Obsessed

by Jenn Faulk

  He would definitely be pleased at what she has just said, but I’m fairly certain it can be interpreted in at least two ways and I’m also fairly certain that no matter which one I pick, it’s going to be wrong.

  “Just be honest with her,” Andrew had stressed. “She’ll like you for who you are if she can just get to know you.”

  I’d looked at him doubtfully.

  “Well,” he added. “And get past how weird you are.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly.

  “Look,” he said a bit more seriously. “There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that she already knows you ain’t quite right.” He paused for a moment, gave me a little grin, and waited for me to glare at him, which I did. “You have got absolutely nothing to lose,” he finished. “Nothing.”

  And like he is about pretty much everything, Andrew is probably right. I never intended to tell Maggie that I thought she was pretty, but if I was going to be honest, what could I say? It wasn’t just because she was pretty, but why do people actually like each other? How does anyone articulate something like that, much less someone like me?

  So now Maggie’s told me that she likes spending time with me. There are actually at least three things she could mean by this . . . or at least three reasons why she’s saying it. Number one is pity (which is what I’m banking on). Number two is that she means it platonically. Number three is . . .

  She can’t mean it that way, can she? Should I ask her?

  Just be honest with her . . .

  I continue looking at her and remind myself of something else Andrew said: that I’ve got nothing to lose. But . . .

  “Everything I do,” I finally tell her quietly. “I screw it up.”

  “What?” she asks softly. “I don’t think that’s true. You found Emma, after all. You don’t screw everything up.”

  “You know everything that happened Tuesday, do you?” I ask her.

  “No,” she says hesitantly. “But I trust you. And if there were things you didn’t tell me . . . well, maybe it’s best if I don’t know them.” She looks over at Emma, who smiles even as she munches on a chip.

  “Maybe,” I agree. “But you can trust me when I tell you that I screwed up.”

  She continues looking at me like she’s waiting for me to say something more. I’m not sure if she needs to know that her daughter likely witnessed a suicide. A suicide that happened because of how I handled things . . . or mishandled them.

  I glance at Emma, who is now smashing a chip on the table with her fist, and decide that no matter whether Maggie needs to know or not, she doesn’t need to know right now.

  “Most of the time I can’t make decisions,” I finally tell her. “If I do, they’re usually the wrong ones.”

  She watches me for a few moments.

  “Well, I know all about that,” she says. “Not about you personally, but as you might have guessed, given all the circumstances that you’re fully aware of, a lot of us make some wrong decisions. But that doesn’t mean doom and gloom.” She seems to be considering this. “I’m not sure what exactly you’re thinking about, Peter, but Emma’s sitting right here next to me because of you, so all of your decisions haven’t been wrong ones, surely.”

  I press my lips together and think for a moment. Her hand is still resting on mine.

  “Maybe not all of them,” I finally agree. I look past Maggie, keeping my eyes on a cupboard handle. “Can I ask you a question?”

  You just did, Andrew would say. I look back to Maggie, waiting for her response.

  “Of course,” she says.

  I force myself to keep my eyes on her. It’s not as hard as it once was, and I’m pretty sure I can do this.

  “You said you like spending time with me,” I remind her. She gives me a little nod. I hesitate for what seems like a full minute. “What exactly did you mean by that?” I finally ask.

  She takes a breath, her eyes never leaving mine. “I . . . well, I like you. I think I’d miss you if we didn’t see each other again, now that you’ve found Emma.” She bites her lip. “Does that sound silly? I mean, we hardly know each other, apart from all that’s gone on.”

  I’m absolutely no closer to understanding how she feels than I was before.

  “So we’re going to see each other again?” I ask.

  She smiles as if I’ve said something funny.

  “I hope so,” she says. “Do you want to see me again, Peter?”

  I manage to nod.

  ~Maggie~

  It’s been an hour since Peter left, and I’m still smiling.

  I don’t think we defined anything. I don’t know that I’m any more certain of what’s going on than I was before he came tonight. I’m not sure what he’s even thinking, quite honestly.

  You’re very pretty.

  But that’s something.

  I’m lying on the couch with Emma, playing with her hair as she settles in and falls asleep. She’s well past the age of being rocked to sleep every night, but I’ve fallen into this new habit of spending the evenings like this, watching her, soothing her, and helping her to get her rest. It’s as much for my peace of mind as it is for hers, being able to look at her again and again, and reassure myself that she’s really back.

  Tonight, though, my mind is drifting to other thoughts. Not to exclude Emma, though, because she was there in all the moments I’m replaying in my mind. Like when I finally took my hand off Peter’s, content that we’d communicated something significant when we’d agreed to see each other again, and brought dessert to the table. He’d helped Emma with hers, easily taking the cue when she’d handed him a fork and opened her mouth. She’s self-sufficient, but she’d likely sensed his attention was split earlier and had wanted it back solely on her, just as it had been when they’d had their tea party. I’d watched quietly as he’d fed her the entire helping of chocolate cake, grinning at her when she’d smack her lips between bites and touch her napkin to her mouth in imitation of all the times she’s seen me do the same.

