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. Idon’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 isalwaysa 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 Idoneed 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 movieIt, 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 anda 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.
“Hi,” he replies, and he has this warm cocoa voice, the kind of voice that drives away the chill of a cold night or a bad, confusing day. “How are you?” he asks. “How was work?”
My belly flutters in delight both with his words and the deep, sexy timbre of his voice. He’s calling me just to see how my day was? When has any man, Kevin included, ever done such a thing? And when did any man ever stir such a warm sensation in my body, with nothing more than his words? What could this man do to me if he actuallytouched me?
“Weird,” I confess, though I don’t know why. I didn’t share today’s happenings with either of my two Js. Why would I share this with him? And yet, still, I press on, adding, “Work was weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Just weird,” I say, not sure what to add, not sure I should say anything at all. I’m back to my worry that at some point, if I keep telling him about Kevin dissing me, I sound desperate.
He’s silent a moment, then two, before he says, “I don’t pretend to know you well, but we spent the weekend talking. I have at least a small sense of who you are.What’s wrong, Mia?”
Mia.
I like the way he uses my name as if he sees me without being here to see me at all. As if he sees me when those who are sitting right in front of me do not. My gaze slides to where the letter opener sits on my counter, a shiny decoration that could be used as a weapon. It’s here for that reason, a decision on my part that opens my shut book and tells a story.
I’m scared.
That’s the bottom line. The note writer is scaring me.
I need someone to talk with about this, someone who won’t force a gun in my hand, as would be Jack’s inclination. Or blow this off as nothing but fun and interesting, as I know Jess will. I love those two—I do—but guns scare me, and this is not nothing. Not when I have a makeshift weapon on my counter.
For the first time in years, I need someone other than them. It seems that someone isAdam. “Someone has been leaving me notes,” I confess. “At the coffee shop mostly. They write the note on my cup or stick the note on my computer. They find an opportunity when there should be none. I can’t figure out how they do it. The notes are compliments,” I add quickly. “I’m beautiful or a random compliment to that effect. And while I know that sounds like a nice thing for this person to do, it’s starting to feel creepy.”
“I see,” he says. “And who do you think is doing this?”
I should stop here, but I don’t. “Today I decided it was Kevin. I thought maybe he was triggered in some way by me being on the dating site, angry at me.”
