by R. R. Banks
When the car stops and the doors open again, I burst out and rush down the hallway to Peter’s office. I throw the door open, startling his office manager, Misty. The pretty brunette is seated behind her desk as I come in, feeling totally frantic. Misty takes off her glasses and looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and guilt on her face – the guilt likely because I walked in on her either playing solitaire or chatting away online. Misty is a pretty girl, and sharp as a tack, but she wasn’t imbued with the strongest work ethic and has a personality I personally find kind of grating. But Peter likes her, which is what keeps her gainfully employed.
“Felicity, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I spit out. “Is my brother in with a patient?”
She shakes her head. “Not right now, but –” she punches a few keys on her keyboard and looks intently at her computer screen. “You’ve probably got about twenty minutes before his next client shows up.”
“Great.”
Before she can do anything else, I cross the waiting area of my brother’s office and open the door on the eastern wall. Peter looks up, startled at first, but quickly smiles when he sees it’s me. When he looks at my face, though, Peter’s smile fades as fast as it had appeared.
“I’m guessing you’re not here to tell me you’ve won the Nobel prize for literature.”
A wry grin pulls the corners of my mouth upward and I shake my head. “Afraid not.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
I cross his office and take a seat in one of the plush, oversized chairs he uses during his sessions. I throw my bag into the chair next to me as Peter comes around his desk and takes a seat in his chair directly across from me. I look around, willing my heart to slow down and trying to stop the flow of my fear-fueled adrenaline.
His office – like the lobby I’d just stormed through – is really nice. It’s all done in soft, earthy tones. The large picture window allows a ton of natural light into the place, brightening it up considerably. My brother believes that people always feel better in lighted rooms as opposed to dark dungeons.
Peter’s office is cut almost directly in half. On one side is his desk. He’s got a nice computer set up and the top is a little cluttered with files, but tidy. There is a large oak bookcase filled with all kinds of psychological texts, and on the wall beside it are the photographs of his younger days when he ran with his best friends, some beautiful artwork, as well as his multiple degrees set in simple, functional frames. This side of the room screams ‘accomplished professional’.
The other side of the office is where the magic happens. If you consider therapy to be magic, anyway. There are the two deep, comfy chairs I’m sitting in, and Peter’s usual spot in his chair across from me. Soft instrumental music plays from discretely-positioned speakers and there is a variety of soft, green plants all around. This side of the room screams ‘peace, tranquility, and healing’.
“I’m being stalked,” I tell him when I finally feel calm enough to speak.
His eyes widen. “What?” he gasps. “Are you kidding me? By who?”
I shake my head. “No idea. But he was on the sidewalk just outside this building when I came in. He followed me from the coffee house, Peter.”
He lets out a breath and sits back in his chair. “Okay, tell me everything.”
I proceed to tell him everything – from the book signing to now. He listens to everything I say, nodding along, but never interrupting. I honestly don’t know why I’m unloading on Peter like this. It’s not like he’s going to go down there and beat the guy to a pulp. There really is nothing he can do to help me.
But maybe that’s not the point. When I finish my story, I feel – not necessarily better – but at least a little bit lighter. Like I’m not carrying the entire burden alone anymore. Maybe I just needed somebody to listen. Maybe I just needed somebody to tell me that I’m not crazy. Maybe I just needed somebody to tell me that my books haven’t gotten into my head, or that I’m imagining it all.
“Okay, let’s call the police,” he offers.
“What can they do?” I push back. “I don’t even know who it is. He hasn’t done anything that would warrant them interrogating him.”
He purses his lips. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“I don’t even know why I came here and dumped this all over you,” I tell him. “I mean, I know you can’t really do anything about it –”
“No, but we can certainly put our heads together and see if there’s a solution to be had,” he ponders. “Besides, I’m your big brother. You need to tell me these things.”
“I don’t know what to do. I – I’m scared, Peter,” I begrudgingly admit. “As bad as it kills me to say, this guy has me rattled.”
“And you should be,” he chides. “You don’t want to take shit like this too lightly, sis.”
“I know. That’s why I came to you with this,” I explain. “I thought if anybody would have the first clue what to do, it would be you.”
He rubs his chin and I can see his mind spinning. I briefly think about going to the police but dismiss it. Yeah, maybe I can convince somebody to look into this for me, but the truth is, I can’t even prove the guy is stalking me yet. He’s been a face in the crowd twice and although he certainly seemed like he was following me today, I can’t prove it.
Nor can I even provide them with a real accurate description of what the guy looks like, since I haven’t had a clear view of his face yet. I imagine my brother is going through the same rational and logical list in his head. And he’s hopefully coming to the same conclusion I am – that I’d have nothing tangible to offer the cops. Might as well ask them to put an APB out on Casper.
“I think it’s time you had some security,” Peter finally blurts out.
“You mean like a bodyguard?”
He shrugs. “Well, yeah. Basically.”
