Page 53 of To Obsess

With shaking hands and a hammering heart, I reach for the bundle, running my thumb over the silky ribbon. I take one final glance around the back yard, then take the letter inside to open it, just in case.

“This is getting out of control,” I whisper in the silence of the kitchen. I know things have escalated, but I never expected him to leave a package for me on my freaking porch while I was sleeping right there. That level of risk makes me uncomfortable, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little excited by it as well. The cat and mouse game is enticing in a way I’ve never experienced.

I carefully undo the ribbon, placing it and the letter to the side. Running my fingers along the folded canvas beneath it causes a rush of adrenaline to flood my system. He’s left sunflowers and Pudding the turtle, but most of the time, it’s only been letters and cards.

The picture comes into focus as I unfold the canvas and lay it flat on the countertop where I’ve read so many of his letters. It takes only a moment to recognize the scene before me, expertly cast in a range of colors. Blues, purples, reds, and oranges make the scene pop.

It’s painted in late evening light, red and orange clouds casting the house in a shadowy contrast. The scene is painted from a vantage point in the woods, just beyond the edge of my yard. The exact place my eyes have been drawn to so many times, as if sensing someone there watching me.

There’s a light painted in the kitchen window, casting a dim light onto the back porch where I can see a silhouette. Mine, I’m assuming.

This must be what he sees when he comes here. I wonder how many times he’s seen this exact sight since I bought this house a few years ago. How many times have I thought I was completely alone and safe here? Yet, there he was. Waiting in the darkness.

A shiver runs down my spine, but I’m not entirely sure if it’s from dread or excitement.

I run my fingers along the brushstrokes, imagining him standing in front of an easel, paint streaks across his hands, taking care with each one to add the highlights and contrasts to bring the piece to life. In my mind, he’s blurry, never quite in focus.

Wrenching my focus from the painting, I unfold the letter and take in the haphazard pen strokes. This feels different than the others. More reckless perhaps. It doesn’t feel as carefully thought out and executed as previous letters.

V,

I DON’T THINK US MEETING IS A VERY GOOD IDEA, BUT I WILL NEVER DEnY YOU.

IF YOU ARE SERIOUS, MEET ME AT THE EDGE OF THE TREE LINE. TONIGHT. 11PM.

I PRAY YOU ARE IN A FORGIVING MOOD.

YOURS,

-K

What in the actual fuck is that supposed to mean? Forgiving mood? For what? I don’t even know who this person is, let alone why they could possibly need my forgiveness.

My thoughts quickly spiral, running through a list of everyone I can recall meeting throughout my life. It doesn’t take long to realize this is a futile effort. I encounter tons of people daily at the bookstore, not to mention grocery stores, college, friends of my family, and all the people I went to school with when I was growing up. I have no clue how to even begin to narrow the focus.

I check my phone, realizing I am supposed to be at the store in two hours to catalog the shipment we got in last week. I also have yet another text from Alex. This one comes off as much more frustrated since I haven’t responded to any of his attempts, but I ignore it as well, opting to dial Abby’s number instead.

“Hello?” she asks after the third ring.

My chest immediately relaxes a fraction, making it easier to pull in my next breath. “Can you come over?”

“I’m a little busy at the moment. Why? What’s up?” I can hear chatter in the background, but I can’t tell exactly what’s going on or where she is.

“You know those letters I’ve been getting? Well, things…escalated. You need to see this. Like now.” I don’t want to elaborate and sending a picture wouldn’t really get the point across anyway. This is something she needs to see in person.

“I’m finishing up on this date, but I can be there in…” she pauses. “Probably about forty-five minutes.”

“That’s fine. See you then,” I say, hitting the end button on the call. Instead of sitting on the couch staring at the painting like I want to, I opt for a quick shower to distract myself. I said I wanted to meet, that I wanted to know who has been writing all these letters for so long, but now that it’s actually happening, I’m second guessing my decision.

Abby’s car pulls into the drive in exactly forty-three minutes. She’s out so fast, I’m not even sure she put it into park.

“What’s going on? You never sound freaked out like that.” The concern tightening her face has me feeling a little guilty for not explaining over the phone.

In lieu of an answer, I turn on my heel and head back inside, knowing she’ll be right behind me. I left the painting spread out across the counter in full view. I can almost feel the second her eyes find it. The pressure in the room shifts from frantic to petrified. Then, from petrified to angry.

She whirls on me, silencing whatever stupidity was about to come out of my mouth. Excuses dance across my tongue, but I bite them back, knowing this will be smoother if I let her say her peace first.

“You have two seconds to tell me what in the actual fuck is going on here, Violet.” This is the moment where, if she were a cartoon character, steam would be billowing from her ears.