Alone by DeboraDyess
Artwork by Cindy Sue Truman at FanArtReview.com |
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Go big or go home, right? So I became more of a one-night-stand girl. No commitments, no expectations, no failures. Life alone isn't so bad and is certainly a lot easier than life with someone else. As a writer, I'm used to being alone, anyway. And it's not like I'm a hermit -- far from it. I meet all kinds of interesting people as I do research and interview individuals for information I need. I met a great doctor when I was researching information for The Ward. And an incredibly interesting rancher as I was writing Homestead. Then there was the handsome banker. I met him while I was learning all about bank heists for... Well, for Heist. It wasn't the most original title, but the publisher didn't like my working title and changed it. I dated all of them. The doctor turned out to be such a narcissist that we only dated a few months before I decided he loved himself enough for both of us. The rancher? As you might have guessed, if you want to be with a rancher, you have to love the ranch. It was okay for a while, but even I, as solitary as I am, found it to be too isolated after a few months. And the banker... He's doing ten to twenty upstate for embezzlement. Maybe he took the theme of the book too seriously. Maybe not. Who knows. And, yes, I dated the publisher, too. But who needs a man looking over your shoulder at your computer screen every minute that he's not looking at his own? Not me, I decided after a while. That, plus half a dozen more failed attempts, made 'alone' seem like the best alternative I could choose. So I chose it. It worked great until I literally ran into Jacob at the grocery store. Not in the store, as you might be guessing, baskets crashing into each other as one of us rounded a corner onto a new aisle. No, I'm the go-big-or-go-home gal, remember? So I backed into his truck as I was leaving the store, my trunk full of all the groceries I'd need for the month. I jumped out of my CRV and ran to the back as he pulled his truck forward and stepped out, his long, leisurely strides reaching me in seconds. "Are you okay?" we asked together and we both nodded. "I'm so sorry," I blithered in a rush. But he was shaking his head, barely holding back a laugh. I could see it in his eyes. "We were both backing up," he said. His voice was as smooth as glass, but filled with warmth and life. "I think we can share the blame on this one. No need to be sorry. I'm just glad you're not hurt." Still flustered, I grabbed one of my business cards and thrust it at him. "Here," I said. "Here's my contact information." I jerked it back as he reached for it, retrieved a pen from my purse, and jotted my insurance information on the back. "And there's my agent, in case you need to make a claim. I really am so sorry." He looked at the card for a minute but flipped it over, from the insurance side to my personal information. "A writer?" He grinned down at me. "Maybe you could use this in a book. I understand that everything's fair game with good writers." I dreaded the next question, the one where people ask if they might have read one of my books. I write under a pseudonym, a very strong male name that works well with my thriller/murder genre. But he didn't ask. Instead, "May I take you to lunch for your trouble?" A grin played across my mouth and into my eyes. "We could meet..." And so we did. We met at the coffee shop but ended up in my bed that day. And the next. And the next and the next. Before long, his things were littering my bathroom, my bedroom, the kitchen downstairs. Before I knew it, he was a part of my world. He read first drafts and offered great suggestions, catching my chronic misspellings and cheering me on. He fixed dinner when I didn't want to and took me to dinner when neither of us wanted to cook. He came and went with the ease of someone who'd been in my life for decades instead of weeks. It felt good and right. I did see little things, of course. The woman that caught sight of us at a restaurant one night. She paled, a horrified expression anchoring to her face like it would never go away. Tipping her chair as she rose, she rushed out of the small diner, never taking her eyes off of my companion. "Who in the world..." Jacob was shaking his head. He took a deep breath. "We dated. She's crazy, though. I was stalked for weeks before I took out a restraining order to keep her away. And then she acted like I'd done something to her instead of the other way around." I nodded. He had a short fuse, too, but his temper was so short-lived that I couldn't think too much about it. By the time I had a chance to even frown at him, it was over. Only once did I see it flare and ignite, and that was at his truck. It didn't start one cold morning. He cursed and screamed and kicked the side of it until it dented the hood. When he saw me watching, he blushed bright red. "Oh, man," he said. "I haven't acted like that since I was a stupid kid. I'm embarrassed and sorry." And I forgave him. Of course, I did. Until the night of the writer's club meeting. I came in later than I'd told him to expect me. He was sitting on the couch, frowning at the door, his body rigid, his face a hard mask of suspicion. "Where were you?" he demanded. "Some of us went for coffee. I should have called." He lifted the book that he had on his lap. "Were you with the doctor? That publisher? The cowboy? Who were you with?" His voice was so hard, so filled with hatred. I looked at the book he held. "Did you read my journal?" He nodded. 'You are a gifted writer. I could visualize every scene." I gave him until the weekend to move his stuff out and he seemed happy to do so. But I could hear him driving by my house at night, tapping the horn as he passed beneath the window of the bedroom we had once shared. I saw him watching me at grocery stores and meetings with my editor and coffees with friends. Anywhere public, he seemed to show up, sitting only a few tables from me or following me with some small grocery item in his hands. One day, I went to my mother's house, and there he was, standing on the front porch. "What are you doing here?" I bellowed. Mom looked surprised. She'd never met Jacob before. "He's just talking to me about new internet service, honey." I was shaking with rage and fear as I pointed to his truck. "Leave my mother alone, Jacob. Get out of here now." He grinned. "Or what? You'll do what?" But he loped away, those long, leisurely strides taking him from the place I thought I might find some peace from him. And tonight... I hear him as he enters the house. I grab my cell phone and try to call for help but I'd forgotten to charge it again and a dead, blind screen is all I get as I punch frantically for a signal. I pok it over and over as I slip out of bed. Downstairs, I hear Jacob throwing dishes in the kitchen, then smashing the TV and throwing my laptop across the room as he stomps through the living room toward the stairs. Then he is on them, creeping upward, creeping toward the room we'd once shared. Terror fills me as I remember the face of the woman in the restaurant, the 'crazy woman' he'd dated. And I knew she wasn't so crazy, after all. I take two seconds to straighten the bedding as I hear him reach the landing. He's at the top, with only a flimsy bedroom door between us. Maybe he'll think I'm somewhere else. Maybe... I'm in my closet now, hidden behind three long dresses and a heavy winter coat. I have a can of mace with me, the one I carry when I go jogging, and am praying that he won't find me here. I hold my breath and try to calm my pounding heart as he steps toward the closet door.
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DeboraDyess
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