Frayed Read online

  32

  The notes were seemingly innocuous at first, but now they’ve taken on a more menacing tone. Truth be told, I’m embarrassed that I failed to see the seriousness of someone entering my apartment without my knowledge to leave one in my bathroom. When I thought Lydia was behind the messages, I rather liked the idea of her moving about so comfortably in my space. But now that I know it isn’t her, my feelings have drastically changed, putting me on high alert. This person is clearly brazen and unafraid of being caught. Maybe that’s their end game here.

  After discussing all the possible options, Lydia and I decided that the first step in dealing with a stalker is to change your locks and install a camera outside your apartment door. So that’s exactly what we did. We even took it a step further and changed out the locks on her door and mounted a camera outside her apartment, as well. Even though I’m the one being targeted, there’s no guarantee, given our relationship, that this person won’t start taking an interest in Lydia, too. In this situation, it just makes sense to be proactive.

  Lydia and I spent the afternoon tirelessly outfitting our apartments in stalker prevention gear, and now we’re sitting in silence mulling over the new threat that’s infiltrated our little bubble. When we finished installing the camera outside Lydia’s door, we turned to each other in a haze and wordlessly agreed that we needed caffeine.

  We’re seated across from each other at a small round metal table outside of Espresso Yourself café. The picturesque azure sky with cotton-like cumulus clouds is in direct contrast with the somber mood of the afternoon.

  I’m watching the steam rise in slow waves, wafting out of my Grande Americano. The opaque vapor lifts out of the cup like a hand reaching for something that’s just out of grasp. I watch as it ascends upward before it dissipates and becomes one with the air around it.

  When you learn that someone is brazenly keeping tabs on you, it changes the way you carry yourself. Your otherwise carefree movements are suddenly well thought out and planned. All spontaneity is gone and in its place are actions that are intentional and deliberate. You’re constantly looking over your shoulder. You turn lights on in every room and peel back shower curtains and leave closet doors wide open. You make plans for everything you do and remain rigid in sticking to them.

  Living life according to a schedule is something I’m very accustomed to. Sarah wouldn’t have had it any other way. At first, I enjoyed the purposeful way in which she organized our lives. It took the guesswork out of everything and freed my mind of worry. Eventually, though, I grew tired of always doing what was expected of me. I had opinions, and I wanted them to matter. I remember once tirelessly trying to plead my case to Sarah as to why I thought we should skip out on going to the fall festival with her parents and go to the movies instead. The Bow Tie was showing a few documentaries on a limited run and I didn’t want to miss them.

  I still remember the look on Sarah’s face when I implored her to change our plans. She sat there calmly as I presented my idea. When I finished my dissertation, she waited in silence for a beat before shaking her head and smiling sweetly. “Oh, silly Owen,” she chastised. “We already have plans, and plans aren’t something we make only to break them. Now, put on your shoes and remember to grab a jacket. It’s a crisp fall day out there. Perfect weather for a festival.”

  She dismissed me with such ease, and I let her. If I were to tell someone this story, I’m sure there would be questions. Where’s your backbone? Why didn’t you speak up? But that’s the thing about manipulation. When you’re the puppet, you can’t always see the strings that control you. I did as I was told because that’s how it was with Sarah and me. Our entire relationship was comprised of Sarah telling me what to do and me doing it.

  And now I find myself feeling controlled once again. When I left Connecticut, I was full of uncertainty. The only thing I was sure of was that I was in control of my own life. I vowed to myself that I would never again get caught up in someone else’s plans. I thought I was doing a good job of living up to that ideal. I’m the one making all the decisions. I’m in charge of my own rigid schedule that I set for myself. I leave my apartment at the same time every day to go work at a job with expectations that never change. I listen to the same podcast through earbuds designed to make me seem unavailable.

  But from the moment I received the first note, something changed. I tried to ignore it—tried not to give it too much weight, but the hidden messages kept coming and I can’t deny the effect they’ve had on me. The person responsible for writing them is also the one who calls the shots. I’m under their thumb. Reacting to their influence.

  Sarah died and I picked up and moved halfway across the country. I wanted to start over in a place where my past couldn’t follow me. But from the looks of things, it seems some habits are too much a part of you to break. No matter where you go, you can’t run away from them.

  Lydia reaches across the table and taps my hand with the tip of her index finger. Her manicured nail leaves a crescent moon impression on my skin. I lift my eyes to hers and see a hundred unsaid questions reflecting back at me. I give her a small exhausted smile and she returns it with one of her own.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Owen?”

  I sigh as I shift my weight on the hard stool. The metal legs scrape in response. “I’m afraid there isn’t enough copper in the world.”

  Her eyebrows draw down with concern. “You know, you’re sitting right across from me, but you looked so lost a moment ago. Where’d you go?”

  I take a second to turn her question over in my mind and consider the meaning behind it. I’ve always thought I wore my masks well. If I don’t want someone to see emotion on my face, they won’t. I can suspend my thoughts from ever reaching my facial expressions. Or at least I thought I could. Lydia’s question tells me I’m getting sloppy. Or maybe I’m just softening under her influence. I can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

  “I was just thinking about how quickly life can change. When we woke up this morning, neither one of us thought we’d be waging war with a stalker.”

