Safety or trouble.
I don’t move, enjoying witnessing all of those thoughts drift across her pretty face. I don’t smile or talk or do anything to make this easier for her. I just let her see me, let her understand exactly what is happening, and allow her to make the choice.
But then, slowly, she starts walking toward me. Not away, but toward me.
My chest tightens, it’s something that feels uncomfortably close to relief flooding through me. She isn't running or pretending she didn't see me. She’s walking straight toward mewith her chin up and her eyes sharp, and then I know, with absolute certainty, that she gets exactly what this is.
She is risking her safety to pursue her curiosity, which means she is choosing me.
She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell her, something floral mixed with a sweetness, and the particular scent of someone who'd been driving for hours. Her eyes search my face, looking for something I’m not sure I can give her. An explanation, maybe? A reason that makes sense?
But I don't have one. Not one that would sound sane, anyway.
"You're following me," she says, making it a clear statement rather than a question.
I take a drag of my cigarette, holding her gaze. "Yeah."
"Why?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we aren't saying. I could lie and tell her it is coincidence, that I just happened to be heading the same direction, making it sound innocent, harmless, and nothing to worry about.
But that’s not us.
"Because I want to," I say, simply.
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t look away or back down.
"That's fucked up."
"Yeah," I agree. "It is."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
"What does that mean?"
I drop my cigarette and crush it under my boot, taking a step closer. She doesn’t move back, or recoil, she just stands there watching me with those eyes that see too much.
"It means I saw you drawing that fox," I said quietly. "I paid attention to the way you looked at it, the way you captured something everyone else would've ignored. It means I know yousee the world the same way as I do, stripped of all the bullshit, all the lies people tell themselves to feel safe. It means I know you're just as alone as I am, just as tired of pretending to be something you're not."
Her breath hitches, barely noticeable, but I catch it.
"And it means," I continue, closing the distance between us until I am close enough to touch her, and her head has to tilt back to look up at me, "That I'm not going to stop following you until you tell me to. Until you look me in the eye and say you don't feel this too."
The air between us crackles with tension and possibility, with the weight of everything we are both too damaged to say out loud.
"This is insane," she whispers.
"Yeah," I say again. "It is."
She watches me for a long moment, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. I can see her mind working, trying to logic her way through this, looking to find the rational response to a man admitting he is stalking her.
But there is nothing rational about this. Nothing safe or sane or normal.
There is only the truth of what we both are, standing in a rest stop parking lot in the middle of nowhere, finally seeing each other clearly.
"I should get back in my van," she says, but she doesn't move.
