Allison is a partner in a local law firm and is doing very well for herself.
“He was a witness in a vehicular manslaughter case I was on a while back.” Silence permeates the air as I swallow thickly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine.”
“I wish it were, G. But it’s not. I wish you’d get past it, you know? You lost so much of yourself that night.”
“I killed someone. I should be behind bars right now.”
She sighs. “It’s the past. Shit happens in people’s pasts. You live and learn. You’ve changed so much; it’ll never happen again. Why won’t you let yourself be happy?”
“I don’t deserve it.” My whispered words hang heavy as Allison sighs.
“Listen, I’m almost home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” I tell her, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Sure. Whatever. Hug Bear for me?”
I smile. “I will.”
Bear is my very overprotective but loveable pitbull mix. I rescued him from a shelter two years back, but honestly, I think he rescued me.
When I first moved to the solitude of Oakland, Georgia, I felt like I was being watched, and not long after, I received confirmation. So, I got Bear.
What I didn’t realize was that Bear was more of a couch potato, a lovable fur-ball more than anything.
I call out for him as soon as I open the door and feel the space behind me on the porch like a weight against my neck.
He dutifully comes and bounds past me to do his business.
My yard is gated, all two acres of it. He finds his favorite spot by the front tree, pees, and then runs back for me.
I smile at him as I look around, searching the darkness for prying eyes.
Even though the night seems still, I know better.
“Good boy, Bear,” I mutter, still watching as I shut the storm door and the inner door, turning all four locks on the inside as I pivot and drop my bag on the table.
I move into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. Camomile, to soothe my nerves.
After taking my vitamins and watching some late-night television with Bear, I walk into the room to get ready for bed.
I change into my pajamas. Yawning, I head into the bathroom. Clicking on the light, I almost miss it. Almost.
I turn toward the mirror and gasp as my heart nearly stops beating. I back into the shower door behind me, fingers digging into the glass in unadulterated fear.
“No,” I breathe.
On the mirror, a handwritten note is scrawled in red. A tube of my red lipstick is uncapped and lying askew on the counter.
You’re spoken for.
I try to pretend I don’t know what it means. I try to explain it away. But I can’t.
He knows I went on a date, he was watching, and he’s pissed.
Or she?
I don’t actually know who my stalker is. I only know that I’ve thoroughly pissed them off.
