Chapter 18
Elle
After I drop Trish and Lottie off at their respective homes, Ginny gets me where she wants me. Alone in a car.
“Why aren’t you sleeping at home?” she asks as soon as Lottie has closed the door.
“What do you mean? Of course, I’ve been home,” I lie.
“No, you haven’t. You haven’t turned any lights on in over a week. Care to explain?”
I shrug a shoulder, while keeping my eyes on the road. “I guess I’ve just been lost in my art. That’s not unusual.”
“Really? Lost in your art? I was hoping you’d tell me you’d found some hot sexy thing to get naked with.”
“Seriously?” I laugh. “You thought I’d found a stud?”
“I hoped. But now you tell me it’s only art stuff, and I don’t buy that.”
“So, if I told you I was fucking some dude you’d buy that, but when I tell you I’ve been working in the art studio because I’m an artist, you call bullshit?”
“Yup.”
“Sorry, hate to tell you, but that’s the truth. I’ve got a show to prep for the same weekend as the wedding, and sometimes that means all-nighters and passing out on the couch.”
“I’ll let you keep your secret, but I’m watching you. If something’s going on, I’m here for you, okay?”
“Same to you, Gin. Always.” I smile at her, knowing she means it.
But I also know that part of my issue lives with her. Her Keith, well, he’s not a good guy. I know him from the Cove. He used to try to hang out with the women in the same social circle I was a part of. I know he did questionable things trying to become a part of that group, and I wouldn’t want to be left alone with him. He’s a manipulator, and narcissist, and a grade-A asshole. Does that make me a horrible person for not telling her? I don’t know, but I’m afraid she wouldn’t listen. Who am I to tell her what her boyfriend used to do? She hasn’t listened to her two oldest friends in the world tell her he’s a jerk, why would she listen to me?
I pull into my driveway, shutting off the Jeep.
“Thanks for today, Elle,” Ginny says, giving me a sideways hug. “I know the girls were reluctant at first, but you truly are an artist. With paint and clothes. They are going to be beautiful brides.”
“Will you be joining that club one day?” I ask, praying the answer is no.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m supposed to get married. Guess we’ll have to see what Keith does, huh?”
I don’t know if she realizes she flinches every time she says his name. She doesn’t love him. Why is she with him?
“Hey, you know if you ever want to talk…” I trail off.
“I know. But I don’t. Everything is fine. Life is great!”
The effort to say those words is killing her. The smile and enthusiasm are fucking lies. She knows it. I know it. She knows that I know. I nod, accepting her answer, watching her shoulders fall in relief.
“Okay, I’m going in. Have a good night.” She escapes the Jeep before I can even reply, racing to her side of the street.
I get out and close the door behind me. I look at the front porch, knowing I need to go inside. If not to prove Ginny wrong, then to prove to myself that I’m not a coward.
“You can do this. There isn’t anyone here. No one’s after you. It’s just a prank,” I whisper to myself on the walk up to the stairs, looking around to make sure the boogie man isn’t going to jump out at me.
I take the first step and can already tell there are more ‘presents’ left on the porch. Tonight’s offerings are fresh petals. I’ve started paying one of the kids in the complex to come sweep the thing every day. I don’t even know if there’re flowers every day, but he texted me about four hours ago that he’d already been by, so these have been left in the last few hours. Again, no note, just petals. There’s a box leaning next to the door, but I didn’t order anything, so I just leave it there. Maybe it was delivered to the wrong place, and the mailman will come back tomorrow and pick it up.
I unlock the door and go inside. Everything seems to be normal, but it’s been two weeks since I’ve been here and I can smell the beginnings of a rotten smell coming from the fridge. Gross. I turn away from the kitchen and go towards my bedroom. I take a shower and change my clothes and sit on the side of the bed. It’s quiet, and every noise makes me jump. I can’t stay here.
The shop is a little over four blocks away. Less than a five-minute drive. How long could that take to walk, really? I can leave my car here and turn a light on so Ginny gets off my back and walk. I load up a backpack with some of the essentials I’ve missed and go out the back door, locking up behind me.
I’m two blocks away from the shop when I get that feeling. You know the one. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up and the goosebumps raise on your arms and you feel like you have eyes boring into your back? Yeah, that’s the one. Somebody’s watching me, but who? I look around and don’t see anyone. Nobody sitting in an empty car or hanging out on a porch. It’s late and this town goes to bed pretty early. Except the diner. I don’t know how Mable does it, but the woman never sleeps. She’s up before dawn and still going strong at midnight most nights. I’ll ask her what her secret is next time I see her.
Yes, I’m using Mable and her insomnia to distract me. I pick up my pace, practically sprinting the last block, and run up the back stairs as quickly as I can. When I’m inside, I don’t turn on any lights. You never know. Someone out there might be waiting for that. I lean against the door and slide down until I’m on my ass and bring my knees up, wrapping my arms around them and putting my head down.
