Curious Obsession

by Elora Ramirez

  “It started when we got this new woman on the team. I hate that by the way — that I can actually point to when everything started going south and it was basically new blood.”

  I make a noise in agreement.

  “Her name is Chloe and she is actually pretty amazing. Talented — smart — can hold her own in a room full of men. Refuses to let go of her power. You know the type.” She sniffs again. “Mom would have loved her.”

  We both grow quiet again.

  “Next week is the anniversary, you know,” she whispers.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah. I know. So, Chloe?”

  My heart starts hammering a heavier beat and I breathe a few times, reminding myself I’m safe in this moment. Even still, definitely don’t want to talk about Mom’s death with Lavender.

  I can hear the thoughts running through her mind right now. My skin gets the familiar prickle only twins understand and I roll my eyes. She’s wondering why I won’t ever talk with her about Mom. Why it always ends up in a fight. There are a million reasons why this is the case, and none of them matter right now.

  “Hey. I’m fine. I just want to hear the story of Jack. Did he cheat on you?”

  “No. No, he didn’t cheat. At least not physically.” She sighs. “He broke up with me because he realized he was fascinated with Chloe and wanted to pursue what that might look like. Said they have a connection.”

  The derision in her voice is undeniable.

  “Does Chloe like him too?” I keep my voice even. It’s always a tender subject: fighting the stereotype of women being responsible for men’s bad behavior. However. I won’t ever understand someone falling into the trap of allowing another man to seduce you when you know he’s with someone else.

  She laughs then.

  “Yeah, no. No. She actually pulled me aside right after it happened so she could let me know that they were under no circumstances together.” Her voice changes, and I know she’s channeling Chloe. “We went to grab coffee once, Lavender. And that wasn’t even a date. He told me it was to talk about the WhiteWater project.”

  I groan.

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s a horrible person, Lavender.”

  “I know.”

  “You deserve better.”

  “I know.”

  We grow quiet then, each in our own thoughts. Finally, I hear her move — closer to the noise of the restaurant. “I should probably get back but I want to hear how school is going — we haven’t talked in forever.”

  “Yeah! Yeah, I know.” I sound too eager and she picks up on it immediately.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing — it’s nothing. I’m just in that season where everything is crazy. Students needing recommendation letters for college, planning the gala, prepping for spring finals — already — even though it’s not even March yet.”

  “You have to plan for finals now?”

  I hum an agreement. “Yeah. The tests have to be approved by our department head. Can’t have them be too difficult.” I can hear them now: “Make your tests too difficult, and students will fail. And when students fail, parents complain. When they complain, we lose their admissions.”

  “Eww.”

  “…Yeah.” I stretch and yawn, giving her the out she’s wanting to the conversation. “I’ll be okay, though. Just need to push through and before we know it Spring Break will be here and then summer…”

  “…And then you can come visit me!”

  “Or you can come here,” I push back.

  This is where our conversation always turns awkward. Each missing the other person like crazy, feeling as if half of their own brain is missing and out roaming the world without them. And yet, we’re both so stubborn. So unwilling to bend so the other can breathe.

  “Maybe I will.” Lavender gets quiet and I suck my lip in shock. I still have trouble believing she’d actually come to Providence to see me, but even her maybe is monumental.

  “I would love that,” I say. “Listen, I know you need to go. I don’t want to keep you. I love you.”

  “Times a million,” she answers.

  “Times a million,” I repeat. I drop the phone and stare at my lock screen when she finally disconnects. It’s a picture of us right after college, holding hands and leaning into each other while laughing at the beach.

  Lavender and Juniper.

  So different, yet so alike.

  Two sides of the same coin.

  No wonder I feel unmoored. No matter how I look at it, the truth is that my other half is missing from the equation. I breathe quick and let it out in a rush.

  My phone vibrates and I startle. Looking down, I see a message pop up on the screen.

