The Stalked Girl

by Evan Ronan

  He nods. “I know the guy who underbid you.”

  Everybody knows everybody.

  And I don’t add:

  He didn’t underbid me.

  He actually overbid me, but I’m sure he’s not sharing that with anybody else. By sticking my nose into Nick Carlisle’s case, I rubbed many people the wrong way, one of whom had a connection to the mortgage company I was working with for financing. At his behest, the company temporarily rescinded my loan approval due to some paperwork glitch that nobody could ever explain in proper detail to me. As a result, I lost out on what looks to have been a great deal.

  Back to my point: everybody knows everybody.

  “It’s a good complex,” I say. “But I think I’ve found something else that’s even better.”

  He nods again. “How do you do it, Greg?”

  “Do what?”

  He folds his arms. “I get up, I go to work, I come home. Rinse and repeat. I couldn’t imagine juggling several jobs, all of them requiring different processes and skill sets.”

  I want to say: I use a lot of duct tape.

  “I get bored easily,” I say. “Doing one thing, over and over, that’s poison to me. I’m no good at it. I’d make a horrible employee because I inevitably run out of steam and lose interest. I have to keep all the synapses firing.”

  “But it has to be difficult, while having a family?”

  “Yes and no. I never miss a game or show. I pick Tammy up from school sometimes. It just takes a little extra planning.”

  “That’s great.”

  “It is great,” I acknowledge. “I doubt I’d get to see her as much if I was working a regular job. And if I was working a regular job, I’d be miserable and probably be a worse father too. I like thinking outside the box and challenging conventional ideas. A lot of people think you need to go to work, Monday through Friday, and put forty or fifty hours in. We’re programmed from childhood to think that way. But it’s not really true. I know a lot of guys who own or manage two, three, or four businesses and live comfortably. It’s possible.”

  He thinks about that. I don’t expect him to agree, since he’s one of the many people who works in the traditional fashion.

  “I’m too risk-adverse,” he says. “I like to know when my next paycheck is coming.”

  “You own the business though,” I say. “So you carry all the risk, right?”

  “I guess I do,” he admits. “Though it doesn’t feel like it. Since I’m the one in charge, I feel like my destiny is in my hands.”

  “Then you’re doing the right thing,” I say. “No better feeling.”

  “No.” He looks past me, into the house. “And I need steady health insurance for Julian.”

  “It must be hard,” I say, ever-so-brilliantly.

  He smiles sadly. “It is and it isn’t. I love that kid so much. I wouldn’t want things to be any different. God blessed us with both children and I love them more than anything.”

  “Kids are great.”

  Bob motions at the grill. “Would you mind keeping an eye on the sausage? It always takes longer to cook than the rest.”

  “Sure.”

  He points toward the house. “I want to check on Julian.”

  He enters the living room through a sliding glass door. I open the grill. The sausage is sizzling and looks almost ready. I poke at it with the short prongs on the end of the spatula and roll them over.

  I don’t even hear Mary and Lucy come home.

  “Greg Owen, you haven’t changed a bit in all these years!” Mary says.

  And I realize, it’s Mary Ashton. Bob Hale has married Mary Ashton. Why didn’t I know this?

  “Hey, Mary,” I say, trying to hide my surprise and failing miserably. “Long time.”

  “Yes.” She gives me a big hug and it immediately takes me back to tenth grade, when we hugged for the first time.

  How did I not know he’d married Mary?

  She pulls away, but not before stopping briefly to give me a nostalgic look that is firing on all cylinders.

  Mary.

  Effing.

  Ashton.

  Maybe my daughter is right: I need to actually go on Facebook, just so I know what’s going on around town.

  “So good to see you,” we manage to both say, at exactly the same time which isn’t awkward at all.

  Mary pats my shoulder and I think there’s a tear or two in her eye.

  “I’d like you to meet my wonderful daughter, Lucy.”

