Chapter 4 #2
I get out of my car and walk past them all, feeling that familiar contempt rise in my chest. The truck driver is asleep in his cab, mouth open, probably dreaming about whatever mundane bullshit truck drivers dream about.
The family is gathered around a picnic table, the parents looking exhausted while their kids run around screaming.
Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware of how fragile it all is, and how easily it can all be taken away.
I buy a black coffee from the vending machine, more for something to do than because I want it, and sit on a bench with a clear view of the highway. I light a cigarette and wait, watching the road for her van headlights to approach.
She'll come, I know she will. And when she does, when she sees me sitting here like it’s a pure coincidence, she'll have a choice to make.
She can pretend she doesn't see me, or she can get back in her van and keep driving.
She can also try to convince herself that running into me twice in one night doesn't mean anything.
The other option is that she can acknowledge it, by walking over and asking what the fuck I’m doing here, and call me out on the stalking, demanding to know what I want from her.
Either way, I'll win. Because even if she runs, and tries to put distance between us, she'll be thinking about me. I know she’ll be looking over her shoulder, wondering if I’m still following her, unable to shake the feeling that something has started between us that can't be stopped.
And if she doesn't run, and comes over to me, if she acknowledges the pull between us, then I'll know for sure that she felt it too. That she was just as drawn to this deep connection of fucked-up as I was. That she wants this as much as I do.
I finish my cigarette and crush it under my boot, my eyes never leaving the highway.
The night is cold, the kind of desert cold that sinks into your bones, but I barely feel it.
All of my focus is on that stretch of road, on the moment when her van will appear and everything will shift into the next phase.
And then I see them, those fucking fairy lights, and that unmistakable glow cutting through the darkness. She’s here.
My pulse kicks up, adrenaline flooding my system the way it always does before something important happens.
I stay where I am, perfectly still, watching as her van pulls into the rest stop and parks near the bathrooms. The engine cuts off and for a moment nothing happens.
I would guess she is probably sitting in there, deciding whether to get out or just sleep in the van.
The door opens a few seconds later and she jumps out, stretching her arms above her head.
Even from here I can see the curve of her body, the way her hoodie rides up to show a strip of tanned skin above her shorts.
She looks tired, rumpled, beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with conventional prettiness and everything to do with the raw honesty of her existence.
She starts walking toward the bathroom, her head down, lost in her own thoughts, not aware of my presence yet.
I stand up, and step out of the shadows into the light. I position myself so that when she comes back out, she will have to walk right past me. Then there will be no way to avoid a conversation, and no way to pretend this is anything other than what it is.
I light another cigarette and a few minutes pass before the bathroom door opens and she walks out, her hands shoved in her hoodie pockets, just as her gaze raises to meet mine.
She freezes on the spot as I watch the recognition flash across her face, her eyes narrow as she processes what this means. That I’m here. That I've somehow ended up at the same rest stop, on the same night, on the same empty stretch of highway. That this isn't a coincidence.
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. The rest stop hums with fluorescent light and the distant sound of the highway, but it all fades into background noise. There is only her, standing there with those big brown eyes locked on mine, trying to decide what to do.
Run or stay.
Safety or trouble.
I don’t move, enjoying witnessing all of those thoughts drift across her pretty face. I don’t smile or talk or do anything to make this easier for her. I just let her see me, let her understand exactly what is happening, and allow her to make the choice.
But then, slowly, she starts walking toward me. Not away, but toward me.
My chest tightens, it’s something that feels uncomfortably close to relief flooding through me. She isn't running or pretending she didn't see me. She’s walking straight toward me with her chin up and her eyes sharp, and then I know, with absolute certainty, that she gets exactly what this is.
She is risking her safety to pursue her curiosity, which means she is choosing me.
She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell her, something floral mixed with a sweetness, and the particular scent of someone who'd been driving for hours. Her eyes search my face, looking for something I’m not sure I can give her. An explanation, maybe? A reason that makes sense?
But I don't have one. Not one that would sound sane, anyway.
"You're following me," she says, making it a clear statement rather than a question.
I take a drag of my cigarette, holding her gaze. "Yeah."
"Why?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we aren't saying. I could lie and tell her it is coincidence, that I just happened to be heading the same direction, making it sound innocent, harmless, and nothing to worry about.
But that’s not us.
"Because I want to," I say, simply.
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t look away or back down.
"That's fucked up."
"Yeah," I agree. "It is."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
"What does that mean?"
I drop my cigarette and crush it under my boot, taking a step closer. She doesn’t move back, or recoil, she just stands there watching me with those eyes that see too much.
"It means I saw you drawing that fox," I said quietly.
"I paid attention to the way you looked at it, the way you captured something everyone else would've ignored.
It means I know you see the world the same way as I do, stripped of all the bullshit, all the lies people tell themselves to feel safe.
It means I know you're just as alone as I am, just as tired of pretending to be something you're not. "
Her breath hitches, barely noticeable, but I catch it.
"And it means," I continue, closing the distance between us until I am close enough to touch her, and her head has to tilt back to look up at me, "That I'm not going to stop following you until you tell me to. Until you look me in the eye and say you don't feel this too."
The air between us crackles with tension and possibility, with the weight of everything we are both too damaged to say out loud.
"This is insane," she whispers.
"Yeah," I say again. "It is."
She watches me for a long moment, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. I can see her mind working, trying to logic her way through this, looking to find the rational response to a man admitting he is stalking her.
But there is nothing rational about this. Nothing safe or sane or normal.
There is only the truth of what we both are, standing in a rest stop parking lot in the middle of nowhere, finally seeing each other clearly.
"I should get back in my van," she says, but she doesn't move.
"You should," I agree.
Neither of us move.
And in this moment, I know I have her. That whatever this is, whatever we've recognized in each other, she isn't going to run from it. To my excitement, she is going to run toward it.
Just like I am.