Then one day after school we returned to his house to take the puppy for a walk together. Normally Lucky would bound to the front door as soon as he heard Nolan unlock it. Not so this time. We searched the place, becoming more worried as the seconds ticked by. After what had felt like an eternity, we found Lucky in the backyard. Lying on the ground. Not breathing.
For the longest time after Nolan fell asleep, I watched him. He looked so fragile, like he had the day we’d found his puppy dead. My heart broke seeing him this way.
I knew his tour had been grueling. Who wouldn’t be exhausted after all the touring the band had done during the past year? Now that it was over and he had time to recover, he should’ve looked different. Refreshed. But instead he looked as though he still wasn’t sleeping much.
I slipped out from under the covers. He didn’t so much as stir. I picked up my clothing and returned to my room.
When I woke up several hours later, sunlight was streaming in through the blinds, and the smell of coffee perked me up a little. I grabbed an old sweatshirt that used to belong to Nolan. He’d left it at my house shortly before he disappeared to L.A. I also slipped on my yoga pants and trudged into the hallway in search of the beverage of the gods.
Nolan was in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter. Or rather, his body was in the kitchen but otherwise he looked to be a billion miles away. Next to him was the box of my favorite sugar-loaded cereal. The true breakfast of champions.
“Hey.” I walked to the coffeemaker and filled my favorite mug, the one that said I’M SORRY FOR WHAT I SAID BEFORE I HAD MY COFFEE.
Nolan remained silent, the corners of his lips slightly curved down. I sipped my coffee, then placed the mug on the counter.
I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my head on his shoulder. This was no different than in the past, when we used to be close. I would do this whenever something was bothering him. “Talk to me.”
It took a few seconds before he finally enveloped me in his arms and kissed the top of my head. He still didn’t say anything. I shifted in his arms and stroked his jaw with my thumb. The rough feel of his facial growth excited me, and I reached up and kissed the spot I’d touched. I couldn’t help it. The constant craving to touch him was almost unbearable, like a chocolate addiction. But like with most addictions, I’d eventually have to walk away from it by going cold turkey.
Nolan turned his head ever so slightly and my mouth accidentally brushed against his. My lips parted, a silent invitation for him to deepen our kiss. His warm, coffee-scented breath caressed my face.
My cellphone played the song I’d programmed for general calls. If Nolan had planned to kiss me, I would never know. He pulled away. His rejection stung worse than a bee sting to someone allergic to them.
I avoided looking at him and answered my phone.
“Hello, is this Hailey Wilkins?” a male voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Mathews.”
I straightened at his name. “Hi. Did he say anything? Was he the one who attacked me?” The words came out in an unstoppable gush.
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look like it. He has a strong alibi for that night. He did see you Friday morning where you work, getting into the passenger seat of a black car around eleven-fifteen a.m. That was the last he saw of you until you showed up at Trysting last night.”
I had a billion questions based on what the detective had just told me. “Who was the driver?”
“Unfortunately, he couldn’t see the person. He couldn’t even tell me if it was a male or female. And he wasn’t able to tell us the make of car, other than it was a sedan.”
My throat clogged up at what he was telling me. “Has…has he been stalking me?” I could feel Nolan’s gaze on me. I refused to acknowledge it.
“There isn’t enough evidence to suggest he has been. Other than when he saw you regularly at Trysting a few months ago and then the day you were attacked, he hasn’t seen you between those two times.”
“But why was he watching me get into the vehicle if he wasn’t stalking me?”
“He was meeting a friend at the sports center. They had a squash court booked. It checked out.”
My mind stumbled over that statement. Something still didn’t seem right. “What about how he watched me all those times when I hung out at Trysting?”
“He claimed he was worried about you. Every time he saw you there, you left with a different guy. He was upset you were leaving with guys he felt you didn’t know very well and putting yourself at risk.”
Even though he didn’t say the words, the detective had indirectly judged and lectured me. Worse yet, now I looked like a slut because I liked sex and because I avoided relationships so as not to let a guy hurt me. Nothing wrong with that. The choice was mine. But it didn’t mean I deserved to be attacked, and it didn’t mean I’d been in Westgate because I was prostituting myself out.
“He promised he’d leave you alone and not watch you anymore,” the detective continued. “So unless he does something else and you can prove he’s stalking you, there’s nothing I can do about it right now.”