  She lets out a soft chuckle. “No, you’re right, we definitely didn’t see that coming.”

  I give my head an incredulous shake as I look down at the remnants of liquid swirling in my coffee cup. “It’s amazing how quickly things can change.”

  Or, in my case, stay the same.

  33

  It’s been three weeks since the last note—just long enough that you start to feel comfortable again. That’s probably true for most people, anyway. It seems to be working for Lydia. The cracks in the armor that she wore whenever we were in public have begun to grow. Her resolve is fraying at the seams.

  After those first few days, we never talked about the notes or tried to figure out who might be writing them. We settled into a tentative routine in which we barely left our apartment building aside from going to work. We even resorted to using delivery services for groceries and take out. But if the desired outcome of my secret messenger was to derail my relationship with Lydia, she or he would be very disappointed to know that they actually had the opposite effect. Spending so much time holed up together alternating apartments, we’ve only grown closer. We’ve been existing in a comfortable bubble. We’re a team—a united front. It’s “us against them.”

  It’s 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday, and we find ourselves in the lobby of our building checking our mailboxes. Lydia unlocks the metal box marked 309 and reaches inside, pulling out a mix of circulars, bills, and junk mail. Taking her stack over to the lounge area, she sits down on the tan leather sofa and tucks her right leg underneath her. I watch as she fans everything out on the small glass coffee table in front of her. I’ve seen her do this every day for nearly a month, but it isn’t any less fascinating than it was the first time I saw it.

  Lydia isn’t a very methodical person except when it comes to her mail. She has a very specific way to arrange everything and waits until it’s all in proper order before even thi
nking about opening anything. The ads and sale circulars go into a pile on her left, the bills go on the right, and any junk mail is placed on the seat next to her waiting to be recycled. She leaves the center spot open and, up until today, it’s always been empty. It’s an obvious open area, and I’ve often wondered what might take up residence there.

  This morning as she slides the mail around in front of her, her fingertips grazing each item before mentally categorizing it and moving it to its proper pile, her finger lands on an envelope and pauses. I notice a slight flare of her nostrils and a quick widening of her eyes before she seems to still her reaction. Her hands hover above the envelope for a beat, and then she grasps the corner, holding it out in front of her as though it were the most vile thing she’s ever come in contact with before placing it in the bare spot in the center of the table.

  She looks up and her eyes find mine. I make a lame attempt to hide my stare by quickly looking down at my hands and pretending to fiddle with my keys, but it’s no use. I’m certain she’s on to me.

  Lifting my gaze, I expect to find her watching me, but she’s back to organizing her mail. The mysterious envelope seems to have been relegated to somewhere between the bills and sale ads.

  My box is never very exciting, and today proves no different. Inside I find a menu for a new Chinese restaurant that just opened up around the corner, a form letter from a local realtor asking if I’m ready to upgrade to a house, and my cell phone bill. My organizing process takes all of three seconds—recycle, recycle, keep.

  I make my way over to Lydia and find her engrossed in a pamphlet. “What’s on there that has you so riveted?” I tease.

  She tilts her head and regards me behind dark lashes. “What would you say about venturing into the outside world today?” Holding up a flier advertising the Spring Soirée at the Fairgrounds, Lydia appears victorious as her mouth breaks out into a wide smile. “I found a Get out of Jail Free card!”

  34

  In the time that I’ve lived here, I’ve never been to the Spring Soirée. I’ve never even been tempted. A packed fairground filled with overpriced games, crying children with sticky fingers, and way too much fried food that my colon will hate me for later is not my idea of a good time. At least it wasn’t until Lydia suggested we go. Then it became the best idea I had ever heard.

  Holding hands while we navigate the crowd, our bodies pressed together in the snug seat of the Ferris wheel, sharing cotton candy which will inevitably find itself stuck to Lydia’s lips and, of course, I’d be obligated to help her get it off—yeah, that’s the very definition of a good time as far as I’m concerned.

  It’s a breezy warm May day. The sun sits high up in the sky radiating a warmth that I can feel deep within my bones. It’s a picture-perfect day for a festival. Looking over at Lydia, our hands linked together as we walk the few blocks to the fairgrounds, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be and no one else I’d rather be with.

  The fairgrounds, otherwise known as Esther Park, is a sprawling green outdoor oasis with lush grass and a canopy of trees. An eight-foot-wide cobblestone path cuts through the park and weaves back and forth, providing the perfect walkway for a festival.

  As we approach the park, the smells hit me before anything else—grilled burgers, BBQ chicken, and fresh cut fries followed by the sweet scent of fried dough and powdered sugar. My stomach growls in approval just as Lydia looks over at me and announces, “Oh, we are definitely splitting some fries today.” She pauses. “And of course, we’ll need some funnel cake and waffles and ice cream. All of that will make us thirsty so we can wash it down with a root beer float.” She winks at me as if to seal the deal. I want to tell her that’s not necessary. The deal has long been sealed when it comes to her and me. I’ll get her one of everything here if that’s what she wants.

