Unable to help myself, I picked it up, rotating it in my hands. My eyes flitted around the quiet yard one last time, the sense of being watched settling deep in my bones.
I ran back inside and ate my pizza in bed whileHow to Lose a Guy in 10 Daysplayed on my phone. I needed a romantic comedy to relax my freaked-out state of mind. Occasionally, my focus casually drifted to the apple sitting on the dresser. The movie helped as a distraction, but so did picturing thick muscles clad in a gray Crocks logo T-shirt and a chiseled jawline that could slice through my skin. His wavy brown hair was styled messily, some pieces flopped over and resting against his forehead.
His tan face showed me he had been kissed by the sun a lot this summer. The patio lights reflected in his sage green eyes—irises so light against the darkness that I had difficulty not feeling entranced by them.
They were hypnotic.
So much so that he just smirked at me while I stood there with my mouth parted. He wished me a good night before handing me my pizza and strolling back down the sidewalk. But he didn’t have a car, at least not right outside on the street anyway. He just strolled around the corner where the neighbor’s trees were against the sidewalk and disappeared. It wasn’t until he was gone that I floated back to reality and realized I had never paid him.
If all the men in this town look like that, then I may genuinely be screwed.
My feet batter against the concrete, Rossco’s paws pounding the ground beside me as we pick up speed. My running playlist blares in my ears, and I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face when the sun strokes my skin.
It rained last night, but it’s beautifully gloomy out this morning, with the cloud coverage keeping the late summer temperature at bay. I know birds chirp around me, but I can’t hear a word they say. I’m too lost in the beat of the music, and my own head swarming with thoughts.
There came a point last night when I looked out the window at those figures and thought about my parents. How they don’t know where I am. They don’t know that I’ve moved not once but twice since they left for Spain. The sad part? I haven’t told them about my last few moves because I honestly don’t think they care.
It’s not that they don’t love me or pay attention to my whereabouts; it’s just that they adore their lifestyle more. They find contentment in constant travel, moving from one place to the next before they even have the chance to change their address with the post office. Not that they’ve ever done that, anyway.
The last I heard, they were in Madrid. Or was it Murcia?
I can’t remember. It’s been over a month since we last had contact, so they could be in a completely different country, for all I know. Ever since I graduated high school, they’ve been living life as they always wanted to because they put those dreams on hold when they discovered they were pregnant with me. I was a “happy accident.” So, instead of being able to travel the world like their original plan since they never wanted kids, we moved from state to state.
One of the questions I was asked in my virtual interview for the second-grade teaching position at Cedar Creek Elementary was: “How good are you at dealing with hard situations and change?”
Pretty damn good at it, Principal Alaric Sinclair.
I didn’t answer it like that, but I wanted to.
Instead, I told him how I constantly adjusted and found the positive aspects to focus on despite moving a lot while growing up. At first, I hated it. I was never in one place long enough to make authentic friends or relationships. That’s one of the reasons I’ve never had a long-term boyfriend.
I have a steady relationship with my pink rabbit vibrator, though. So that must count for something.
Anyway, so much change happened that it eventually felt normal. Handling life adjustments became as easy as breathing. Which is why nothing about this move scares me.
Besides the two spine-chilling figures lurking outside the house I blindly rented for myself.
Shit. Maybe it’s haunted. I didn’t consider that.
Rossco and I round a corner of the street. The neighborhood of houses ends before a dead end where the road meets a thick forest.
The towering red cedars and Douglas firs are so tall on the tree line that they shroud everything under them in a darkness that reminds me of an enchanted forest.
It isn’t until I pass the last few houses on the block that two towers of rock ascending into the sky on both sides of a metal gate come into view in the distance. A gate that must be twelve or more feet high.
Slowing my pace, my breath escapes my lungs at a ragged tempo as I examine the intimidating entrance. Scanning the structure, I notice the forest line is behind a smaller fence with golden oak posts, the same color as the sign hanging below the arch. I’m too far away to see the black words scrawled across.
It’s as if the property is claiming this part of the land.
The road behind the entrance and trees gradually climbs upward on the small mountain, where a veil of morning fog rests gently on the tops of the trees.
I pull myself and Rossco to a stop, huffing out tattered breaths, and glance down at my Apple Watch.
Three miles from the house.
Wow, I’ve never run this far willingly. Usually, I only go a mile or two. I guess I did have a lot of anxiety to run off.
Reaching up to the wild strands of brown hair strapped across my sweaty forehead, I tuck them behind my ears and swipe my damp fingers on my high-waisted black running shorts.
