My heart drops.
I glance back at my bathroom and my breath hitches.
I didn’t turn that light on.
Also, the window. I turn my head and look at the indigo sky crystal clear through my now closed window.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
The window was open and now it was shut. No wonder I was sweating underneath my blanket. I’m stiff with fear, knowing there are a lot of things that can be explained away when you’re this exhausted and toying with grief, but not this. Not cards being carefully placed back in their box or the light being turned on or me suddenly having a blanket over me or the window closing by itself.
I’m breathing heavily then, the terror taking over. He’s here. I know he’s here. Or he was. I try to figure out what to do — should I act as if I’m still asleep? Get up and run out the door? Hide in the closet? — when I hear something in the kitchen. I stuff the blanket in my mouth to keep from screaming. I reach around me for anything that can be considered a weapon and spot a vase on my nightstand. As quietly as I can, I get up and walk toward it, wrapping my hand around the flowers Simon got me last week.
“Oh. You’re up.”
I pause mid-grab and startle and I hear Simon rush to my side, his hands on my arms.
“Babe. What? Are you okay?”
“Simon,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “You scared the shit out of me. Why are you here?” My eyes shoot toward the living room and my front door. “How’d you get in?”
He puts distance between us and studies me, his hands up in surrender.
“I — I’m so sorry. I got worried when you weren’t answering your texts because I knew you drove home in this weather, so I stopped by to check on you, only to find your front door unlocked and you asleep on the floor.” He motions behind him, where my blanket still rests. A small smile gathers on his face.
“I didn’t know you’re into tarot.”
“I’m not.” My voice is curt. I know it and I can’t stop it. Simon blinks in shock and backs away even more.
“Juniper—”
I close my eyes and sigh, my hand flying up to my forehead to massage it. “I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m sorry.” I motion toward the tarot deck. “Those are — were — my mom’s. I was just looking through them.” I clear my throat and throw him a half smile.
“I’m glad you’re here. I just—I don’t remember falling asleep and was more than a little confused and concerned when I woke up in a completely different state. Thanks for taking care of me — shutting the window, putting the blanket on me — all that.”
He nods, still studying me. He pulls something from his back pocket and passes it to me. It’s an envelope — sealed.
“What’s this?”
“I don’t know. It was on your front door when I got here.” He studies me for a moment. “Babe, who is giving you these notes? Do I need to be concerned?”
I roll my eyes as I pull the paper out of the envelope and pretend to read. “It’s a student playing a joke. A horrible joke, but a joke. I’ll talk to his advisor after the break.” I place the envelope and note on the bed and turn my attention to Simon, summoning as much sunshine as possible.
He frowns for a beat, countering the brightness of my own features, before his eyes gravitate toward the window. “You had the window open? In this storm?”
I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing I have avoided the inevitablity of Simon finding out the extent of what’s happening for one more day.
“I did — it wasn’t that bad at first. There was just a slight breeze but the waves more than made up for it. Thank you — again.”
He leaves the room for a moment, and I hear him rustling around the kitchen.
“I brought pho over,” he calls from the other room and I fight a smile — grateful for how he knows me. My attention turns toward the envelope and I start to open it, pulling the piece of paper out as Simon walks in with a piping bowl of broth and beef planks. I’m salivating I’m so hungry. I grab the bowl and turn to put it on my nightstand, the note placed underneath it.
I sigh, my hands coming up to my face again. He wraps his hands around my wrists and pulls them down so he can see my face, pushing the tendrils of hair that have fallen from my bun behind my ear.
“You really are exhausted, aren’t you?” he whispers. I lean into him, forgetting everything for a moment. I breathe in his scent and embrace the comfort of knowing someone is here with me.
“Today was a day,” I muttered.
He grunts in agreement. “I would say. You don’t even remember shutting the window or putting a blanket on yourself before falling asleep?” He chuckles to himself and I stiffen. He kisses the top of my head and tries to keep the laughter from his words. “Babe. It’s fine. You’ve seen how I get before presenting to potential angel investors — I get almost delirious with exhaustion. You just need some sleep.”
I squeeze him tight, the fear permeating every cell in my body. Only then do I glance down at the envelope and recognize the handwriting and realize I was right. My eyes move to the note and I quickly read the words.
You’ll never know how tempting you were — alone, asleep, unaware.
Don’t worry. One day, you’ll feel the warmth of my skin.
I bite my tongue to keep from screaming and cling to Simon with a little more ferocity.
He was here.
21
I can’t stop shaking. I convince Simon it’s because I’m so cold. It’s not entirely a lie. The snowstorm outside has wormed its way into the tiny cottage.
“I don’t doubt it! I can’t believe you had that window open…” he shakes his head and I bite my lip to keep from spitting back a retort when I know he doesn’t deserve it. I watch as he makes his way toward the thermostat.
“Jesus, Juniper. It’s 60 degrees in here. You don’t even have your heat running.”
“I live off a teacher’s salary, Simon.”
“At a private school,” he quickly reminds me. I shrug and hear the heater click into gear.
