I pull out the plate of food from the oven—an omelet stuffed with cheese, tomatoes, and something green. I pour myself a cup of coffee, making it the way I like, before taking it and the plate to the table.
I feel guilty eating the food he makes me. I shouldn’t take all these things from him when I’m giving him nothing in return—though, to be fair, I have offered to give him money and he refuses. I’ve been clear about what I want, but Sam has too much hope. He acts like we’re more than friends, making this dangerous. I’m trying my best not to lead him on, and I don’t think I’ve done anything to make him think that I want more, but he hasn’t stopped trying so maybeIneed to try harder? I just don’t know how to be more clear with him. It feels like the onlyoption is to leave, but I can’t do that. I don’t have anyone else. So this is a small price to pay for a small peace of mind.
When he touches me, it’s awkward. When he tries to kiss me, I move away. When he goes in for a hug, it’s quick and then I put distance between us. And I’ve verbally told him that I don’t want this, that all the physical stuff makes me uncomfortable. But I so badly need a friend right now, and Sam was always such a good friend. I just want that back. I want him back as my safe space, and maybe that’s greedy of me to want or to ask for, knowing he has more-than-just-friend feelings for me…
Why does this all have to be so difficult?
The apartment isn’t very big, which doesn’t help this situation—an open-concept kitchen, dining room, and living room. One tiny bedroom and a bathroom big enough to turn around in.
When I first came here, Sam said we could sleep in his bed together. I told him that was a bad idea. I offered to sleep on the couch, but he came out in the middle of the night and said I could have the bed and he would take the couch. So that’s how we’ve been ever since, which only makes my guilt worsen. I’ve taken the place over with nothing to give in return—at least, nothing he wants, because I won’t give him me. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us if I did that. As badly as I want to sometimes, it’s not fair and it will only make things messier in the future.
I’ve considered seeing what would happen if we moved forward with a relationship—or if I had sex with him. But I can’t do it. It feels too… final. Like it’s a line crossed that I can never come back from.
The clanking of the mail person opening the mailbox startles me. It’s one of those large square mailboxes that are built into the building with small slots to slip the main into. There’s shuffling and some thunks as they shove letters into each box. When the squeak tells me it’s closed and there’s a moment ofsilence, I open the door and grab the mailbox key from the key rack on the wall.
I pause before stepping out into the hallway, take a deep breath, and look both ways down the hall to make sure it’s empty before I keep going. It feels like spiders are crawling along my skin as I hurry toward the front door to the building.
It’s heavy and opens in a way that I can hold it with my hip and get to the mailbox, which eases my anxiety just a little. The door locks automatically, and the easier it is to run back inside, the better. I don’t feel completely safe inside, but I do feel safer than being on the street. There is a small stack of mail in our box, so I take it out and hurry back inside, the building door thumping closed.
When Sam told me he was in apartment 7, I assumed that meant he would be on a higher floor, which made me feel better. No one is breaking into an apartment on higher floors—at least, it’s less common. But that isn’t true for this building. The top apartment is number 1, because it’s the fanciest apartment in the building. Sam jokes and calls it the penthouse because it’s the only one up there. The bottom floor that we’re on has six small apartments—7-12, and 2-6 are above us on the second. There is an elevator, but it’s only for apartment 1, going directly to that floor so you need a special keycard for it. Everyone else has to use the stairs. I’ve never seen the guy who lives up in the penthouse, but Sam says he’smysteriousand doesn’t talk to anyone.
I’ve run into a few neighbors while coming and going. They’re friendly and welcoming, asking just enough questions to not be creepy or overbearing. The neighborhood is nice, quiet, and with minimal crime. It’s ideal. But I can’t stay here forever, even if things could work out with Sam. I have a home that I need to get back to, and a life that I need to keep living.
Chapter Two
Jaxon
I lean back in my computer chair to get a better view of the screens in front of me. They cover the wall, allowing me to see every corner ofSam’sapartment, at all times, including the hallway and the front door by the mailboxes.
I installed them the second night she stayed here, before Sam helped her unpack her things. They’d gone out to get some groceries, and I popped in. People don’t notice what they don’t expect to be there, so finding them won’t be an issue. They’re top tier, and well hidden.
I know where she is every second of the day, even on the rare occasion she leaves. It doesn’t happen often, only a few times since she’s been there, but when that happens, I bring my ass downstairs to follow her.
The first time they went out, it was just for a walk.
The second time, they got ice cream.
Fucking ice cream in December.
I really had to hold myself back from murdering Sam right then and there for the way he was staring at Sailor as she licked the ice cream from the cone.
But if there’s anything I’ve learned in this time we’ve been apart, it’s that killing is not the way to win Sailor back. Which is such a shame because I dream of the ways I could kill Sam. Once, it even made my dick hard. That’s never happened to me before, so maybe it was something else, but I’m pretty sure I was so overjoyed over murdering that little prick that my dick didn’t know how else to respond.
After Sailor finishes her breakfast, she washes the dishes and leaves them in the strainer to dry, like she does every morning. Then she goes into the living room and settles at the small desk in the corner to work on school stuff. Same routine, day in and day out.
When I’m not watching Sailor, I’m thinking about her—mostly about how to get her back. Though I know what it was that scared her away, I can’t be sorry for it. I won’t be. I refuse. Mindy went too far, so she had to die. My mother… if she weren’t in hiding, she’d be dead too—and she will be when I find her.
I watch her every day. I’ve learned her routine. I’ve given her space.
What more does she need? Nothing I can think of, meaning it’s time to strike. She had to want it before I gave it to her, and desperation makes people honest… it makes them open and willing.
I’d thought of how I would do this for weeks, and at first, I was going to go hard. Just text her from my number, tell her I miss her, and want her back. Tell her that she belongs to me and I don’t like that she’s fucking around with someone else, even if she’s very clearly not interested. Hell, even I can see it through these cameras, so I don’t know how he doesn’t. Which is why Iknow he does damn well see it—he just doesn’t give a fuck, which makes me hate him all the more.
I may have done some fucked up things to Sailor, but she wanted them all. She consented. She was on board with every single, depraved thing. But Sam? He’s forcing himself on her, and I don’t know how I haven’t slit his throat yet.
But back to how I’m getting Sailor back…
After considering that going in like a wrecking ball may scare her off again, considering she’s always been on the timid side, I came up with a better plan. A smart fucking plan. Probably the best I’ve ever had in my entire life. A plan worthy of pride.