  She’s a fan, and after tonight, I think I am, too.

  He helped wash the dishes, even though I insisted that he didn’t need to. There was a nice, quiet camaraderie in even that, standing side by side at the sink and taking care of such an everyday task. He didn’t say much when he left, apart from his normal stilted way of speaking, of confirming that we have plans for tomorrow night, and another grin at Emma, who waved goodbye to him with Mr. Snuffles under her arm.

  Tomorrow night.

  As I fall asleep next to Emma, I imagine all the possibilities . . .

  ~Peter~

  Andrew may spend most of our time together trying to make me believe that I’m perfectly capable of having a real relationship one day, but I don’t think he’s ever actually believed it himself. He’s never been speechless before, but he’s pretty close right now.

  “You’re going out with her tomorrow night?” he repeats very slowly. I nod. “Where?”

  “Same place I went with Crystal, actually,” I say.

  “Don’t take her there,” he argues, quickly regaining his full power of speech. “That place is a dive.”

  “It was Maggie’s idea,” I tell him. “She wanted to go there.”

  “Is she paying?”

  “No. I’m going to pay.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “We didn’t talk about it.”

  “So she didn’t offer to pay,” he clarifies. “This isn’t another attempt to pay you back for saving her kid or anything?”

  “No.”

  “So it’s a date. This is an official date?”

  “Well, not necessarily,” I say. “She just said she wanted to see me again. She said she likes spending time with me.”

  “She said she likes spending time with you?”

  I nod and I’m pretty sure he’s trying very hard not to act shocked at this, too.

  “Is she bringing the kid?” he wants to know.

  “The kid’s name is Emma,” I say,
“and I have no idea if Maggie’s bringing her or not. I assume so.”

  “If she doesn’t bring the kid,” Andrew muses. “It’s an official date.”

  “Not necessarily,” I say again.

  He’s quiet for a moment as if he’s trying to piece everything together. Finally he asks, “Why did she tell you that she likes spending time with you? Like, how did that come up? Did she just blurt it out, ‘I like spending time with you,’ or what?”

  “I told her that she didn’t owe me anything,” I explain. “I made sure she understood that I wasn’t trying to get invited to dinner when I wouldn’t let her pay me.”

  “You told her all that?” he asks, completely unable to hide his shock this time.

  I nod.

  “Wow,” he says softly. “Good job.”

  I nod again.

  “So. Did you, uh . . .”

  “I had to stare at the table the whole time I was saying it,” I say dejectedly.

  “That’s okay,” he assures me. “At least you said it, right?”

  “I guess so.” I admit. “It didn’t come out the way I wanted it to at all, but I guess it got the point across.”

  “That’s good,” he says with a nod. “You did good.”

  I’m quiet for a moment, and then I say, “She noticed.”

  “Noticed what?”

  “Noticed that I was talking to the table.”

  “No, she didn’t,” he says, trying to assure me again. “I’m sure she didn’t notice at all.”

  “She asked me why I have trouble talking to her and no one else.”

  His eyes widen. “She did?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I, uh . . . I told her she was pretty.”

  If Andrew has a stroke right now I’m not going to be surprised.

  “You what?”

  “Should I not have said that?” I ask worriedly. “You told me to be honest with her. I was just trying to be honest.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Oh.’”

  “She said, ‘Oh?’” Andrew asks, and I nod. He thinks about it for a moment and then wants to know, “Like, did she seem happy about it or freaked out, or . . .”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He sighs and lapses into silence again, a look of genuine concern etched across his face.

  Suddenly he asks, “Did she tell you that she liked spending time with you before or after you told her she was pretty?”

  I think for a minute. “After,” I finally decide.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “I’m sure.”

  “And when did you decide to go out again?” he asks excitedly. “Before or after?”

  “After.”

  “You sure?” he asks again.

  “I’m sure.”

  And with that, Andrew breaks into the widest grin I’ve ever seen.

  “Oh, yeah,” he nods confidently. “You’ve totally got yourself a date.”

  ~Maggie~

  “And make sure she has her blanket when it’s bedtime. And this, of course.” I hold out Mr. Snuffles, even as I’m taking a deep breath. I’m just a little nervous, for a whole lot of reasons.

  Tanner grins just like Emma is grinning as she sits on his hip and takes Mr. Snuffles.

  “I’ve done this a few times, Maggie,” he says.

  He has. When Emma was born and Brandon was only around half the time, Tanner would take weekends away from college, come here, and help me out. There were some long newborn nights I’m not sure I would have survived had he not been around.

  “I know you have,” I say, as Emma buries her head in his shoulder, so glad to have “Uncle Tan” in town again. “But this is different.”

  “Because you have a date,” Tanner says, still grinning.

  Yes, because of that.

  “I’m not sure that’s what it is,” I say, trying to hide a smile.

