The girl no one even notices?
Adrenaline surges through me. This isn’t funny anymore. This isn’t flattering, either. It’s creepy. I don’t turn around. I don’t scan the tables for familiar faces. I rush to the door, push it open, and all but run outside. What is this? Who would do this? I’m halfway back to the library when I stop dead in my tracks. “Kevin,” I whisper. He’s just trying to be mean. The message on the dating app. The notes. Contacting Jess. Something about me being on that dating app triggered him.
Anger is now the emotion that wins the war inside me—anger is what drives me to reach for my phone and punch in Kevin’s number. The call dives into the dark, dark abyss of the voicemail he never checks. Of course it does, but I’m not ready to just hang up without saying my piece. “Stop whatever game you’re playing,” I snap. “Stop now, or I swear to you, I will go to the police and tell them you are harassing me.” I disconnect, pleased with myself for taking enough control to confront him. That’s growth for me. For that I have to thank Kevin, no matter how much I wish I’d never met the asshole.
With no other option, I rush forward, aware I’ve been away from the library far too long. I’ve just stepped on the library escalator, leaving behind the lobby zoo, which really is a zoo of people today, when my phone rings. My heart thunders in my chest. Could Kevin be calling me back? No way. He won’t listen to that message for months, but I want him to listen to it. Don’t I?
The racing of my heart and trembling of my hands says otherwise. I shift my purse around and retrieve my phone. God, it is Kevin. I swallow hard and answer, but he doesn’t give me time to speak, launching into an attack. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Contacting Jess is not stalking you. As for the message I sent you, I didn’t want to be rude and tell you this, but I had your profile up, shocked you were even on the app. I accidentally sent the message to you when it was for her. The end. Isn’t that what you like to say?” And that really is the end. He disconnects.
I rotate on the escalator, away from my floor, facing the zoo below, trying to catch my breath before I exit to my floor. Only now I really cannot breathe at all. The man from floor two is still here. He’s sitting at the same table, watching me watching him.
Chapter Forty-Three
It’s an hour later when our floor-three team finally finishes the bagel sandwiches I’d brought back for them. Then, and only then, do Jack and I dare to retreat into the back room to eat our lunch.
I sit across from him at the tiny break room table, eating my bagel sandwich and listening to him talk about a potential knee surgery. I’m present but somehow numb to the moment, in tune with all the chaos of my life right now. Despite this, I am not unengaged with Jack. I am genuinely worried about his health, but with every question I ask him, my mind is cluttered up, secretly racing, charging in one direction and then another.
Kevin showed his true colors, intentionally trying to hurt me.
Does that mean he cared about me more than I thought or less than I ever imagined?
If Kevin isn’t my note writer, who is?
Do I have a stalker?
What would Adam think of me if he knew my ex talked to me like I’m dirt under his shoe?
I told Adam about Kevin contacting Jess, but at some point I just look pathetic.
All these thoughts and more torment me, and yet I don’t tell Jack about the note. I don’t tell him about the confrontation with Kevin. I don’t tell him about the man on floor two. When lunch is over, I also don’t call Jess.
In the past, I would have told them both everything. Now it seems I tell them almost nothing.
I’m not sure what that says about the state of my life. It feels as if instead of turning pages in the book that tells my story, I’m slamming it shut before anyone reads the words. Even me, in some ways.
It’s later than usual when I begin my evening walk home, well after seven, the sun hanging low, kissing the horizon a final good night. Mondays are the more peaceful evenings in downtown Nashville, with nary a party bus to be found, though there is always a party somewhere in this area of the city. While I normally enjoy the evolution of the city from week’s beginning to end, the calm to the high energy this eve, the quiet is eerie and uncomfortable. The idea that my book is in my oversize purse, with a letter opener that resembles a knife inside, is remotely comforting, I suppose. But carrying a weapon and using a weapon are two different things.
Once I’m at the bookstore, it’s a relief to climb the stairs and enter my loft to flip on the light, but I still find myself uncomfortable, scanning my surroundings for intruders before I lock up. Never have I ever felt that need before now. Once fully inside my home, I lean on the door as I allow myself a moment to simply breathe until I realize an intruder could be waiting on me upstairs. For no explainable reason, my heart thunders in my chest. Maybe I do need the gun Jack has suggested I purchase over and over throughout the years. His words play in my head now:
“A single woman, or man for that matter, living downtown, should be skilled and in possession of a gun.”
For a gentle man with quiet sensibilities, this advice from him has always confused me. Hearing he was skilled with a handgun himself, even more so. “I’ll teach you to use the gun. You can keep one of mine at your place if you don’t want to invest in buying one. However, a gun that is the right size for your hand, and feels as if it is a part of you, is a smarter decision.”
I reach in my bag, grab the letter opener, and stare at it in my hand. What am I doing? I’m not going to stab anyone. And no one is upstairs, either, and yet, as I move toward the steps, I find myself squeezing the silver handle tighter and tighter. Slowly I ease upward until I step onto the second level. Slowly I inch downward, settling on my knees and lowering my head to inspect under the bed. I pant out a breath of relief when it’s all clear, as if I really believed the boogeyman was hiding there. I’m being ridiculous, I know, but when I stand, I find myself tiptoeing toward the bathroom and peeking in the door, surveying the area.
All clear.
But nothing feels clear at all.
I walk to the bed and sit down, allowing the letter opener to rest on my lap. In my head, I’m the little kid whose father let her watch the movie It, the original version, imagining clown hands grabbing my ankles from underneath. My heart thunders in my chest, a wild gallop—as if I’m about to appear in my own personal horror movie. And that is enough. I’m done. With my fingers wrapped around the silver handle again, I’m on my feet in an instant, kicking off my shoes and slipping my feet into my pink UGG slippers. Grabbing my bag, with my MacBook and phone inside, I hurry downstairs.
No wonder my mother was so pissed about me watching that movie. Apparently I’m traumatized for life.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting at the island, perched at the inner side of my kitchen, facing the door. My MacBook is open. A bottle of water and a steaming Lean Cuisine “gourmet” lasagna await my consumption to my left. My cellphone is at my right, with the letter opener beside it and within my reach. My cellphone rings, and I glance down to find Adam on the caller ID. Is this man really interested in me? What alternate universe am I living in? He’s the kind of guy Jess belongs with, not me.
Nerves jangle in my belly as I slide my earbuds into place and answer the call. “Hi,” I greet simply.