Even though it’s pouring down, he doesn’t run to his car. No, the man walks at a leisurely pace like it’s the peak of summer and he wants to soak up the rays. Leo’s indifference to the rain gives me a chance to drink in the sight of him for longer, imprinting every inch of him into memory. When he turns his back to me to throw his bag into the trunk, my heart stops beating.
Is that . . . ? I narrow my eyes.
I have that exact hoodie. Quite literally, the very same one. I feel like I haven’t seen it inweeks.
It was a limited-edition sweatshirt from one of my favorite TV shows that got discontinued a couple years back. I bought it four sizes too big because it was the only one they had left.
I’m too busy gawking to notice that he’s facing my direction. I know it’s impossible because of the weather, but I swear our eyes collide.
In that second, every cell in my body expands and multiplies, filling every empty space with warmth, only to fizzle out into bleak nothing when he gets in his car and tears from the driveway into the street.
I’m being stupid. Hedidn’tsee me. There would be fireworks and a whole orchestra playing if we really did make eye contact.
Or maybe he’d run for the hills and send his cronies my way before I get the chance to show him how perfectly we’d fit together. We quite literally like all the same things. It’s better than anything I could’ve hoped for—he’s onlyjuststarted to see that.
Because of how well everything has gone, I’ve decided that today is the day I’m taking our relationship to the next level. I even marked it in my calendar last week to give myself five business days to emotionally prepare.
The gnawing ache in my lower abdomen soars when I twist in my seat to load the tracker app on my laptop, and when it opens, I watch the little dot speed along the map and onto the main road. My jeans do nothing to make my hands any less clammy. Nor does rubbing my temples stop me from clenching my jaw so tight I could crack a molar.
Taking a solidifying breath, I tighten my jacket and slip out of the car, fighting the urge to fall onto the ground and roll into the fetal position. I want to fucking cry. Or better still, rip my uterus out and sacrifice it to a god to make Leo fall in love with me.
Leo will be at the rink getting ready for tonight’s game, leaving his house unattended for the next five or so hours. It doesn’t make me any less nervous that I might get caught.
I pull on a pair of gloves, then lower the hood to conceal my face and keep out the rain. My heavy breaths fog in the frigid air. I shove my trembling hands into my jacket pockets, then swivel my head left and right like a cop might jump out from behind a fence and drag me into a cruiser. My jog to Leo’s house is at a pace akin to a child’s first steps.
It’s a quiet neighborhood. The perfect sort of suburbia for Leo to settle down in and have kids. With me. I’m not abovebaby-trapping him—something to discuss with a therapist, perhaps?
Adrenaline courses through my veins, making my surroundings sharper. I can taste the petrichor in the air and the faint diesel fumes at the back of my throat. Cloying and suffocating, yet refreshing all at once. The pelting rain seeps through the fabric of my puffer jacket and drenches the thick material of my jeans, weighing down my already fatigued limbs. All the while, baby Satan continues on his rampage for total destruction of my uterus.
I’m bloated. Cold. Wet. Achy. Sleepy. Plagued with hormonal acne. Hungry without an appetite. I’m pretty sure I’m leaking. The discomfort of wearing damp clothes feels like it’s eating away at my cartilage. And I’m one minor inconvenience away from doing something extremely stupid.
I should have taken a rain check on this venture.
Steering clear of the front door, I unlock the fence at the side of the house and slip around the back. The place is even more intimidating up close, like it’ll grow teeth and swallow me whole, forever ensnared in Leo’s web.
Beyond investigating the exterior for any cameras or a security system, I haven’t dared to go inside the house. I’ve been slowly building the courage to do this. I talked myself out of it when Leo left for his away games, using the excuse that one of his friends might turn up at the house to check on it.
I’m not allowed to chicken out. I’ve already apportioned time and energy for it in my schedule; not going through with it is going to send the rest of my day into limbo.
When it’s pouring this bad, no one else will be outside. There’s not a soul gardening or going for a run. No retirees staring out the window to people watch. No mom is enjoying this slice of suburbia because everyone will be inside, enjoying their in-floor heating and artificial light. Besides, all the rain dropletscascading down their window will turn me into a trick of the eye. The constant movement of water will make the world seem less still; sudden movements won’t capture anyone’s attention.
At least that’s what someone on Reddit said.
The back door is predictably locked. Shivering, I eye the rocks in the garden, searching for the most break-in appropriate stone.
I need to see how this man lives. Need to know what color his duvet is, and whether he’s the type of person who sleeps with a top sheet. Leo could have priceless artworks on the wall, or maybe his house is decorated with sporting paraphernalia. What if he’s a family man and has framed pictures of the holidays he’s had with his grandparents? Or if he’s secretly a nerd who’s intoStar Warsand dabbles inOld School RuneScape.
What kinds of food does he keep in the pantry? Is he the type of person to keep a separate drinks fridge? Maybe his place is like every other guy his age, where he uses three-in-one and has the bare minimum of everything because home is just a place to rest his head?
I have to know what makes him tick. Leave traces of myself in his space so he can get familiar with me in more ways than one.
Moving from window to window, I jimmy my fingers beneath the edges of the frame, hoping one will open. None gives way until I reach the last one. That’s when one of the gods out there hears my prayers because I stumble back, not expecting it to give way.
Wait.
It actually opened?
What the fuck? No way.