  SIMON’S WORKING LATE TONIGHT? DO YOU NEED COMPANY?

  I turn quickly to the window, expecting to see a face staring at me. I see nothing except a dark expanse. I wrap the blanket closer around me and tap my phone to my lip, trying to figure out what I need to do next.

  DON’T BE SCARED, JUNIPER. I CAN COMFORT YOU. HE WON’T EVER KNOW.

  The text comes in and my hands start to shake. I get up then, drawing the blinds to the window and turning out the lights. I move to the bedroom, changing my mind on drawing a bath. Instead, I walk into the closet, shutting the door behind me, and change into a sweatsuit before opening the door again and crawling into my bed.

  WHY DO YOU HIDE FROM ME? IT’S NOTHING I HAVEN’T SEEN BEFORE.

  I fight to throw my phone across the room.

  SILAS. STOP. TEXTING. ME.

  My hands are shaking now and I’m nervously glancing around, trying to figure out how in the world he is watching me. The window in my room is drawn shut, the blinds closed and the curtain tight. What this means is beyond my current ability to process — and I move my hands to my face, rubbing my cheeks in nervous tension. I see the conversation bubbles pop up again and I shake my head in disbelief. I have to talk to Principal Stahl. I probably should actually go to the police at this point — right? Is that even a thing?

  I have no idea.

  I do know though that whatever happens, the likelihood of someone believing me is low. Not when there are so many stories of teachers manipulating students. Just last week a teacher in a nearby district was accused. But even more than the fear of being misunderstood, there is an irrational fear of being laughed out of my position. I could hear the questions now: “She’s scared? Of a high schooler?” Eye roll, laughter, can you imagines.

  Forgetting about the teenagers who have managed to find ways to get automatic weapons and shoot up their school.

  Forgetting the very real way teenage boys were targeted and groomed online for hate groups like the Proud Boys.

  My cell phone vibrates again and I pick it up, the glow echoing across my face. I blink a few times, making sure I read the text correctly. My blood runs cold and I feel the flush of heat enter my cheeks — a sure sign of absolute terror.

  JUNIPER, WE BOTH KNOW THAT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.

  YOU HAVE ME.

  FOREVER.

  25

  I wake up the next morning in a tangle of sheets and notice that at some point Simon came home and placed my cell phone on the charger. His hand rests on my hip and I turn toward him, feeling his embrace pull me closer into his orbit. This always happens. Even in his sleep he pulls me toward him, inching me closer and closer to where he is, holding me. I’ve never felt as confident in someone else’s love for me.

  We met by chance — in downtown Providence last year at Waterfire. I had just moved here about a month before and wanted to soak in the culture. It felt so different than what I was used to on the west coast. I didn’t have a car yet, so I set up an Uber, and Simon was the driver. At that point, his company hadn’t really taken off yet. He had to drive in order to make ends meet. He was pleasantly surprised I wasn’t a college student. I was pleasantly surprised he wasn’t a creep. He found out I was new to town, offered to show me the ropes, and we just…clicked. He called in t
he rest of his shift and we spent the evening by the river watching the fire breathers and buskers singing on the sidewalk.

  I was smitten, but after we found a karaoke bar and he sang Starboy by The Weeknd, I knew I was a goner. He knew every word and performed as if he was some hidden popstar and not a rogue Uber driver in a small-big town on the eastern coast. It was incredible. In that moment I knew how great he was — how big of a universe he dwelled in as a habit.

  I smile. To this day, that is our unofficial song. He stepped off the stage that night and I ran to him, kissing him like I had never kissed anyone in my life. He looked at me then, surprise etched across his face, his lips swollen from my touch.

  “You’re going to ruin me, aren’t you, Juniper?”

  “Maybe,” I had replied. “But I think we’re going down together.”

  Neither of us ever gave it a second thought. From that point, we were in it.

  We were in this.

