Fourteen steps from my parking spot to my front door.
Twenty-three stairs if I use the stairwell instead of the elevator, which I always do, because the elevator is unreliable and also smells like cigarettes and sadness.
But tonight, the twelve minutes feel longer. Or maybe shorter. I can't tell anymore, because I'm too aware of the headlights behind me, too aware of the fact that someone is watching me drive, too aware of my heartbeat doing something irregular in my chest.
I pull into the parking lot of my apartment building—a run-down complex on the edge of town called Aspen Deck, which is ironic because there are no aspens and very little grove. Just a collection of two-story buildings painted a depressing shade of beige, surrounded by a
parking lot that's more pothole than pavement.
The rent is cheap. The heating is questionable. The neighbors are loud.
But it's mine.
Mine and affordable, thanks to Sarah's foundation covering part of the cost, and that's more than I had two years ago.
I park in my usual spot—number fourteen, which I chose specifically because fourteen is a good number, a manageable number, a number that's the same as the steps from my car to my door.
His headlights pull into the lot behind me.
He doesn't park. He just...stops. Idles at the entrance while I turn off my engine, while I gather my bag and my keys, while I open my door and step out into the cold.
I should just go inside.
I should walk to my door and not look back and pretend this is normal, pretend I haven't noticed that he followed me, pretend my heart isn't doing this complicated thing in my chest.
But I can't.
I turn around.
He's still there. Sitting in his car with the headlights on, and even from this distance—maybe thirty feet—I can see him through the windshield. See the shape of him, the line of his shoulders, the way his hands rest on the steering wheel.
I lift one hand. Awkwardly. It’s the best I can do, and I can actuallyfeelhim smirking more than I see it as he lifts one hand back.
Then his headlights turn, cutting across the parking lot, and he's pulling away, driving back toward town, and I'm standing in the cold with my keys in my hand and this strange ache in my throat that might be tears or might be something else entirely.
I watch his taillights disappear around the corner.
Then I walk to my door.
Fourteen steps. I count them automatically.
One. Two. Three.
He followed me home.
Four. Five. Six.
He wanted to make sure I was safe.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
He's been counting. The same days I've been counting.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
What does it mean?
Thirteen. Fourteen.
