Obsessed

by Jenn Faulk

  “DIIIIINNNNNGGGG!” Emma shouts again.

  “Exactly,” I say. Then, to Emma, “Go see if Uncle Tan will get you some breakfast.”

  “How about some Froot Loops?” Tanner says, catching her in his arms as she launches herself at him.

  As they leave the room, loudly discussing the breakfast options, I flip on the small television I have in my room to keep me company when Emma is gone. Something about not having her in the next room makes for lonely nights, and I always appreciate the distraction of voices and plot lines and stories and just anything to keep me from thinking about Emma with Brandon.

  No more lonely nights like that. The thought makes me want to cry all over again. The voices of the early news drone on as I get things ready for a shower, but before I can go into the bathroom, the words stop me.

  “The body was found at a house in Bonita Springs and has been identified as Brandon Keller, local travel agency owner. Police confirm that Keller’s daughter, who had been missing with Keller, was found three days ago. No details yet as police begin an investigation. We’re here at Keller’s home, where his wife has declined to give an interview.”

  I can’t stop staring at the screen. There it is — Crystal’s perfect, immaculate home. There are the steps I stood on, as I waited for her to let Peter and me in so we could ask her some questions. There inside is the sofa we sat on as Crystal revealed that she already knew all of my secrets.

  I know that house.

  But that’s not why I’m staring.

  No, I’m staring at the car that’s parked in the driveway.

  Peter’s car.

  The same car where I kissed him last night, right before he left me to go to Crystal’s house, where he obviously spent the night.

  ~Peter~

  I have always been able to talk to Andrew.

  When that counselor suggested that I try staying quiet around my new peers, I just started telling Andrew everything instead. He would lay in his crib and listen to every word I said, tilting his head with interest and smiling and laughing with each turn of a story. I not only told him everything I learned at school, but also everything that happened. Which kids got sent to the principal’s office. Which kids didn’t have their homework. Which kid said a rare, kind word to me in the hall.

  As Andrew grew older, he started asking questions, and my stories became more animated and more involved to draw him in. I think Dad appreciated that the two of us seemed to entertain each other so well. I guess it was one less thing for him to worry about.

  By the time Andrew was in middle school, the tables turned, and his questions went from, “Then what happened?” to “Why didn’t you just give a little laugh and walk away?” Even then Andrew possessed skills that I’ll never have. He never second guesses himself. He never needs to. Andrew is one of those people who could probably look a teacher right in the eye and tell her he didn’t do his homework because she has body odor or something and she’d wind up thanking him for helping her along the road to self-improvement.

  All that to say that Andrew has always been my confidant. I’ve always been able to tell him anything, and I’ve always been able to count on him to give me good advice. It makes a lot of sense, seeing how we’ve spent the past seventeen years growing that relationship.

  What doesn’t make as much sense is the fact that I can somehow talk to Crystal almost the same way. She couldn’t sleep, and so we stayed up for the entire night, talking.

  Crystal told me that she and Brandon had met in college when they took a marketing class together. They were both juniors and Crystal said that, while it might not have been love at first sight, it was close. Both of them loved to travel and they went to Spain together the summer before their senior year. He proposed to her in Alicante and—one year later—they returned for a small portion of their honeymoon. Travels abroad had dominated the past twenty years, but they traveled stateside as well and also spent a lot of time exploring the many offerings that Florida held for them. Just seven months ago, Brandon had surprised Crystal with a cabin cruiser for her birthday. She told me that they’d spent many hours in it together, not only exploring the local river systems, but also the Gulf into which they spilled.

  Crystal admitted that right from the beginning, it hadn’t all been champagne and roses. Before their marriage, her father had insisted that she make Brandon sign a prenup to ensure that he wasn’t just marrying her for her money. That had stung—wounded Brandon’s pride. To make up for it, Crystal had insisted right back that all of the assets he accumulated through the success of his business be put in his name, and his name alone because, she said, “Fair is fair.”

  There had also been other issues, too. Brandon had wanted children right away, but Crystal did not. “I wanted kids,” she told me. “But I wanted to live my life first.” She convinced Brandon to wait, but then—once they did start trying—they struggled with infertility, and Brandon’s affair with Maggie had nearly done them in. “But we worked through it,” she assured me adamantly with tears in her eyes. “We got through it and we moved on. I . . . I loved him . . .” And then she broke down and cried some more.

  Brandon might have been a great actor, but Crystal didn’t seem like the gullible type and my gut instinct was to believe that Brandon didn’t make a regular practice of cheating on her. I no longer believed that he had anything going on with skinny track lady and—even as Crystal sat before me crying—I made up my mind to figure out what then, the connection was between the two.

  Occasionally throughout the evening, Crystal seemed to need a diversion from her grief. During those times, she wanted to talk about me. About my family, about my job, and even about my relationship with Maggie, despite that fact that Maggie was something that had caused her so much pain. I told her all about how things had been going really well until Maggie got the phone call from the police. I told her how upset Maggie had been and how she had sobbed, and I told her how I didn’t understand why Maggie would kiss me when she was obviously not over Brandon.