  Six

  Lucy Hale is tall, tan, and buff. More pretty than cute. Her body fat percentage must be lower than seven or eight. I can see every bone, muscle, and tendon in her face as she leaks a nervous smile.

  Mary Ashton is not tall. Bob Hale isn’t either and to my knowledge never played a sport even recreationally. I wonder just where Lucy Hale got her physicality and athleticism. Lucy has an inch or two on me, even, and I’m no wee man. She should come across as physically imposing, but her body language shrinks her a few inches. Her tawny eyes are wary, her mouth skeptical, her torso a little turned away from me.

  “Lucy, my name is Greg Owen, and it’s very nice to meet you.”

  I offer my hand and expect a crush grip, but instead I get a quick shake that’s more fingers than palm.

  “Hi, Mr. Owen,” she says, looking at her mother as if seeking her approval.

  “Please call me Greg,” I say, knowing that she’ll have a difficult time with that. Her parents seem old-school and have probably drilled it into her head that all adults are to be addressed as Mister or Miss, even though Lucy Hale herself has now surpassed the age of majority.

  That nervous flicker of a smile again. Gone so quick, I’m not sure it really happened.

  “Okay.”

  “Sweetie,” Mary steps in, “Greg is an old friend. He’s a good man and he’s served his country as a Marine. You can trust him.”

  “Okay.”

  We stare at each other for a moment and before I can ask to speak to Lucy alone, she heads inside.

  “I’ll be right out,” she says, leaving me alone with her mother.

  We watch Lucy Hale go inside and when I turn, I can still see the light in Mary’s eyes. Proud mama. She’s practically glowing.

  “She’s a great young woman,” Mary says, a touch wistful.

  I nod.

  “And you’ve got your own,” Mary says.

  “I do.” I smile. “Best thing I’ve ever done with my life, becoming a father.”

  Mary gives me that killer smile I remember so well. “I always thought you’d be a great dad.”

  “The last time we saw each other was tenth grade,” I quip. “You and I were thinking about different things at the tender age of sixteen.”

  She laughs. “I’ll bet.”

  There’s another awkward silence as I wonder if she’s thinking about that random time we talked—and didn’t talk—behind the school. I shouldn’t be thinking about that, her being the mother of my client and a married woman to boot.

  But hey.

  “Lucy is very special,” she says, and the change in direction feels momentous. “The Lord has blessed my girl with a rare gift. All you have to do is look at her and you know she’s an athlete.”

  “Yep.” I pat my stomach. “I feel like I should be going to the gym instead of about to glut myself.”

  Another laugh from Mary. “When she started sports in earnest, I felt the same way. Seeing her out on the field or on the court was such an impetus to get me back in the gym. When she’s home, we get to exercise together. And ...”

  I follow the drift of her eyes and see Bob Hale sliding the glass door open. “Sweetie, can you help me with Julian?”

  “Sure.”

  Mary slips inside and I wait on their deck. The air has the taste of summer in it. I’m waiting for Lucy to come back out, but she doesn’t. I’m alone for a few minutes and decide to move the plate of meat onto the wooden table near the grill, next to the bags of hot do
g rolls and hamburger buns. I put out some napkins and distribute the paper plates, noting there’s a place at the table missing a chair.

  Lucy Hale is nervous. Anxious. Having a stalker, that’s a very reasonable reaction. But I don’t get why she seems nervous around me.

  Seven

  Bob and Mary bring Julian out on his motorized wheelchair. They have him strapped in but he’s constantly moving. I haven’t come out and asked, but I’m assuming he has cerebral palsy based on the continuous spasms and his difficulty enunciating. Bob positions his son in the empty spot at the table.

  Lucy sits between her father and mother, finding the one seat on the table that is farthest and opposite from me. With eyes downcast, she reaches for the plate of meat and, not serving herself, offers some food to her parents.

  “What do you do?” Julian asks.

  It takes me a moment to understand him. Mary is about to repeat what he’s said, but I answer before she can.