  I watch him as he sleeps: calm, assured, a slight smile on his face. I take my index finger and gently trace the muscle in his forearm. I feel a sharp pain in my chest and I place my hand over my heart. I love him. I love this man and yet I can’t seem to find a way to commit fully. We still haven’t finished the conversation about him moving in with me. I’ve noticed he brings more stuff over every time he stays, and I know he’s trying to give me time to wrap my head around the idea.

  And I love the idea. I love the thought of waking up to him every morning.

  But even more than that, I have this desire to cut and run. To end everything before it all goes up in flames because that — the unexpected severing — would be devastating. This is a new feeling for me. Normally, I stay. I’m the one who is in it through thick and thin, despite toxicity or poor behavior. I settle. I root deep. I enmesh. But this? This feels dangerous.

  It feels as if I could lose big if it all fell apart.

  I don’t think I could live through another loss.

  I maneuver myself out of his arms and reach for my robe on the stand next to my bed. A lingering pinch in my gut has me rolling through my recent memory, trying to figure out where the unsettled feeling rests. It’s more than my fear of Simon. It’s deeper than that — more primal. Stretching, I glance at my phone and frown as the memory of last night’s texts and apparent snooping come back to haunt me.

  There it is.

  I have to take care of it today — him. I have to end it. I have no idea how. How do you convince an obsessive individual to focus their attention elsewhere? Is it even possible? I walk to the bathroom, turning on the soft half light in order to get ready without waking Simon. I grab a brush and rake it through my hair, noticing how more and more strands are falling out these days. I wrinkle my nose at the amount tangled in my brush.

  I’m stressed.

  I take a deep breath and place my brush on the counter, looking at myself in the mirror.

  You’re better than this, Juniper. Get it together.

  I watch myself — the grooves and wrinkles appearing around my eyes. The way my collarbones poke out from my robe. I stand there and witness. Wait. I know the answer will come because she always does. My mom had tarot cards. I have the cartography of my skin. The simple witnessing of myself and the stress and pain I recognize in my eyes pushes me to the answer I know I need. I do what I do in these moments — I break down the steps to the solution.

  I need to pull Principal Stahl into it, but I’m not convinced this will be enough. At the very least, I need to make sure he’s aware, on my side, and understands the complexities of this. I run through how the conversation might go.

  It will most likely cause confusion. We’re now in March, and this has been happening since the fall. He’ll probably ask why I hadn’t mentioned anything before and this will be easy to answer: I didn’t think anyone would believe me, and I definitely thought I was making too much of a simple crush. Teenagers are growing and learning and making mistakes all of the time. This was just a bigger mistake than normal and included a teacher. Even more, I worry about the stereotype of teacher and student relationships. Technically, since Silas is 19, it’s more complex than the standard grown-ass teacher going for a minor. Now it’s a grown-ass adult obsessing over another grown-ass adult — different legality, same flavor.

  All of this equals one big tangle of confusion that I’ve experienced in growing intensity along with the unmistakeable fear of the past month: I would not be believed, and I was making too much of a small thing.

  I allow myself to admit as I struggle to put on eyeliner without stabbing myself in the eye: this is still a ridiculous reason. I had crushes on teachers in high school. I had crushes on professors in undergrad and in my graduate program.

  I never sent them notes.

  I never ignored their perceived boundaries.

  I never broke into their house or spied on them.

  I walk into the closet and find a simple dress with pockets and step into my heels before giving myself a quick glance in the mirror we have hanging on the door. I watch myself again: notice the way my shoulders hang low and the exhaustion that rests in my eyes. I smile. I shake my head wildly, letting my hair fly around me. I slap my cheeks a bit and then look again.

  I look tired, but alive. That will do.

  Satisfied, I walk over to Simon’s side of the bed and give him a kiss before grabbing my things and heading toward the door. My phone buzzes, the light bouncing around our dark room, and I grimace, remembering the alarm I have set telling me to it’s time to leave. I run to grab it on the nightstand, stopping the vibration in my hand. I see a few missed texts from Lavender last night and laugh at her progressive fall into an inevitable hangover this morning. It’s always like this — inevitable and avoidable. She starts out hilarious and effervescent, convinced that life is beautiful and that she is the luckiest.

