She won’t notice me until later—like before.
She won’t recognize my vehicle—right now, anyway—nor the fact that I’ve been sitting in the driver’s seat, motionless, waiting for her to appear.
I tilt my head and gaze at the back of her neck, her shoulder blades peeking out of her black tank top. It outlines the curve of her waist, ending at her hips covered by smooth, sage green leggings. Her delts and traps ripple beneath her skin as she leans forward to grip the handlebars. She’s muscular and curvy in all the right places, not some frail waif who sits on the sidelines drinking White Claws and eating amphetamines.
She looks the same as she did the first time I saw her, maybe even more beautiful.
She propels herself across the asphalt to the head of the bike path and, a few moments later, she disappears over the hill toward the woods ahead.
I won’t follow her right now. I won’t pursue her into the trees to lie in wait like some predator. There’s no need for that kind of indecency. I’d never need to do that, anyway.
I’m not some fucking loser, after all.
I don’t have to worry. She’ll come to me, just like before. It happened once, and it’ll happen again. I’ll pique her interest, she’ll hesitate, size me up, and it’ll just be a matter of time. Maybe I’ll get her going and then leave her hanging, like before. But, after that, she won’t stand a chance.
It’s 4:32. I have about 35 minutes before she emerges from the woods and coasts back into the parking lot. It might be a couple minutes longer if she stops to take a photo of a toad or a deer like last time. But I like that about her, she loves the little things and she’d be more than happy with a simple life. She just wants to write her books and be happy.
Hell, if she wants toads and deer, I’ll build her a house in the middle of nowhere on a mountaintop. Lucky for her, I can give her all that and so much more if she wants it.
Part of me is annoyed, impatient that I’m still sitting here, watching her from afar, when I could already be out there with her, enmeshing myself in her life. She could already be walking side by side with me, offering up every shred of information about herself, brushing her arm against mine, hoping I’ll reach over and take her hand. Just like last time.
But there’s a process. I’m much smarter now, and much more patient.
Not like before.
This time, my girl won’t try to leave.
And, this time, no one will get hurt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brett
One Year Ago
People always think October weddings will be refreshing and cool with vibrant, candy-colored leaves cascading through the air behind the bride and groom like a waterfall of cinnamon spice.
They’re not—at least in the Midwest.
It’s late October and, in many ways, it still feels like summer. The temperature won’t drop significantly until November. Meantime, I’m still sweating, digging through my makeup bag trying to find the lipstick I wear every single day—Clinique Black Honey—and today is the one day I can’t find it.
I toss my rapidly frizzing hair out of my face and look in the mirror. It’s probably in the pocket of my jacket, back at my condo, in my work bag, or concealed in something else I use every day of the week except on weekends.
Adjusting the plunging neckline of my dress, I fish out two other lipsticks, glancing between them. I toss one back in the bag and open the other—Maple Sun—testing out the rust color shade. It ends up matching my long, sage green wrap dress anyway. I straighten the straps and carefully reposition my curls that have gone awry in my frenzied search for lip color. After stepping into a pair of strappy beige heels, I step back and take one last look at myself in the mirror. Pointing my toe, I extend my leg in front of me and let the split hem of my dress fall away at my thigh.
I look good.
Throwing my makeup bag and hair dryer back into my tote, I hurry out of the room, hearing Bowen’s voice from down the hall. He’s in the kitchen, leaning over the countertop, carrying on a video chat conversation in front of my laptop screen.
I raise my eyebrows and set my beige leather clutch on the counter, “Have you all been talking this entire time?”
It’s late, and the six-hour difference between Ohio and Valencia, Spain usually guarantees my parents are either on their way out for the evening or getting ready for bed.
Bowen shoots me a sideways glance like I should’ve known better than to ask, “We have things to talk about.”
I peer over his shoulder, “Like what?”
My head has entered the chat.
My mom’s sun-bleached hair fills the frame and I recognize the pair of legs standing on top of the butcher block island behind her. This may seem odd to anyone else, but it’s my dad, and he often decides, mid-sentence, to initiate home improvements on the fly.
My mom throws her hair back and rests her chin in her hand, “Oh, there you are, hon! Your birthday present is in the mail. I sent it early this time.”
“You didn’t have to do that, but thanks!” I call over Bowen’s shoulder.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks, “Step back so I can see both of you.”
I straighten up and take a few steps back. Bowen follows me, sliding his arm around my waist as he takes notice of my ensemble. I look him up and down—tall and dark as usual—wearing tailored black pants and a dark purple button down rolled up at the elbows.
“Fucking smoke show,” Bowen murmurs, pulling me closer to him.
“OK, I took a screenshot!” my mom calls from the countertop, “I’ll call you next week before we leave for the cruise.”
“OK, I love you!” I call back from the middle of the kitchen.
“Love you, Claire!” Bowen’s voice booms as he lets go of my waist and reaches for his keys from the teak bowl on the counter.
I snicker at him over the laptop screen.