“The pho is helping — thank you for bringing this.”
He nods and glances out the window.
“Do we know how long it’s going to snow?”
“I don’t know. I think I heard all weekend?” I follow his gaze and notice the way the drifts are getting taller by the minute. I’m still not used to this — seeing a veritable winter wonderland right outside my door. We don’t get snow in San Francisco, and outside of a few trips, I’ve never lived where this is normal. I’m mesmerized by the way the white crashes against the black expanse of sky.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, casually. The way he’s looking out the window has me on alert. Does he see something?
“Huh?” He turns to look at me. “Oh. Um. Nothing. Just watching the snow — it’s really come down now, huh?”
“You’re not planning on leaving tonight, are you?” I feel the way my voice shakes and I hope he doesn’t notice. I need him to stay. On top of Silas having been in my home, there’s also a real risk in him driving in this storm. I lean forward and wrap my hand around his arm.
“I have plenty of groceries. I had some delivered yesterday. Even got the last few rolls of toilet paper.” I wiggle my eyebrows and he laughs.
Good. Yes. Normal. Everything is normal.
“If it’s okay with you, I think I will?”
I nod and he leans toward me as well, our bodies magnets. He wraps my hair around his finger and lets it fall. I can feel the temperature in the room change, the atmosphere moving from one of playfulness to one of curiosity. Of want.
“You’re beautiful. You know that?”
I flinch without thinking and he rears back, his eyes wide.
“Juni?”
My skin crawls and I take a sudden breath, not prepared for the reaction. What…the fuck was that? His hands move to touch my thigh and I move my leg, worried about what might happen if his fingers touch my skin.
Normally, h
is touch moves me. I lean into it. Tonight however, the very thought of anyone touching me leaves me feeling shaky and uneven. His words, however familiar, land with a dull thud in my gut and it’s all I can do to not choke. I make an awkward face while slurping up chicken broth and mutter a thank you, side stepping the conversation by pointing to my bowl of noodles.
“Sorry. I think…I think I had a bad bite of something. It tasted sour.” I point to my bowl. “This needs a bit more heat. I’m going to grab some sriracha from the cabinet. Be right back.”
I walk down the hall and take a few deep breaths, forcing myself to keep walking. My legs are shaking though, and I can barely put one foot in front of the other.
What just happened there? Why is my heart pounding?
My hands start to shake again, causing my broth to spill over the bowl’s edges. My vision starts to blur and I reach for the counter to steady myself. I don’t know why my chest feels so tight? I can’t get enough air. My arms, suddenly 30 pound weights, have me struggling to lift my bowl to the microwave. I settle on the stove — for now — and lean forward, my head in my hands, and the tears begin to fall.
The fear rises up and I start to choke. I have no idea what’s happening to me. Simon calls from the room, asking if I’m okay.
“Fine!” I muster in between breaths.
Wait. I’ve been here before.
The familiarity slowly comes to the surface. I do know what’s happening. There’s only been one other time where I have felt this way.
My breath hitches and I bite back a sob. I am not going there today. I won’t. The grief threatens to suffocate me and I shake my head.
Stop.
I can’t let this win. I can’t. Not now — not when I’ve come this far. But it’s too late. The memories are here before I can push them away.
I’m in our room, cleaning.
I clean when I’m upset, and I’m pissed. I’ve taken every single book off the wall of shelves and am reordering them by color. I know this will freak out Lavender, and it’s the only thing I can think of to shake her from being such a selfish bitch.
She’s not the only one who can be impulsive.
“How’s this for chaotic energy, Lavender fucking Reese?!” I whisper as I tear a page from one of her school books she left in my room.
I sniff, recognizing it’s only the title page — the one with PROPERTY OF BELLVIEW HIGH stamped in black ink. We don’t even go to Bellview, but that’s not the point.
The point is chaotic, impulsive, spontaneous energy.
Isn’t that what she told me earlier, her face bright with laughter?
“You’re such a bore, Juniper. You should have some fun every once in a while.”
She’s gone now. Told me Thad wanted to hang out and do something special. I shake my head, hoping to free images of her stuck in some cellar or dirty basement. What kind of name is Thad. Doesn’t she remember what Mom told us about men and names? This guy sounds like the worst kind of character in the cheesiest rom-com. Like that guy who was a reality show star but also had an STI. Or the one who spit in girls’ Coke and was called annoying but really ended up being a rapist.
I let out a groan and throw a book across the room. I pause. That was my book. Apparently I woke up this morning and chose literary violence. I sigh and walk to pick it up, straightening out the edges bent in the display of anxiety.
I don’t trust him. She left earlier, despite me telling her she shouldn’t. I know Thad is bad news, and I have the texts asking if I’d be interested in a threesome to prove it. I know she won’t listen though, and she asked me to cover for her tonight so I’m pissed.
But I’m not angry with her. Not really.
I’m pissed at myself for telling her I would keep Mom from knowing. I’m pissed that I can’t grow a fucking backbone and tell her who Thad really is — regardless of her heart breaking.