Not the answer I thought he’d come up with, but interesting. It’s not like I have any better ideas, though. Still, I can’t quite stifle the laugh at the thought of me rolling into a book signing with a couple of bodyguards at my back like I’m some A-list celebrity or something.
“How much of a diva am I going to look like if I show up with a bodyguard in tow?” I ask him.
Peter doesn’t even crack a smile. “I don’t care how it looks. All that matters to me is that you’re safe. That you’re alive.”
My laughter quickly tapers off as I look at my brother’s stern expression. “I don’t know. I mean, security would be expensive and –”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“How can I not?”
“Because I told you not to worry about it,” Peter leans close and looks me in the eye. “I know a guy who can handle this.”
“You know a guy, huh?”
Peter nods. “Sure do. He’s an old friend of mine. He’ll do me a solid.”
We sit in silence for a long moment, each of us seeming to be weighing out the pros and cons of having a security detail. Or at least, I am. The very idea seems kind of ridiculous to me and I know the optics of it would be horrible. I can’t even begin to imagine the hissy fit Maura would have if I rolled in with a couple of hulking men by my side. She always wants me to project an aura of confidence. Of independence. At all times. I think having a couple of men escorting me around everywhere might undermine that image.
“Your safety is all I care about,” Peter says.
“Do you really think it’s necessary?”
He nods. “From what you’ve said, I think it is. If nothing else, it will make me feel better knowing somebody has your back, sis.”
I sigh and pick at the imaginary lint on my yoga pants. I’m still turning it over and over in my mind. The last thing I want is for people to think I’m some sort of prima donna who thinks so much of herself that I need bodyguards at this fledgling stage of my career. On the other hand, I really don’t want to be kidnapped, strapped to a bed, and hobbled by a freaking headcase wielding a sledgehammer, eithe
r.
“Do it for me,” Peter urges. “If for no other reason, then do it for my peace of mind.”
I stare into his eyes for a long moment and see the earnestness in his face. He’s worried about me. Hell, I’m worried about me too. But if I’m being honest, I’m a slightly more worried about how it’s going to look if I show up with bodyguards since I’m such a new face in the writing world. I can’t imagine there won’t be people questioning whether or not I think too highly of myself.
Like it or not, managing people’s perception of you is a big part of this game. A big part of this life. When you’re a public personality – or are maybe on your way to being one – every last detail of what you write, what you say, and what you do is scrutinized. It’s open season on anybody in the public eye, and every last detail is fair game and is picked apart – it can and will be used against you.
And even though I’m only tangentially in the public eye right now, it’s something I still have to consider. Something I still have to worry about.
“Come on sis, do this for me.”
I hear Peter’s voice, but I see Maura’s face in my mind. If I do something like this without running it by her, she’ll murder me. She is working so hard to carefully craft and construct my image that she has to approve every last detail. And this is a pretty big detail – one I don’t think I can afford to not run by her first.
Besides, what has the guy really done? Maybe I’m overreacting to it. It’s startling and sort of scary, sure. But maybe, he just wants an autograph or something and has some sort of social anxiety that prevents him from speaking to me in a normal way. That might explain why he just kind of hangs around the fringes and doesn’t really approach me. Right? That could totally explain it.
“Felicity, please,” my brother presses.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Peter. I can’t do that.”
“Felicity –”
I take his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “It’ll be fine. I promise. Everything will be okay. This guy is probably just somebody with a social disorder or something.”
“Yeah, that’s not helping ease my mind.”
“If anything, I’m probably overreacting,” I try to reassure him.
His smile is tight, and he’s wearing an expression of open skepticism I can’t quite blame him for. I’m not even entirely convinced by what I’m saying. But then, I have to worry about things he doesn’t. No, it will be okay. This is the right road to take.
Isn’t it?
Knox
“I’m telling you, I wish these new leagues were around when I graduated,” Peter muses. “Maybe it’s not the NFL but still – it’s pro ball.”
“I would have signed you,” I tell him.
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t need a big, slow safety who can’t defend the deep ball?”
Peter laughs and gives me the finger. I take a pull of my beer, sitting back in the booth. Peter and I are having a beer at our local bar, blowing off a little steam after a long week. Well, long for Peter, anyway. I didn’t do anything too strenuous.
We’re sitting in a bar called Pennywhistle’s. It’s been an institution in this neighborhood for decades. The Penny, as we call it, is known for its great craft brews and for being a mellow, low key place where you can sit and have a quiet drink. The interior is done in dark tones that give the place a smaller, more intimate vibe. This place never has live bands or a rowdy, drunk crowd you have to deal with, which is nice.
“I never had trouble defending the deep ball,” Peter informs me.
“Sure you did. I seem to recall seeing you play a game against Maryland and they burned you over the top for what, four touchdowns that game?” I remined him.
“Three,” he corrects me. “And in my defense, I was playing with a bum hamstring that game.”
“Excuses, excuses,” I laugh.
