong. Traffic is lighter than usual, I find parking without circling the garage twice and Daniel has already placed coffee on my desk when I arrive because apparently some people understand loyalty without requiring written declarations through sealing wax.
I set my bag down and hold up the cup when he walks past.
“You remain my favorite man.”
Daniel stops beside my desk and looks offended. “Remain?”
“You’re currently leading the category.”
“That is an unacceptable level of uncertainty after five years of service.”
“You have competition.”
His eyes narrow with immediate interest. “From whom?”
I take a drink and look at my monitor. “Jesus.”
“That bitch never remembers your coffee order.”
I laugh despite myself. “Go to work.”
“I am at work.”
“You’re standing by my desk.”
“I’m cultivating morale.”
“You’re gossiping.”
“That is morale.”
Daniel leaves only after informing me that I have become deeply ungrateful, and for the next several hours Monday performs exactly as expected.
There are emails waiting for answers nobody wanted badly enough to send before the weekend, a client who apparently believes adding URGENT to four consecutive subject lines creates additional levels of urgency, and a conference call that begins twelve minutes late because one person cannot locate the link that has been sitting in his calendar invitation for three weeks.
Normally, the chaos settles me. Today it mostly gives my irritation somewhere productive to go.
Still, every so often, my mind slips somewhere it shouldn’t.
A black envelope sealed with red wax. Little Ember inscription on it.
The absence of all of it. I tell myself that should make me feel safer.
Instead, I keep wondering whether he stopped watching at the same time he stopped writing.
That question bothers me enough that I refuse to answer it.
At lunch, I stay at my desk and eat while reviewing a document, although even I recognize the hypocrisy after an entire therapy assignment built around identifying when I automatically choose usefulness over preference.
My preference would be to go outside, buy something warm and eat somewhere without a laptop.
My deadline disagrees so this one wins for legitimate reasons.
I make a note of that inside my head so Kai cannot accuse me of ignoring the assignment completely.
A message from Tessa appears halfway through lunch.
Tessa:
Still alive?
I stare at it. She means Monday. Obviously.
Me:
Against all odds.
Tessa:
Proud of you. Remember, sex was also on my recommended treatment plan.
I nearly choke on my lunch.
Me:
You are not licensed to create treatment plans.
Tessa:
I have life experience.
Me:
You dated Cody.
There is a longer pause before her answer arrives.
Tessa:
His forearms were magnificent and I refuse to repent.
I smile and put the phone facedown before she finds another way to make my lunch inappropriate.
For a few minutes, the conversation from Saturday returns anyway.
About sex, about Michael, about control and difference between something being taken and something being voluntarily given. And, inevitably, the letter.
The sun is already low when I finally leave the office, and the temperature has dropped enough that the cold catches the exposed skin above my collar as soon as I step outside.
My day wasn’t particularly bad. It was simply Monday in all the predictable ways Mondays manage to be exhausting without earning the distinction of disaster.
By the time I turn onto my street, I want dinner, a shower and at least an hour during which nobody expects me to answer anything more complicated than whether I would like to continue watching.
Mrs. Pritchard is outside when I pull into the driveway.
She stands on her porch wearing a thick cardigan and holding a small watering can, tending to several pots that appear considerably healthier than anything I have ever attempted to keep alive.
The air has enough autumn bite in it that I’m not sure why the plants still require attention, but Mrs. Pritchard treats vegetation with the same level of care other people reserve for elderly relatives. She looks up when I close the car door.
“Long day?”
I adjust my bag higher on my shoulder and walk toward the low hedge separating our properties.
“Usual Monday. Nobody sued us personally and I only considered faking my own death twice, so I’m calling it successful.”
She laughs and lowers the watering can. “I haven’t seen you much lately.”
A flicker of guilt comes automatically. Then, because apparently therapy has infected my entire thought process, I notice it. There it is, the immediate assumption that I have neglected someone.
I smile at her anyway because in this case I actually do miss her. “I know. I’m sorry. Work’s been ridiculous, and Tessa stayed over this weekend, so Saturday and half of Sunday disappeared before I realized it.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me, sweetheart. You have a life.” The simplicity of the answer makes me strangely grateful.
“I still owe you coffee.”
“You don’t owe me anything either.”
“I want coffee.”
She gives me a satisfied little smile. “That’s better.”
I laugh because apparently the entire universe has enrolled in Kai Blackwood’s treatment plan without my consent.
“How about Saturday morning? I’ll come over, and since it’s finally cool enough that neither of us will melt, we can sit outside.”
“I’d like that.”
“Then Saturday.”
She lifts the watering can slightly in agreement. “I’ll make something.”
“You always make something.”
“And you always eat it.”