Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Twelve minutes from the café to my apartment complex.
Fourteen steps from my parking spot to my front door.
Twenty-three stairs if I use the stairwell instead of the elevator, which I always do, because the elevator is unreliable and also smells like cigarettes and sadness.
But tonight, the twelve minutes feel longer. Or maybe shorter. I can't tell anymore, because I'm too aware of the headlights behind me, too aware of the fact that someone is watching me drive, too aware of my heartbeat doing something irregular in my chest.
I pull into the parking lot of my apartment building—a run-down complex on the edge of town called Aspen Deck, which is ironic because there are no aspens and very little grove. Just a collection of two-story buildings painted a depressing shade of beige, surrounded by a
parking lot that's more pothole than pavement.
The rent is cheap. The heating is questionable. The neighbors are loud.
But it's mine.
Mine and affordable, thanks to Sarah's foundation covering part of the cost, and that's more than I had two years ago.
I park in my usual spot—number fourteen, which I chose specifically because fourteen is a good number, a manageable number, a number that's the same as the steps from my car to my door.
His headlights pull into the lot behind me.
He doesn't park. He just...stops. Idles at the entrance while I turn off my engine, while I gather my bag and my keys, while I open my door and step out into the cold.
I should just go inside.
I should walk to my door and not look back and pretend this is normal, pretend I haven't noticed that he followed me, pretend my heart isn't doing this complicated thing in my chest.
But I can't.
I turn around.
He's still there. Sitting in his car with the headlights on, and even from this distance—maybe thirty feet—I can see him through the windshield. See the shape of him, the line of his shoulders, the way his hands rest on the steering wheel.
I lift one hand. Awkwardly. It’s the best I can do, and I can actually feel him smirking more than I see it as he lifts one hand back.
Then his headlights turn, cutting across the parking lot, and he's pulling away, driving back toward town, and I'm standing in the cold with my keys in my hand and this strange ache in my throat that might be tears or might be something else entirely.
I watch his taillights disappear around the corner.
Then I walk to my door.
Fourteen steps. I count them automatically.
One. Two. Three.
He followed me home.
Four. Five. Six.
He wanted to make sure I was safe.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
He's been counting. The same days I've been counting.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
What does it mean?
Thirteen. Fourteen.
I unlock my door. Step inside. Close it behind me and lean against it, and I still can't quite process what just happened.
My apartment is exactly how I left it this morning. Small. Drafty. The carpet is the color of old oatmeal, and the walls are that generic off-white that every rental seems to use, and the kitchenette in the corner consists of a mini-fridge, a two-burner stove, and a microwave
that only works if you hit it in exactly the right spot.
But it's mine.
I drop my bag on the floor. Hang my coat on the hook by the door. Kick off my shoes.
And I just...stand there.
In the middle of my studio apartment with my heart still doing something complicated and my mind replaying the parking lot conversation and the drive home and the way he lifted his hand before leaving.
My phone buzzes in my pocket...and almost drop it when I see a message from an unknown number.
Your tires. Fix them. Or I will.
I stare at the screen.
Read it again.
How does he have my number?
I definitely didn't give it to him. I barely managed complete sentences in the parking lot. I'm not sure I even said goodbye. And yet he has my number, which means—
What does it mean?
I sink down onto my bed. It's technically just a mattress on the floor with a frame I bought from IKEA and assembled incorrectly, so it wobbles whenever I move. But it's comfortable enough, and right now I need to sit down before I fall down.
I start typing a response: How did you get my number?
Stare at it.
Delete it.
That sounds accusatory. Like I'm upset he has it. Am I upset? I should probably be upset. It's weird that he has my number when I didn't give it to him. But I'm not upset. I'm just...confused.
I try again—
My tires are fine. Thank you for your concern.
But find myself deleting it right after.
Too formal. Too dismissive. Like I'm brushing him off.
Am I brushing him off?
Another attempt: You didn't have to follow me home.
Delete.
That sounds ungrateful. He was being nice. Protective. Making sure I didn't slide into a ditch.
I put the phone face-down on my nightstand. Walk away. Walk back to the bed. Pick up my phone. Read the message again.