I revel in the camaraderie between us. It’s something I don’t seem to get enough of these days. Not since real life intervened and scattered the Five Amigos to the wind. We all still keep in touch, but it’s not the same as when we were all young, spending all of our time together.
I miss that. I love Haley and we have a sense of camaraderie all our own, but it’s different. I’m not saying it’s somehow worse or inferior – it’s just different.
Back in the Corps, I was stationed at Naval Base Kitsap, and once I rotated out, I ended up staying in Washington. With my father dead, there was nothing for me back in New York. I thought new surroundings would fuel the fresh start I felt I needed. Besides, having been in the area for a few years, I liked it and decided to stick around.
It wasn’t long after I settled in that I found out that my old college buddy Peter lived in the area too. Even though he isn’t one of my original Five Amigos, he’s a damn good friend and always a pleasure to hang out with. With his NFL dreams dead, he came home and opened up his practice. Ever since then, we’ve gotten together as often as possible – which unfortunately, isn’t all that often.
When we get together, though, it’s always a good time. In some ways, it feels like college all over again – lots of laughs and lots of fun. I get some of that sense of camaraderie I’ve been missing. But it’s clear that things have changed with time. We’re not the same sophomoric and foolish jerks we were back then. Well – Peter’s not. He’s become a highly respected therapist and pillar of the community.
“So, what in the hell made you decide to buy a team?” Peter questions.
I shrug. “I love football. You know that.”
“I never knew you loved it enough to buy a whole damn franchise.”
I chuckle. “What can I say? When I love something, I go all in on it.”
“You haven’t changed,” Peter laughs. “Life is all about having fun.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Not if you can afford it,” he says.
“Yeah well, last I checked, you weren’t doing so bad yourself.”
Peter takes a long pull of his beer then smirks at me. “I won’t be buying a franchise anytime soon. I’m not sure I can even afford season seats to your games.”
That makes me laugh. “I haven’t seen your portfolio, but I’m pretty sure you’re not going to be filing for food stamps anytime soon,” I observe. “Remember, I’ve seen what you drive. And let’s not overlook your thousand-dollar suit or that watch on your wrist – that thing can feed a family of four for about a year.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Peter waves me off. “I may have splurged a bit.”
“Good for you, man,” I tell him. “You deserve it.”
He really does. Peter didn’t grow up with a lot, and he’s worked hard for everything he has. Life has kicked him in the balls more times than I can count and yet, time and time again he’s gotten back up, dusted himself off, and has gotten on with it.
Peter is one of the most resilient people I know, and it’s one of the things I admire most about him. There aren’t many people in this world I admire but given everything he’s had to overcome in his life – and succeed despite less than optimal circumstances – Peter is one of them.
“So, when am I getting an invite to sit in the owner’s box for a game?”
“You’ve got a standing invitation, brother,” I assure him.
“I’m gonna hold you to that.”
“Please do,” I drain the last of my beer and set the mug down. “So, what’s going on in your world? Seeing anybody?”
Peter’s smile is soft and enigmatic. “We’re not seeing each other, but I’ve got a date tomorrow night.”
“Yeah? Spill it.”
“It’s all Felicity’s doing,” he admits. “She’s the one who set the wheels in motion.”
“From what you’ve told me, that sounds like something your sister would do.”
I’ve never met his sister, but he talks about her all the time. Always has. Even back in college, he would go on and on about her. Felicity made honor roll. Felicity is ou
t on her first date. Felicity this. Felicity that. He’s told me so much about her, I feel like I know her personally. The pride he has in her is more than obvious, and I think he’s everything a big brother should be.
I know if I’d ever had a big brother, I would have wanted him to be just like Peter. Or for that matter, I would have wanted to be like Peter if I’d had a younger brother. But as an only child, I never had the opportunity.
“So, tell me about this woman,” I prompt.
The grin on his face is irrepressible. “Her name’s Tracy. Blonde, blue-eyed, and gorgeous,” he says. “Smart as a whip and a very well-rounded, cultured woman.”
“I like my women well rounded too.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me, grinning like a fool. “Different kind of well rounded.”
“Yeah, probably,” I confess. “Where are you taking her?”
“There are a couple of new exhibits down at the Museum of Pop Culture that sound interesting,” he notes. “I thought we’d go to dinner and check it out.”
“A museum? On a first date?”
“My first idea was to pull a Knox Vaughn, book an expensive hotel room, and expose her to ten different flavors of degeneracy. But I thought that might be a little forward.”
I laugh. “There are actually fifteen different flavors,” I advise. “And there’s nothing wrong with being direct and to the point.”
“There is if I want there to be a second date.”
Peter drains the last of his beer. I signal the waitress for another round, then turn back to Peter.
“Do you want there to be a second date?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. It’s early yet,” he confides. “There’s a world of difference between spending three hours talking on the phone and spending three hours together in person.”
“You’ve spent three hours on the phone with her?”
Peter nods. “Every night for the last few days.”
I whistle low. “I’ll say this – you’re committed.”