I throw a copy of Pretty Little Liars in the trash. One of her favorites.
Serves her right, I think. And then I roll my eyes because of course I can’t throw a book away. I walk over to the trash and pull it out, throwing it on her bed in bent disarray.
I hear a knock on the door and I groan. I know it’s Mom. I know she hears me banging around in here and is wondering why I’m mad. I know she’ll try her hardest to get me to talk.
“Come in,” I mutter loud enough for her to hear.
She opens the door and leans against the doorframe. Her crystal blue eyes find my own and she watches me for a moment before speaking.
“Hey, Juni. It’s kinda late. Whatcha doin’?”
I toss books aside on my bed and shove one with a red spine against another one that’s burgundy.
ROY G BIV, I think to myself again and again. It’s centering. Distracts me from Lavender and her poor life choices. For a brief moment, I wish she was here next to me, her eye for design helping me pin point the perfect rainbow ombre.
I huff, frustrated that even now — even when I am so bloody upset with her — I still recognize her absence.
I glance at my mom, still waiting by the door.
“I’m reorganizing.”
She pushes herself off the frame and walks in, moving some books aside so she can sit on my bed.
“I see that.” She waits a beat. “Wanna talk?”
I shake my head, wiping my eyes with my forearm.
I will not break.
I may be pissed, but I’m not a rat. And I definitely am not going to cry over this.
“Where’s Lavender?”
“Out.”
“Out?”
I sigh.
“She went to the movies with some friends. I had to study for a test tomorrow, so I stayed home.”
She’s silent.
“So…you’re reorganizing your books because….”
“…because I want to.”
“Juniper.”
“Mom.” I can hear the frustration in my voice and I can’t help it. She knows I clean when I’m mad, and she knows I’m reorganizing for some reason and that I’m not talking about it, so why is she still in here wanting to talk about it.
I hear her stand and a few books tumble to the ground from the movement. She walks up behind me and places her arms around my shoulders, clasping her hands in front of me. I reach up and grab her wrist out of habit. She smells like spice. Earthy. Floral. It’s the scent of my childhood. She starts swaying and I follow, closing my eyes to the rhythm. I gotta hand it to her. She’s got the maternal instincts of a saint.
“I was thinking tonight would be a really good night for ice cream sundaes and Dirty Dancing.” She squeezes me a bit in a hug. “What do you think?”
I let out a breath. That sounds divine.
A tiny glimmer of hope.
“Do we even have the stuff to make sundaes?”
She shrugs.
“I can go get them.”
I turn around then, looking at her. I really want this. But I also don’t want to be that girl who needs her mom to make midnight trips in order to make her feel better.
But I do want it.
“Mom. It’s like 10:30.”
She smiles, a coy look taking over her features.
“It is. And the grocery store is open 24 hours.”
She raises an eyebrow in question.
I start laughing.
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah let’s do it.”
She claps her hands and does a little dance and I roll my eyes because ohmigod please don’t dance like that, you’re like 40 years old.
She really laughs then, and we walk down the stairs and into her room where she grabs her keys.
“I’ll have my cell phone if you need anything.”
As she passes me, she leans over and kisses me, pulling me close.
“You’re my shining Star, Juni. I’ll be right back.”
They were the last words she ever spoke to me.
An hour and a half later, my heart rate starts picking up a staccato beat, the worry
increasing by the minute. I pace around our house, shaking my arms because they feel like lead, telling myself that it’s okay, she’s okay, there’s probably a logical reason it’s taking this long.
Two hours later, I start calling her cell phone over and over and over again only to get voicemail every time.
And three hours later, when the lights start flashing in front of our house and someone knocks on the door, I already know by the way my chest refuses to let any air in my lungs that whatever is outside waiting for me is all my fault.
If I hadn’t been so angry. If I would have just pretended to be okay for one fucking minute, Mom wouldn’t have felt the need to leave.
She would still be with us.
It’s why I stayed in my room for so long — locked away from everyone else. I couldn’t bear to face Lavender knowing what I did. I didn’t even know she went to Mexico until she got back, tan and pretending like everything was okay.
It took her three weeks to notice the books strewn all over my floor, the half-finished rainbow on my shelves.
Only then did she ask if I was okay.
Only then did I make a promise to myself to never ever mention what happened that night.
Lavender can’t know Mom only left the house because she was trying to make me feel better.
So I stuff the memories deep and I keep the secret close so only I know just how much I fucked up our lives.
Until now.
Now, I am in full-blown freak-out mode: chest heaving, eyes closed, hands clenched in fists and half moons digging into my palms.
It can’t happen this way. Simon can’t see me this way. He’ll ask too many questions. I can’t — just stop. Stop. Fucking STOP.
It’s official. A teenager is legitimately taking away my sanity, placing me back in the throes of high school hell where my own trauma exploded. Why didn’t I think about this before becoming a teacher, for Christ’s sake. How did I think forming the minds of these humans who are the same age as me when I experienced my deepest loss would be the way to go?
Curious Obsession Page 16
