by Calia Read
Instead I sit with my back against the wall, facing the couch. I pat the spot next to me.
“What’s wrong with the couch?”
“I just want to sit here,” I say; it’d take too long to explain.
Noah shrugs and slides down the wall. He rests his elbows on his knees as he looks around the room. Neither one of us says anything for a few minutes. Surprisingly, it’s not stiff and uncomfortable, although every few seconds I can feel his eyes on me.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks.
“Honestly?” I say, my gaze facing forward. “You staring at me is.”
I turn my head to face him just in time to see his smile. It’s warm and genuine. Of that I’m certain. And I smile back.
“You want me to leave?”
“No,” I reply honestly.
Now that he’s here I realize how I’ve been the past few days. It might not be a bad idea for someone to keep me company.
“Good.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “Because I’m not leaving.”
“Fine. But you’re going to miss out on your beauty sleep.”
“I can sleep sitting up.”
At that, I snort.
There’s more silence and soon it starts to get to me.
“I wrote to Jackson like you suggested. Still no word,” I blurt in one big rush.
Noah averts his gaze. “Maybe he lost his phone or is traveling.”
I sniff at his words. “No, I think something has happened to him. Just like Mom.” I glance over at Noah. “Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says I’ve been catfished but you don’t want to come out and say it.” He doesn’t say anything and that furthers incites my anger. “We were together,” I insist.
“If you were together then show me a photo.”
Most couples take photos together. Not Jackson and me. Right now, I don’t know why we never did.
“Okay. So I have no photos of him. But he’s real!”
Noah looks at me from the corner of his eye. “When you told me he was missing, I looked him up, Selah. There’s no Jackson Cooper.”
I push away from him. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying,” he says gently. Which just pisses me off because he’s talking to me like I’m a crazy person and I’m not.
“I can’t show you proof, but he exists and he’s real.”
I’m not a wuss but tears start to well up in my eyes. I’m so sick of having to defend myself to everyone. My tears soon turn into sobs. Noah’s arms go around me. He guides me toward his chest. I don’t fight him. Even though I want to punch him for what he said just minutes earlier, his touch is soothing in the strangest of ways because I feel something where I shouldn’t: my heart.
His hand curls around my head, holding me tightly to him. “I want to help you,” he says into my hair. “You just need to let your guard down because your mind is powerful and brilliant and all-consuming and I think you are wonderful.” Gently he pulls me back so we’re face to face. “Please. Let me help you.”
“If you want to help me then you can start by believing in me.”
“I want to believe in you, but I also think that it’s important that I don’t lie to you.”
“You think Jackson doesn’t exist. I guess that also means you think I made up my mom disappearing too, huh?”
He hesitates and that’s the last straw. I extract myself from his hold and quickly jump up.
“You’re wrong, you know.” Before he can say anything I quickly speak up. “My mom had a home security system put in. I found it upstairs in her closest.”
That instantly grabs his attention. He sits up straighter. “What did you see?”
“A man breaking and entering.”
“You saw that?”
“Well, not exactly, but he was trying to get in. He was in the backyard moving toward the back door when the tape cut out.”
Noah’s face falls a bit and somehow I feel like I’ve disappointed him. “So there’s no definitive proof that someone broke in.”
“No. But I know something bad happened.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Yes. I gave them the video.”
“What did they do?”
“Nothing.” I drop my hands helplessly into my lap. “They were absolutely useless. When Detective Fatass saw it he said he couldn’t do anything because the video cuts out before he’s actually caught trying to break in. I tried to argue the fact that he was trespassing but he wasn’t having it.”
Very slowly, Noah stands up and approaches me carefully, like I’m a wild animal that’s getting ready to pounce. I drag my hands through my hair and start to pace back and forth.
“No one believes me. No one understands. Of course they don’t because it’s not happening to them. If it were happening to them then it would be a completely different story. Everyone just wants to look down on me and judge me, instead of trying to help.”
“I’m not judging you.”
I stop pacing and whirl around. “Oh, but you are. You don’t think you are. You just don’t realize it.”
“Selah, if you’d just let me explain—”
“No!” I shout. “Don’t explain. Just help me and if you can’t help me then just leave.”
Any other time, I would stay and fight but everything he’s saying is unsettling and I just can’t handle it. Stubbornly he stays put. I grab my keys and hurry out of the house, not caring if Noah stays behind or not.
“Selah, where are you going?”
“Out,” I toss out over my shoulder.
The headlights flash as I unlock the car with my key fob. I hurry toward the driver’s side. Noah grabs my arm in a painfully tight grip and turns me around. There’s a wild look in his eyes that causes the hairs on my arm to stand up.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” he says way too calmly.
“Let go of me. I need to get out of here.”
He doesn’t let go. “Selah, just talk to me.”
“I said. Let. Go.”
His eyes remain locked on mine for a second longer and finally he lets go, slightly shoving me away.
Fine by me. I slam my car door and put the car into reverse. I peel out of the cul de sac with Noah watching me the entire time.