  It wasn’t until those words were out of my mouth that I realized Crystal probably didn’t want to hear how torn up another woman was over her own husband’s death. How hurt and upset she was going to be. In quiet horror at what I had just done, I waited tensely for her reaction. It surprised me greatly.

  “I don’t think she was upset about Brandon because she loved him,” Crystal said gently, and I could tell that her words were meant to assure me, not herself. When I looked at her questioningly, she’d gone on. “Anytime someone you know dies, it’s going to be upsetting.”

  When I remained unconvinced she reminded me, “Look how upset you were because that lady killed herself, and you didn’t even know her . . .” She held my gaze for a moment before going on, “But Maggie knew Brandon . . . he was her little girl’s father . . .”

  With that, her voice cracked and she was quickly back in grieving widow mode, but not before her words sunk into my brain and began competing with the other thoughts that were already there. And later, when she apparently needed another diversion, Crystal convinced me that I needed to talk to Maggie.

  She urged me to leave and go do it right then—at three-thirty in the morning—although I stayed for a few more hours. When reporters came by, I told her to ignore them, but when the first of her friends show up a little after six, I decide that it’s time for me to go.

  As I leave Crystal’s house now, the Gulf of Mexico is as flat as a sheet of glass. The early morning summer sun bounces off its smooth surface, promising a bright day.

  I head to Maggie’s.

  ~Maggie~

  I’m still asking myself a lot of questions when I hear a knock on the front door.

  Why did he leave me to go to Crystal? Why is Crystal so important to him? Why was he there all night?

  I haven’t come up with any answers, and I’m not sure that there’s any way there can be any good answers.

  And I’m mad. Hurt. Confused. And embarrassed. Most
of all, I’m embarrassed, because it’s Crystal, and she knows all my secrets.

  And now, she has Peter.

  This is how I’m feeling as I open the door.

  Peter is standing there with a little smile on his face, looking almost impish. He also has on the same clothes he wore on our date last night, as if I need further evidence regarding where he spent the night.

  “Hi,” he says, looking at me with an even bigger smile.

  He has no idea that I’m mad. No idea that I know what I know. No idea that he’s done anything wrong.

  I take a breath, determined to keep my voice low enough that Tanner won’t hear it from where he’s having breakfast with Emma in the kitchen.

  “Sleep well, Peter?” I ask, waiting for him to sabotage himself with his next words.

  “I, uh . . .” The smiles slides off his face and is replaced by confusion. Likely confusion not only at my words but at the tone in which I say them because there’s little room for him to question my anger. He tilts his head at me quizzically. “I, um . . .”

  I can practically see him trying to figure out what to say. Finally he decides on, “I, uh, I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you about what happened when I found Emma. I wasn’t sure exactly what to tell you or when to tell you and, well, uh, obviously I didn’t make the right decision. I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you, though,” he says, shaking his head. “And I’m really sorry. I’ll try really hard not to let something like that happen again.”

  There’s the apology I was waiting for, thinking it wouldn’t come. As good as it is to hear that he’s capable of discerning that I’m upset and that he can apologize, my mind is still on his car, parked at Crystal’s house all night.

  “That’s great, Peter,” I say, hearing the sarcasm in my voice, wondering if he can pick up on it. “But I’m more concerned right now with whether or not you slept well last night. Or were you too busy doing other things?”

  He looks even more confused now, but then I think he gets it. I watch him try to figure out what to say again. This time he comes up with, “Uh, I, um, I actually spent the night helping a friend with something.”

  A friend. She’s a friend now.

  This is all so messed up, as if it wasn’t messed up enough before this.

  “A friend?” I ask, watching him and keeping my voice level. “You and Crystal are friends now, huh? Good enough friends that you ran out on me when I was clearly upset to go and help her with whatever she had for you to do, huh?”

  I wait for him to answer me.

  He looks at me in obvious shock, filling me with a strange satisfaction. He hears what I’m saying. He gets that I’m upset. He knows he did something.

  He waits for a very long moment before answering again, but this time when he speaks, there’s no stuttering or stammering in his voice. There’s only resolve.

  “You were mad at me,” he says, and it sounds like he’s accusing me. “You acted like you wanted me gone . . . you and your brother.” He almost spits out the word “brother” as he gestures toward my apartment where Tanner is sitting with Emma.

  “I was upset,” I say. “I’d just heard that the father of my child was murdered and that you’d kept information from me.”

  “Yeah,” he says, even more accusation in his voice. “You were pretty torn up about Brandon, weren’t you?”

  Does he think I still have feelings for Brandon?

  “He was the father of my child,” I say.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Would it be better if I wasn’t upset at all about the fact that he was murdered?!”

  He stares at me—no, he glares at me—and doesn’t answer.

  “What?” I ask, wondering at how the tables have turned. Why is he angry with me? “So what if it was something more? Why do you even care, Peter? You’re the one who ran off and slept with Crystal!”