  “A lot of things.” I smile. “Probably too many.”

  He seems pleased by this answer, as if he’d been expecting something boring, like a bland job description that is essentially meaningless to a kid.

  When the plate comes my way, I take a sausage, burger, and a dog. I decide to skip the carbs because, you know, I’m so health-conscious.

  I’m about to dig in, when Bob reaches for my hand.

  “Greg, would you like to say Grace?” he asks, clearly expecting a certain answer.

  “I’m not very religious,” I say. “So it’d be more appropriate coming from someone else.”

  If he’s offended or put off by my polite refusal, he doesn’t show it. But he keeps his hand out, expecting me to take it.

  “Lucy, dear, would you please?”

  She grasps her parents’ hands and I take Bob’s. As comfortable as I am with my sexuality, it’s still awkward holding another guy’s hand, religious ritual notwithstanding.

  “Thank you, God, for blessing us with this food, our good fortune, and each other. We pray for those less fortunate than us and remain ever-mindful of your love.”

  “And, Lord,” Bob adds on, “please give our Lucy the strength she needs during this trying time. We pray that your justice is delivered to us through the Court. Amen.”

  Bob holds onto my hand a tick longer and leans toward me. “You know, Greg, our church is very welcoming and open to all men, even those with doubts. We’d love to bring you as our guest. Would you be interested in joining us Sunday?”

  It has been my experience that the religious have this burning need to convince the unreligious of their position. Whereas the doubters, such as yours truly, usually don’t feel any need whatsoever to convince the faithful to cease attending church on Sundays.

  “Thanks, but like I said, Bob, I’m not religious.”

  He holds the stare a moment longer. “Now, Greg—”

  “Bob,” Mary interrupts with a word and a sharp look. “Why don’t we have a nice dinner? We can talk about religion later.”

  Later meaning never, if I catch her drift.

  Bob looks hurt. “Mary, Greg is our friend and I’m only thinking about his—”

  “Greg is a grown man and capable of—”

  “God has asked all of us to share His love and spread His Word, Mary.” Bob shoots me a half-apologetic, half-insistent look. “Greg, I just wanted to say, think about it. It’s important. You want to set a good example for your daughter, right?”

  Up until this point, Bob hasn’t crossed any lines of decorum.

  Up until this point.

  “Bob, I set a fine example for my daughter. I manage my own businesses, I work hard, and I never miss any of her events. Now I appreciate your offer but like I said, I’m not religious.”

  At this, I catch the strangest reaction from Bob’s daughter.

  Lucy looks down and very briefly smiles, like I’ve scored one against Dear Old Dad.

  “But, Greg, there’s more to it than just this world,” he says.

  Mary’s lips grow thin. “Bob.”

  Bob plows on, heedless of his wife’s warnings and forgetful of my answers and oblivious to my body language. He’s building up a head of steam and I feel like we’re on a collision course.

  “All I’m saying, Greg, is you have your soul to think of too. There is more than just … this.” He holds his arms out. “All this stuff, the house, the clothes, the material is nothing. Don’t get me wrong, your businesses are important because they provide you and your daughter with the essentials, but there’s more to life than money.”

  This coming from the guy with the four thousand square foot house, with the in-ground pool, with the villa …

  Bob’s still going. “There is eternity and you have to think about your soul. God judges us all.”

  “BOB.”

  Mary looks ready to both kill her husband and simultaneously die of embarrassment.

  And Bob is, like the Energizer Bunny—

  Still

  Fucking.

  Going.

  “He judges us all and one day He will judge you. I hope you think about that because it’s important.”

  I should get hazard pay for this.

  Time to set some healthy boundaries for our relationship going forward.