YOU DIDN’T HAVE to tell me about the video.
I saw you uncover the surveillance in your mom’s closet. And I saw you go to the police station and walk back out thirty minutes later. You were so angry. Your hands were curled into fists so tight that your fingernails dug into your skin, creating little crescent moon indentations.
To be honest, it was nice to see you angry for once. Your eyes were blazing, making them brighter than they’ve been in months. And your cheeks were bright red, which is a step up from the deathly pale look you’ve been sporting.
I can’t tell you what to do next—as much as I want to. And I can’t give you another gift; I’m fresh out. You have to figure this out on your own. I have to let you go; I’m tired. So fucking tired. Can’t you tell?
Of course not. Because you’re too busy wallowing in your pain to notice that I need just a moment to breathe. When I think about how narrow-minded you can be sometimes I get angry, and when I get angry I have these dark urges to hurt you. To let the depression and anxiety and all of it crush you to a pulp.
You’re starting to remind me of a fragile baby bird who refuses to leave the nest. You’ve watched everyone else fly away and a part of you wants to join them on their journey, but you’re too scared of what’s on the other side so you sit there and slowly starve. All because of your fear.
“Do something!” I want to scream. “Do anything! Just don’t waste away!”
Then it hits me. This is my fault. I’ve always protected you. Always helped you. You’ve never had to think about leaving the nest. The option was never there. Well, your nest is getting ready to fall. So it’s either fall or fly.
&
nbsp; Little bird that I love the most, what are you going to do?
THERE ARE CERTAIN streets in Decatur that you steer clear of during the night.
Eldorado is one of them. Sure, in the daylight when everyone is busy working and running errands, it’s fine. But at night it’s a different thing.
“Just be careful,” Mom once pleaded.
I told her I would and then dashed out the front door where Sam was waiting in the car. I laughed off her words; I was sixteen and I knew everything. Sam and I drove around, stopping at a Mexican restaurant not far from Millikin University. We sat there, giggling, pretending what it’d be like when we were eighteen and in college. Grown up is all we could think of when the word ‘eighteen’ rolled off our tongues.
Afterwards, we drove around some more until it was close to my curfew. We drove back down Eldo toward South Shores. It was at a stoplight that I glanced at the bus stop and saw a woman sitting there. She had a stack of Wal-Mart bags between her feet and a ratty hoodie on. Her brown frizzy hair was greasy at the roots, her jeans streaked with mud. She looked filthy.
I took one look at her and she stood up slowly, her chest slightly jutting out like she was getting ready for a fight.
“What?” she shouted at me.
I sat there, motionless, riveted by the wild look in her eyes. She was crazed. She was erratic. She looked scary. But she also looked lost. It was only when she started walking toward me that I scrambled to lock the door. She stopped walking once she saw me lock the door and roll up the window. My heart was racing. As we waited for the light to turn green she just stood there and continued to stare pointedly at me.
That was over ten years ago yet it still stands out in my memory. I find myself constantly thinking about that woman. Especially lately. Maybe she wasn’t as dangerous as I thought her to be. Maybe I jumped to conclusions. Maybe she was just scared. Maybe she just wanted someone to listen to her.
In a way we were a lot alike.
For the past few hours I’ve driven around with no destination in mind. I just go with the flow of traffic, taking random turns here and there. Soon the sun starts to rise. People wake up and begin their day, but I’m still not tired.
I stop and get some gas and continue to drive around, surprised when I finally look at the clock and see it’s 10 a.m. I find myself on Water Street driving past businesses and restaurants. It’s at the stoplight on Pershing road that I notice Jackson’s car.
My heart starts to pound at an erratic tempo. The car is ahead of me in the lane to my right. I try to see who’s driving but I can’t tell. The light turns green. In order to get into the right lane, I press the gas pedal to the floor and narrowly avoid getting hit. Someone presses down on their horn but I ignore it.
The car’s right blinker flashes, then the brakes light up. The car turns into Brentwood Village, a small shopping complex. I brazenly follow and when it turns toward the Kroger I turn right and find a parking spot a healthy distance away so I won’t be obvious.
I turn off the car and watch as a pretty brunette gets out. I grip the steering wheel and lean forward. She flings her hair over her shoulder and grabs her purse before she opens the back door. She smiles. Lips move, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. She’s wearing a navy blue trench with the belt tied around her non-existent waist. She has on black tights, black turtleneck and black ankle boots to match; so put-together and chic. She leans into the car and seconds later, she stands to her full height, a little girl in her arms.
The little girl is stunning; her mop of curly dark hair is pulled into pigtails. She couldn’t be more than three years old. My heart thuds wildly in my chest as I watch the beautiful woman place the little girl on her feet.
I feel like I’ve been duped. Or that I’m on of those prank shows. Any moment some host is going to jump out from behind my car, laughing and telling me this is all a joke.
Yet the longer the seconds tick by, the more I realize this isn’t a joke. This isn’t in my mind. This isn’t a dream.
This is real.