  “I didn’t even get any sleep,” he protests.

  Good grief. Does he just not get this? Or is he pretending to be clueless so that I’ll think he’s innocent?

  “I didn’t think you did,” I say dryly, as I give him a look.

  And suddenly the anger and accusation on his face disappear, replaced by utter and complete shock.

  “You think that I . . . that we . . .” He doesn’t even seem to be able to articulate what I’m thinking. But he gets it. For just a split second, there’s a disgusted expression on his face, and with that, I can tell that I’m way off course. He’s obviously never thought of her in this way.

  Good. I shouldn’t be as relieved by this as I am, but I find myself breathing a little easier.

  He stands up straighter and speaks again with resolve. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  It’s not. I know it’s not ridiculous. He clearly didn’t do anything with Crystal, but what was I supposed to think?

  “You ran out of here to go to her,” I say. “What was I supposed to think? I was still crying when you left, and it . . .”

  “She’s old enough to be my mother!” he cries. Then, obviously thinking about it seriously for a moment, he goes on, “Well, I mean . . . she would have only been like fifteen or something, but . . .”

  He looks at me for a long moment while I stand there, unable to talk. When he finally speaks it’s in the softest voice.

  “I would never do that to you,” he says. “I love you.”

  He presses his lips together as if to shut himself up, but then he opens them again.

  “I’m probably not supposed to say that,” he says, shaking his head. “But I do. And I’m sorry for everything I’ve done wrong.”

  And with that, he turns and walks away.

  ~Peter~

  As I head back to my car, I shake my head, astounded by the number of ways I’ve managed to screw things up. This is undoubtedly a new record, and no amount of advice from Andrew or Crystal or anybody else is ever going to undo what I’ve just done.

  I told Maggie that I probably shouldn’t have said, “I love you,” but there’s no probably about it. I know that normal people don’t say that to someone they barely know.

  But I really do think that I love her—and not just because she’s the only person I’ve ever been on a date with or the only person I’ve ever kissed. Maybe that’s all it really is. After all, what do I know about love? But what I do know is that I think about her all the time and I want to be with her all the time and I want to spend the rest of my life feeling the way I feel whenever she’s with me. I also want to make her happy. I want her to turn to me whenever she’s not. I want to be the person she comes to when she needs someone.

  Isn’t that love? If that’s not love, then what is love? Does it really get any better than how I felt when Maggie was kissing me last night?

  Maybe it does. But if so, I’d certainly like to experience that with her.

  I reach for the door handle of my car, when suddenly I hear Maggie call out to me.

  “Peter!” she shouts. “Wait!”

  I turn to find her walking toward me. No . . . running toward me. I wait.

  She stops just a few inches from me, and before I can even back up or move closer to her, she starts talking.

  “Who says something like that then walks away?” she asks. There are tears in her eyes.

  Me. Other idiots . . .

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I just . . . I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

  I never do . . .

  But I guess I said something right at some point because Maggie puts her arms around my neck, raises up on her toes, and puts her mouth on mine.

  Maybe it’s okay that I’m not so good with words.

  A few moments later, she pulls back, her arms still around me, and my arms still around her.

  “That was . . . that was big,” she manages. “Not the kiss. Well, the kiss was amazing, but what you said . . . Peter, that was huge, what you said.” She bites her lip for just a moment. “Brandon never even said tha
t to me.”

  I look at her, slightly sad for her at this news, but mostly happy for me. I’m not sure what to say next, so I dip my head and press my lips to hers again. She kisses me back fiercely and tightens her arms around me. The sun warms the back of my neck, as if I need reminding that it’s going to be a bright day.

  When we part again, I can’t help but ask her hopefully, “Does this mean that you love me, too?”

  She starts to say something but stops herself. Then, with a smile, she says, “I feel really good about this, Peter.” She pulls me closer and kisses me very softly. “You’ll be honest with me now, right? And I’ll be honest with you. And this? This just might . . .” She looks up at me and smiles again. “This is going to be good.”

  “But you don’t love me,” I clarify. This is probably another thing I’m not supposed to say, but it seems like I’ve kind of been on a roll.

  She watches me for a long moment, still smiling, still holding onto me. “Those are big words,” she says softly. “And I want to make sure when I say them that I mean them forever.” She swallows. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I do, and I nod to let her know that I do.

  “But,” she says with another smile and another kiss, “I want you to say it as much as you want to. Every day. Every hour. However often you want to. Because it sounds so good . . .”

  And so I say it again. She smiles once more, and I feel myself smile back. And then I kiss her again, because that feels just as good as “I love you” sounds.

  ~Maggie~

  Wedding dresses. Flowers. Vows. Rings.

  I’m thinking about these things. Not for myself, of course. For Tanner. For Ana. For their wedding.

  Well, maybe I’m starting to think about these things for myself, too. Just a little. Is that ridiculous? Is it the stupidest thing in the world to actually think that I might want to marry Peter? Someone I barely know? Someone who doesn’t even realize that it’s totally inappropriate to say “I love you,” after only one date?