  “Bob, I’m not religious. I don’t believe in the invisible man in the sky who loves us unconditionally but also damns us eternally to hell. I don’t need an all-powerful being that afflicts children with cancer but doesn’t lift an omnipotent finger to cure them. I don’t need him. And if he’s up there, I doubt he needs me. I have my own code and sometimes I live up to it, and sometimes I don’t, and I have to live with the consequences. In the end, my code is all I have and it’s all anybody has, whether they get it from their parents, or a book, or a karate dojo, or the wisdom inside a fortune cookie.

  “Now, I respect the fact that you have faith. It is obviously working for you and bringing you some benefit. But if this is going to work, you’re going to respect my lack of faith, for the same reasons. Because I’ve gotten to this point in my life on my own two feet. I’ve never had a hand out, I’ve worked for everything I’ve gotten, and I provide for my daughter. I’m not interested in discussing religion any further, never mind convincing you of my viewpoint. If that’s not alright with you, then we can part ways right now, no hard feelings.”

  Bob looks at me like I’ve just taken a dump in his pool.

  “I think that’s a very good idea,” Mary says, leaning ever more forward, so her shirt is almost covering her plate of food. “Don’t you think so too, Bob?”

  Again, I catch that lightning-quick smile on Lucy’s face, before it vanishes.

  “Don’t you think so too, Bob?” Mary repeats.

  “Yes,” Bob finally says, the tension leaving his face. He looks down at his food and goes to work on his sausage with a knife and fork. “I’m sorry, Greg, sometimes I get carried away.”

  I let that go, not wanting to rub salt in the wound. “The food smells great.”

  And we all start eating. Mary has to cut up small pieces of meat for Julian, who sips a soda through a straw.

  “I think Greg’s funny,” Julian says.

  And Bob Hale’s face turns bright red.

  ***

  After dinner, during which we manage to avoid the subject of religion, Lucy offers to clean up. Whatever points I might have scored with her during dinner, they seem long-forgotten. She barely looked at me during the meal and answered what few questions I posed to her with one-word or one-phrase answers.

  Yes.

  No.

  I’m not sure.

  We’ll see.

  And: I don’t know.

  For a straight-A student and superior college athlete, she is remarkably devoid of opinions or thoughts of the future, outside of training for the triathlon.

  All of these answers are really covers for what she really wants to say to me: I don’t want to tell you anything.

  Which is
going to be a problem.

  Because she’s a kid. She might be twenty-one and legally of age to drink, but she’s still a kid. And that means she’s hiding things. Because all kids hide things from their parents.

  Hell, I know I did.

  While Lucy is in the kitchen cleaning the dishes, Mary wheels Julian back inside, leaving the devout Bob Hale alone with this wretched sinner.

  “Sorry if I came across heavy-handed,” Bob says. This time the apology seems sincere, as if the embarrassment is on a time delay and just catching up to him.

  “No big,” I say. And before we can step into that minefield again: “Bob, I really have to talk to Lucy alone now.”

  He nods. “Okay, Greg. Just go easy on her.”

  I frown. “She’s my client, Bob. I’m here to look out for her best interests.”

  “I know you are, but tread lightly. She’s not herself.” He sits back and folds his arms imperiously. “The young woman you met tonight, that’s not her. Lucy is normally very confident and outgoing, very self-assured. Ever since this boy started bothering her, she hasn’t been the same. It breaks my heart to see her like this.”

  He wipes under his eyes.

  Bob says, “Before this, she had a plan. She was thinking of becoming a physical therapist or some other kind of sports scientist and becoming an Olympian. She was very motivated. Now it’s like this whole thing has just sapped her. Her training is the only thing, I think, that distracts her enough to take her mind off this boy.”

  “Then let’s see what I can do about it.”

  Bob leads me into the house. Mary and Julian are watching American Ninja Warrior in the living room while Lucy toils at the sink. Her arms and legs are thick and muscled and again, I am almost shamed into rushing to the gym for a two-hour workout.

  “Lucy, I’ll take over here,” Bob says. “Greg is going to talk to you now.”

  She freezes at the sink, then finishes drying one of the dishes before handing Bob the towel.