  A ticket booth sits to the right of the path. The small square structure has been freshly painted white with neon signs brightly displaying pricing. We decide to grab a twenty-dollar book to start and head up the walkway toward the food stands. The sounds of laughter and screams from the thrill rides fill the air and provide the perfect soundtrack for a small-town fair.

  I spot the French fry truck just up ahead, but before I have a chance to tell Lydia, she’s tugging my hand in another direction. The classic milk jug game has caught her eye. There’s a carney with greasy brown hair and a stained red shirt standing on a stool shouting out into the crowd that five dollars will get you not two, not three, but four chances, today only! Wow, what a deal.

  Lydia’s eyes sparkle as she inspects the giant teddy bear prizes hanging from the chains overhead. It’s a look I’ve seen before, years before. It dawns on me then that I haven’t been to a fair since that last Fall Festival in Connecticut.

  For a minute, I’m stunned as the past slaps me across the face. What are the chances that I would find myself in an almost identical situation years later? Sure it’s a different state and a different season and the girl who owns my heart is different as well, but I can’t ignore the unease I feel deep within the pit of my stomach and the chill that crawls up my spine, making the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  My body is here in this small Minnesota town, but my mind is back in Connecticut. I feel a tug on the sleeve of my jacket as I stare up at the stuffed bears overhead; their shiny black beady eyes glare back at me. Without taking my eyes off of them, I reach into my pocket and pull out some money. Handing it over, I say, “Here, Sarah, why don’t you see what kind of damage you can do?”

  I hear her gasp and feel her warmth leave my side as she moves away, putting a cavern of space between us. Tearing my eyes off the teddy bears, I look over and find Lydia looking at me as though I’ve just struck her; her eyes regard me with distrust and apprehension. It takes me a moment before I realize what I’ve done.

  Instantly I begin to backpedal. “Lydia, I’m so sorry. I, it’s just, God, I can’t believe I just said that!” Words are my enemy as I try and fail to explain why I just called her by my dead fiancée’s name.

  The carney has stopped calling out to the crowds; his attention is focused on the shitshow in front of him, an amused look dancing in his eyes. The oversized stuffed bears appear menacing as they loom above us. It’s almost as if they’re preparing to attack me for hurting Lydia. It’s not like I don’t deserve it.

  I reach out to take her hand, but she pulls it away and takes another cautious step back.

  Raking my hand through my hair, I tug at the ends. “I can explain if you’ll let me. Can we find somewhere a little less noisy? I promise, if you’ll just give me five minutes, it’ll all make sense. Just trust me, please.”

  She looks torn. With a slight nod, she turns and begins moving forward through the crowd. I’m not sure what to do at first, but she turns her head and motions for me to follow her. We make our way up the path in silence with her a few feet ahead of me.

  The carefree sounds of people having fun surround us. Their lighthearted laughter and squeals of delight are at odds with the uncertainty of my current predicament.

  There are a few picnic tables to the right of the food trucks. Lydia finds an open spot and takes a seat. I sit beside her and wait. Her hands fidget in her lap clasping and unclasping repeatedly as though she doesn’t know what else to do with them. The toe of her left foot bobs up and down in nervous succession. She’s staring blankly out into the crowd of people. I study her profile and watch her eyes dart back and forth as she seems to fixate on the throng of bodies milling about on the path beside us. She looks as if she’s wishing to be swallowed up whole, anything to avoid having to sit here with me.

  I know I need to set things straight between us, but I’m also very aware of the severity of the situation. Lydia and I are still in that delicate beginning stage, and a slipup as monumental as this one could mean sudden death for us.

  I remain silent for a beat longer and let my mind clear out the remnants of the past that rudely infiltrated this perfec
t day. Just as I prepare to speak, Lydia beats me to it.

  “Why did you do it, Owen? Why did you call me by her name?”

  35

  I explain every last detail of that day. The Fall Festival with its autumn charm, the scent of apple pie and caramel filling the air, Mitch’s cheesy jokes, and Sarah’s dramatic wish to rescue a stuffed bear—a bear that closely resembled the ones Lydia was just admiring.

  “I got lost in the memory, Lydia, but that’s all it was. A memory.”

  She hasn’t looked up since I started talking. The picnic table is painted red, but it’s faded and worn from years of weather and teenager abuse. Lydia’s been picking at a loose patch of paint, chipping off bits and pieces revealing grayed wood beneath. I’m not sure what she thinks she’ll find from the weathered wooden table, but I hope there’s forgiveness buried somewhere under the lacquer that she’s meticulously removing.

  “Lydia?” I say her name like a question, but it feels more like a goodbye. She must sense the desperation in my tone because she finally looks up. Her eyes are red rimmed, but there’s no sign of tears. It’s as if she’s been injured and she’s looking at me like I’m the one who hurt her, but I’m also the only one who can save her. I really hope she’ll let me.

  “I get it, Owen. I do. The memories must still haunt you, and I can imagine how they could sneak up on you sometimes. It sounds like that’s exactly what happened here.”

  I nod emphatically along with her words. She understands. I let out a small sigh of relief. This is good. She’s forgiving me.

  And then she continues. “But I don’t know how to forget hearing you call me by another woman’s name.”