I don’t know why this is happening again, but I can’t help the feeling that all of this is repeating the life of a younger me. Creepy ‘gifts’ that get more extreme? Been there. Feeling like I’m being watched? Been there, too.
I call Jorge. He’ll be awake. It’s still early in the Cove.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, answering on the first ring.
“Nothing,” I answer, and know I’ve fucked up as soon as I say it.
“Fuck off with that bullshit lie. What’s wrong?”
“The flowers are here.”
“Explain.”
“They’ve been leaving them on my porch at home.”
“And where are you?”
“At the studio.
Could this really be Stefon? It wasn’t that serious, J.”
“I don’t see how. I saw him all night.”
“What? Where?”
“He was out at the club. I kept my distance, but he was there all night.”
“Then who could be doing this? Who, outside of you and my family, even knows I’m here?”
“I don’t know, Elle. Have you installed the porch cameras yet?”
“No. I just quit going home.”
“Baby girl, what am I going to do with you?”
“Love me?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
“Always. Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. You know that.”
“No. I know that you say you’re fine and you act like you’re fine when other people are around. I also know that you’re full of shit.”
“You know, it’s a real pain in my ass that you know me so well.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift.”
“J, can you just talk to me for a little while? I don’t want to be alone right now, and your voice is helping.”
“You know, you could go find that hot man with all the ink and stay with him.”
“Can’t. I think we’re back to avoiding each other again.”
“How old are you? Aren’t you two grown enough to not play these games?”
“I guess not. Maybe that hits at forty?”
“Watch yourself. He’s only got a few more years until then.”
“How do you know?”
“You think I didn’t do my research on the man my girl is making googly eyes at?”
“I don’t want to know. If he has something he thinks I should know about him, I want him to tell me.”
“Then ask.”
“What do I ask?”
“I don’t know. Tell the man you want his dick. Be direct.”
I don’t reply fast enough for Jorge, and he catches it.
“Elle?”
“What if I want more than just his dick?”
“Finally!”
“I can hear you clapping your hands through the phone,” I deadpan.
“I’m just so proud. Owning up to your feelings is a big thing for you.”
“It’s not about admitting that I might like the guy, J. It’s that I can’t get a read on him at all. I don’t know if he likes me. I don’t know if he hates me. I don’t know if he even enjoys sex with me. I. Don’t. Know. Anything.”
“Talk to the man.”
“I’ve tried. What do you do when the man you can’t get out of your head won’t even acknowledge you’re in the same room with him?”
Jorge gets really quiet while he figures out how to answer. “I don’t know, baby girl. But if you’re sitting around hoping he’ll get the hint, I’m telling you he won’t. Men are simple creatures, Elle. Direct is always the way to go.”
“He’s just always so angry when he’s around me.”
“Have you asked him why?”
“Not recently.”
“Then ask again. Now, turn on some fucking lights and do something productive if you’re going to spend the night all up in your head.”
“How do you know I’m sitting in the dark?”
“Because when your thoughts go crazy, or you’re worried about something, or you can’t solve the problem in front of you, you sit in the dark. I’d put money on it that you’re sitting on your ass with your back to the door because you were freaked out and you called me before you even turned a light on.”
“I don’t like you very much right now,”
“You love me very much all the time. And you’re going to listen to me. I want you to get up and turn the light on. Put on your comfy pair of sweats that I know you grabbed when you were home, turn the light on, get your paint out, and put a fresh canvas up, and paint your fucking emotions. That’s what you excel at. Put all the questions and feelings on canvas, baby girl. Make yourself famous.”
I chuckle into the phone.
“There you go. Do you have coffee?”
“Yes, I have coffee.”
“Do you have alcohol?”
“There may be a bottle in the cabinet,” I admit.
“That’s all you need then. Go to work.”
We say our goodbyes and I do exactly what he told me to do. I pull out a fresh canvas and set it on the easel. I get my paints ready and put on my comfiest pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. Both are covered in old paint stains. I throw my hair up into a messy bun and go to work while the coffee is brewing. I prime the canvas, and by the time the first cup hits, I’ve made my initial strokes. By the fifth cup, I have the makings of a real piece of art. On the canvas, with wide swathes of red and purples, is a dark figure in the background, hidden from full view. In the forefront is a woman’s silhouette. She’s holding herself in a way that could convey fear or anxiety. Is the man friend or foe? What could she be afraid of?
The sun has already started shining through the windows when I put down my paintbrush and step back to look at the painting. I snap a picture and send it to Jorge. He won’t respond. He’s sleeping. I lower the lights and crawl onto the futon. Finally, the mental and physical exhaustion hit. I’ve been up twenty-four hours at this point—not for the first time, or the last. And when I close my eyes, I’m still haunted by a pair of brown eyes yearning for something that he can’t find.