It’s a general rule of thumb that everyone in this world has secrets. Everyone. They just come in different sizes and shapes. So it shouldn’t be shocking to discover that Jackson has another life that I didn’t know about. People have affairs all the time. I just never pegged Jackson to be that someone.
He’s quiet and somber. That’s something that we had in common. At least I thought it was. But maybe that’s how I chose to see things. Maybe I created this picture perfect relationship just so I could ignore the negative side of Jackson.
The brunette sets the little girl on the ground, making sure to hold her hand. I see a ring on her left finger. My heart cracks in two. They walk across the parking lot, the little girl hopping around, barely able to contain herself. The brunette smiling down at her as they hurry toward the grocery store.
I watch her pick the little girl up and put her in a cart. The doors slide open and they step forward. She stops and grabs the weekly ad with all the savings on groceries and home goods. She flips through the ad and I imagine that she is trying to figure out what to make her family for dinner.
She’s probably a great cook. Slaves in the kitchen making delicious meals that she, of course, never eats. (Has to watch her figure.) Every morning she religiously goes to her spin classes. She takes her daughter to play dates. Has coffee with her friends. And she does all of this with a smile on her face. Why? Well, it’s simple: she has the perfect life. She has the man and the beautiful daughter.
They are her world.
Everything she could ever ask for.
She will never love anyone the way she loves them.
My head falls back against the seat. I close my eyes and try to take deep calming breaths. My heart won’t stop pounding.
Why did I never see this coming?
All this time I’d been under the impression that something bad had happened to him. That he would never be so cruel as to just stop talking to me out of then air; it just didn’t seem in his nature to do that.
I want to get back at him. Find him and hurt him. But he doesn’t want to be found. Especially not by me. And why would he? I just put a spotlight on a part of his life that he never wanted me to see.
A sane person would leave but I stay there and wait.
Thirty minutes later the woman and the little girl emerge with a cart half full of groceries. The woman brushes her hand across one of the little girl’s cheek before she hurries to Jackson’s car.
I’m riveted at the sight of them together. What is the little girl’s name? Are there any other kids?
I have questions that demand answers and I’m going to get them.
IT’S BEEN SAID that the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
So why do I keep coming back to you in hopes that you will remember me? Why do I keep spoiling you with gift after gift?
Am I obsessed with you? No. I prefer the word involved. I’m involved in your happiness. Your well-being. Your sadness. All of it. Every single bit, I want to be involved.
Yet you ignore me.
You’re really starting to make me mad, Selah.
I know I can be fickle. Up and down. Hot and cold. Sometimes, I love you. And sometimes, like now, I hate you.
Hate is a strong word but I love it. Let the word roll off your tongue, slowly and deliberately, and it becomes powerful. A sharp object that can cut a person to shreds.
Hate, hate, hate.
I hate you.
I think you hate yourself, too.
We both know that you’re letting go. Everything is piling up. One on top of the other and you’re not lifting a finger. You need to put up a fight. Rage. Refuse to give up.
Everything you want to know is in plain sight. I left clues for you. Open your damn eyes and you’ll see them. Put one foot in front of the other and you’ll reach them.
Just do something.
Or do nothing.
I hate you.
The noise in your head? You can silence it all. You can take the easy way out. There’s a knife in the kitchen. You hid it from your mom because you were afraid she was going to hurt herself. One good cut to the wrists, or if you really want to get the job done, the throat. Slice. You’re done.
Or perhaps you want a much cleaner death? There is always the option of sleeping pills. I think I saw them in the bathroom cabinet. I’ve watched you glance at the bottle longingly. A few times you’ve taken some.
You know the option is there: suicide. But you just don’t have the guts to do it and that, out of all your thoughts, makes it even worse.
Last night, as you got out of the shower you walked over to the mirror. You wiped away the fog with your left palm. You tried your hardest to focus on your reflection but your eyes couldn’t focus.
Slowly, ever so slowly, you’re slipping down the rabbit hole of insanity.
You’re so conflicted and confused you don’t know what to do.
I’ll give you four options: Grab the knife. Open the bottle. Jump off your roof. Or fight. Hold onto everything that you love and if you let go make sure you leave marks. A sign of your struggle. Make sure everyone knows that you tried.
Do whatever you want, but do it yourself.
Consider yourself a bird that’s been pushed out of the nest.
Good luck.
I hate you.
I’M A STALKER in every sense of the word.
Yet there’s not a single bone in my body that gives a shit. The only thing coursing through me now is adrenaline. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m convinced that it’s going to burst out of my chest.
With both hands gripping the steering wheel, I make sure to keep two cars behind his black BMW. Not going to lie, I feel slightly elated at the prospect of seeing him. Which goes beyond the realm of pathetic. I have no words for myself. But… answers. I need them like my next fucking breath. God, I need them so bad.
Luckily, traffic is on my side and I easily remain behind. I try my hardest to peer past the two cars between us and into the back windshield but it’s impossible. That’d require binoculars and super-stealth stalking skills. Even I have my limits.