  My plan had been to take Emma along tonight to dinner with Peter, but this morning, Tanner called and said he was coming in for the weekend. He still hadn’t seen Emma since she’d come back home, and he couldn’t wait any longer. I knew that part of the reason he was coming over was to ask me another ten thousand questions about where Emma had been, who’d had her, where Brandon was, and why I’m not on the police, every day, trying to get answers.

  I have Emma. I know something bad happened. I’m not sure I can deal with it, and what’s more, I don’t know that I need to because she’s here, she’s safe, and . . .

  Well, she’s happy.

  I think it even as she grins at Tanner.

  The police will handle the investigation. And Brandon . . . well, it’ll all sort itself out.

  What matters is Emma. I’ve told Tanner as much, and now that he’s here and we’ve already had the conversation for what I hope will be the last time, he’s moved on to other topics.

  Like the fact that I have a date.

  I’d considered rescheduling with Peter once I heard Tanner was coming into town, but after recalling how much he’d stumbled over his words to even arrange it in the first place, I knew that would end with him telling me to just not worry about it, never calling again, disappearing . . .

  I didn’t want that.

  Tanner, once I’d told him the details, said he’d be thrilled to watch Emma for me.

  So now, this dinner is totally going to be a date.

  “Stop making me nervous,” I say to Tanner as he keeps smiling at me.

  “I’m not doing anything,” Tanner laughs. “Nothing but standing here and waiting to meet the guy and scare him and—”

  The doorbell rings.

  I panic, just a little.

  “It won’t take much,” I whisper, straightening out the dress I’ve put on, reaching up to check my hair, and frowning at him. “Be nice.”

  He rolls his eyes, just as I turn toward the door, open it, and smile at Peter.

  Everything I felt the night before is still there as I look at him, only amplified and magnified, given what he communicated as we ate.

  You’re very pretty.

  I can feel myself blush at the very remembrance.

  “Hi,” I say softly, opening the door wider for him to come in.

  He doesn’t take his eyes off me for a long moment, until he finally manages a “hi” in response.

  Then, he sees Tanner, and his eyes widen almost comically.

  “Peter,” I say quickly, “this is my brother, Tanner.” I give Tanner a look.

  “Hey, Peter,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m here to take care of Emma.”

  Peter looks even more alarmed by this as he returns Tanner’s handshake.

  “Uh, hi,” he says with a barely perceptible nod. Then he glances at me, clearly uncertain what to say or do next.

  I get it. I’m not sure of the reasons behind why Peter is like he is, but I get it. So, I’m going to get him out of here.

  “Give Mommy a kiss,” I say to Emma, leaning over to take her in my arms and hug her goodnight. “Be good for Tanner.”

  She smacks me soundly on the lips, then turns and leans toward Peter, her lips puckered to do the same for him.

  A smile crosses his lips and all traces of nervousness disappear, if only for the brief moment it takes for him to pucker his lips too and kiss her goodbye.

  That. Right there. Perfect.

  I don’t realize I’m staring at him until I feel Emma being lifted out of my arms. I turn to see Tanner smirking at me as he takes his niece.

  “You two have fun,” he says. “I won’t wait up.”

  I give him a tight smile then turn to Peter.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  He nods, and we move together out of the apartment, shutting the door behind us.

  “Sorry about that,” I say. “Tanner is . . . well . . .” I look at Peter. “Well, he’s great. Great but a little annoying.”

  That’s the truth. I sure ca
n’t speak ill of him after all that he’s done and who he’s become as we’ve grown into adults, but still.

  I won’t wait up.

  “Do you have any brothers?” I ask Peter as we walk to his car and he opens the door for me.

  That. Perfect again.

  “Uh, yes,” he says with a nod as I get in. “I have a younger brother.” Once he’s made sure I’m in all the way, he closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side.

  “Is he a computer genius, too?” I ask.

  Peter gives me an uncharacteristic laugh. “Andrew’s pretty much a genius at everything,” he says. “But he doesn’t like computers as much as I do.”

  “Andrew,” I say. “Andrew and Peter. Like the Bible, right?”

  He glances at me as if he’s pleasantly surprised that I’ve made this connection. “Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.” Then he gives me another uncharacteristic laugh and says, “Except that neither name fits very well.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You’re not as quick to just jump in and act on impulse like the Peter in the Bible.”

  I’m surprised to find that I remember these details. It’s been a while since I’ve been in church.

  He looks pleasantly surprised again that I say this before nodding in agreement. “And when I do,” he reminds me, “I usually screw things up.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “We’ve already established that you don’t usually screw things up. You’re a computer genius who saves babies. Can’t be a screw up.”

  I think about this for a minute, about how Peter must spend most of his life second guessing everything.

  “You know,” I say, “maybe you and I could do a little experiment tonight.”

  He looks at me with a question in his eyes, but before he can verbalize it, I speak up.

  “How about you don’t say anything negative about yourself for the rest of our date?” I smile at this, hoping he’ll agree.

  “How is that an experiment?” he asks, obviously confused.

  “Well, maybe not an experiment as much as just . . .”

  Well, I’m stumbling around with my words as much as he does.