“Spirits.”
“So you’re telling me spirits are leaving me black roses with skulls, texting me pretending they’re you, scratching at my closet door, and rearranging my toiletries.”
“Yes,” he says, completely serious.
Oh, damn. This guy can genuinely act. I search his face, looking for any sign of a smile or any other emotion besides this grave seriousness. I come up empty. I wonder where he studied. If he went to Juilliard, he’s absolutely wasting his talent here.
He leans in closer. “Maybe some food might make you feel a little better? I bet you haven’t eaten since breakfast, and your friends haven’t responded yet, maybe I can get Agatha to whip you up a sandwich or something.”
I nod. His tone, along with his bizarre behavior, oddly comforts me. I have to remind myself this is all just smoke and mirrors. He’s getting paid to act.
The guy should get an Oscar. I glance back at my phone, hoping to see a message, a missed call, anything. Nada.
“Here you go,” Lyle says, handing me a small menu. “Pick whatever you want. My treat.”
My shoulders relax a bit. At least now I can avoid the expensive lobster dinner I can’t afford. I can just tell everyone I’ve already eaten.
I choose a grilled cheese sandwich with fries and a seltzer, and Lyle uses a hidden phone in one of the library walls to call in the order.
Then we sit in awkward silence. Him staring at me, me staring at my phone, which is also sitting in awkward silence. I think about asking him to call back the kitchen and switch out the seltzer for something harder, but then decide I should keep my wits about me until I get home, back safe in my apartment, where I know for sure no one is lurking in my closets—I live in a shoebox studio apartment without any.
“So tell me about your friends,” he says, leaning back. “What’s the story with the one that’s trying to be you?”
“What do you mean? Who’s trying to be me?” I ask, then realize Lyle probably knows more about my friends than I do right now, given he’s part of the whole creepy setup, sneaking into rooms and whatnot. “Do you mean Marissa?”
“The one always hanging off the tall blond wannabe Ken doll.”
“That’s Marissa. And the Ken doll is Jonathan,” I reply, my tone thick with resentment. I sound childish, but I can’t help it.
Lyle picks up on it and looks at me curiously. “Sounds like there’s some bad blood there.”
“We’re all friends from college, but Jonathan and I dated and…” I squirm in my chair, unable to meet Lyle’s gaze. “Marissa was supposed to be one of my friends.”
Lyle leans in, his eyes narrowing with a disturbing glint. “So, she fucked your boyfriend behind your back?”
“I’m not sure she realized we were together. We really never told the friend group—” My voice wavers, the words feeling hollow even to me.
“Why do you think that was? Him not wanting anyone to know he was inside you?” There’s a cruel edge to his words.
I feel my cheeks burn with shame and anger as I struggle to find a response.I don’t know what to say to him. It’s a question I should have asked Jonathan when it was happening. A question I should have thought of myself.
“She fucked your boyfriend. And he fucked your friend.” Lyle scoffs, leaning back with a smug expression. “Who needs friends like that?”
Yes, unfortunately that sums it all up. I nod slightly, unable to deny it.
Lyle’s eyes darken, locking onto mine with an unsettling intensity. Dark, unblinking.“And then you fucked me.”
I recoil, his gaze sends my belly into a twist. His eyes remain unblinking, filled with an unsettling hunger. “Well… about that. I didn’t…” I sputter, my face flushing hot, words failing me.
He leans closer, a twisted smile playing at his lips. “You didn’t what? Mean to? Enjoy it?” His voice drops to a whisper, each word dripping with malice.
I stare at him, my mouth slightly open, feeling trapped under his intense scrutiny. The room seems to close in on me, his presence suffocating. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my fingers twitching as I struggle to keep them still, the nervous movement only making me feel more exposed.
Lyle’s smile widens, clearly relishing my discomfort.“You did enjoy it, though. I remember. Hey, I’m not judging. We were both a little tipsy, things happened. I can deal with being a rebound. A revenge fuck. I liked fucking you.” He brings his hand down to the crotch of his pants, adjusting himself. “Ireallyliked fucking you.”
I look away. The way he says the words is chilling, devoid of any warmth or humanity. He’s dropped the character of nerdy, creepy scary guy to straight-up serial killer—it’s absolutely terrifying.
He’s waiting for me to say something, respond in some way. I don’t. I’m not sure if this is part of the act or not. If it is, he’s exploiting the little bit of history we have, making it more depraved than it already is. It’s extremely violating. Degrading. Cold and calculated.