  Her last text, about an hour ago, is completely unintelligible, but I think I notice something about wondering why people always leave her. That’s the pattern. The sadness. I twist my lips and make a note to call her back later today. I’m just about to drop the phone in my pocket when another text comes through and my heart drops as I look at the window, making sure the blinds are still closed and the curtains drawn. There’s no light coming in from outside at all. I turn my attention to the screen and sure enough, a text is waiting for me. Frustrated, I tap my forehead with my cell phone and breathe for a moment before making my way back to the front door and pulling up the text.

  GOOD MORNING, BEAUTIFUL.

  WHAT’S IT LIKE WAKING UP TO SIMON.

  I WISH IT WERE ME.

  I CAN MAKE THAT HAPPEN, YOU KNOW.

  I CAN MAKE HIM DISAPPEAR.

  I WOULD DO IT FOR YOU.

  I stop. My veins turn into ice and I grow dizzy. I place my hand on the wall next to me for a moment before looking at the text again to make sure I read it correctly.

  Is he…is he threatening Simon? I look around me and once again, all of the windows are closed off from the area around me. How in the hell does he know what’s happening in here? How is he spying on me? I start to shake again. Does he - does he have cameras somewhere? I flinch from the thought, not willing to let it take root. I can’t think about that. That would…that would be impossible, right?

  His words are vague enough for me to fill in context clues and I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know he’s escalating. He’s following a pattern of growing intensity. This terrifies me. I look back at Simon, asleep in bed, and wonder for a brief moment if I should even go into work. Is he safe if I leave him here? Just how desperate is Silas? I decide to err on the side of Simon being a grown man and able to defend himself since I really do need to talk about this with Principal Stahl. I stand there for a little while longer, watching the man I love, and feel the splintering begin at the base of my heart.

  I know what Silas was talking about now.

  I’m on a fast-moving train and I can’t get away.

  26


  I get to the school even earlier than normal. I stay in the car for a bit, watching the sunrise. Principal Stahl isn’t here yet anyway, and so I know I have some time to burn. Inside the school, I see the darkness of the hallways and feel a chill running through my bones.

  I’m avoiding that darkness for as long as I possibly can.

  I try calling Lavender, knowing it’s time I need to talk with her about this, and ask her to call me back when she can. I text her as well, letting her know I’m okay but I need to chat as soon as possible.

  I also text Simon, asking him to let me know when he wakes up.

  “I have a question for you,” I tell him — when I don’t. I just need to know he’s okay. I will think of something later.

  I allow my thoughts to wander and I process how everything got to the point where I am actually experiencing terror. Did I miss a clue? Did I say something that encouraged him and set him off? Did I wear something in those first few weeks that made him think I was an easy target? It made no sense.

  The pink cascades across the sky and edges into yellow and orange and I know the blue is behind it. I can see it underneath, waiting, holding out for its time. It creates an ethereal glow and for the millionth time, I wish my mom was here with me. She was the one who taught me about sunrises and the beauty of beginnings when you’re faced with an ending. And that’s when I realize that was the unsettled feeling I had this morning when I woke up in Simon’s arms: an ending. And not necessarily him or me or us but a period of time slamming shut and making way for a new one. I was inevitably careening toward the end of something.

  I just wish I knew what.

  I watch the sunrise for a bit longer, hoping for an answer, but all I hear is silence.

  The hallways are eerily dark as I walk to my classroom. The sense of someone watching me hasn’t left since last night, and I look over my shoulder more than a few times before unlocking my classroom door and walking inside. Despite everything I’ve experienced over the past few weeks, for a moment, I question myself. The doubts are persistent and thick, a web clouding my judgment.