Page 18 of For Fillies and Monsters

We continue to ride in silence, the old log house coming into view. It was once shiny with sealant and dark green trim on the roof and windows. There was a green-painted swing that swayed in the summer breeze, and flower gardens that lined the pale gravel walkway to the door.

Now, the wooden logs are faded and cracking from years of moisture and lack of upkeep, and the green paint is peeling away in more places than it isn’t. The swing had broken the first night I sat on it, and now it sits forgotten on the rotting deck, sad and faded, too.

It’s all falling apart, just like everything else in my life.

SIX

STETSON

March 17th, 2024

We stepinto the cool interior of the house, dusting off red sand as we go, shimmying as it rubs and scrapes against places that I’m sure I’ve never had to reach and clean before. I sigh, grateful the air conditioning works in this dump, the one thing not falling apart in this tomb of a house.

I stop mid-shake, the hairs on my arms and neck coming to attention. It’s thatheatagain. Something feels wrong,really wrong, like someone is watching me or creeping up on me. Maybe a normal person could brush off the tiny pebbling of their skin, or the small flutter in their stomach. But I can’t, not when that instinct is the only reason I am still alive.

I peer into the dimly lit entryway, shucking my boots with a fling of my feet. A puff of red sand bursts in the hazy streams of sunlight, little pebbles dinging against the washer.

“Geez, bitch, I was kidding about racing you to the shower. I can wait, although, it is rude to insist on going before your houseguests,” Dale chides as she hops on one foot, trying to get her second boot off. I storm into the kitchen, ignoring her, not sure what I will find, or what I will do when I find it.

It is a beautiful kitchen and has always been my favoriteroom in the house—not just because of its large floor-to-ceiling windows facing the field side, where the most beautiful morning sunshine trickles in. Not only because of the cabinets, all dark-stained wood, with brass knobs, filled with western plates and cutlery. It isn’t just the brass sink sunken into the island, a copper cooking hood over the stove, or even the white and brown speckled quartz countertop faded into a small horse-printed tile border that my mother hand-picked and installed herself.

It had been my mother’s favorite room in the house, too—the only room I have any positive memories with her.

It is a chef’s dream, and when I was little, that’s what I wanted to be. I loved to cook, still do. It is one way I can show people my appreciation or care for them. It is the one way I know how to show it to myself.

And now, sitting in the middle of that beautiful island I love so much, is a small glass vase, a vase my mother used to love, with tiny hand-painted horseshoes, filled with every Texas wildflower I can imagine—bluebonnets, cornflowers, daisies, even purple thistle heads.

I suck in a breath, my mind racing with possibilities and my eyes noting every detail. I hadn’t picked them. Which means someone else had.

“What the fuck? You act like someone is chasing you!” Dale screeches as she storms into the kitchen. She catches sight of the flowers on the counter and stops, a feline grin taking over her face.

“You bitch. Who the hell did you get flowers from? Nathan?” Dale is running for the vase before I can stop her. There’s a little brown card tucked in with the blossoms and she swipes it.

“I couldn’t find poppies, so I picked these instead.” Dale reads the card aloud, her voice teasing. But there’s nothingfunny happening, no joke to find the punch line for. No one knows I like poppies, no one but my mother. I stopped buying them when I moved away. I stopped claiming them as my favorite when someone asked.

I have a single tattoo, a small line-drawn poppy on my ribs, that I got when I turned twenty-one. But I’ve never shown it off, and I never told another soul what it means.

My hands are clammy as my brain races to find a reasonable explanation. Nathan would never, at least not the man I met the other night. He is too self-absorbed to buy me flowers. And to bring them inside and put them in a vase for me?There’s no way.Not to mention the note—the fucking note.

“P.S. If I ever see you reaching for a door handle again, I will spank you raw with my belt.” Dale’s words come out as a breath, her eyes bugging from her small, rounded face.

That snaps me out of my spiraling trance, and I stomp over, snatching the note.

“It does not say that!” My heart is pounding as I read over the small handwritten words. Except it does.

And it also says,See you soon.

“I feel like we should call the cops or something.” Dale worries her bottom lip between white teeth, red sand creased between her eyebrows and dusting over her top lip. Too stunned to speak or reassure her, I just stare at her. Maybe I should get a washcloth and wipe down the faint mustache of red sand on her lip.Would that be weird?Are we close enough friends to do that kind of thing yet? I know I’d want her to do it for me.

“Hello?” Dale’s small hand waves in front of my face, and my eyes snap to hers, now sparking with irritation. Fuck, I don’t want to piss her off.What if she stops being my friend after this?I don’t want to go back to having no one.

“Uh, I don’t know.” My voice sounds far off and weak to my ears.

I don’t know who could have brought the flowers, who could know that little detail about my love for poppies. It isn’t public knowledge, or even friendly knowledge, which means this is someone who knows me well.

But that’s the thing. No one knows me well.I have been alone my entire life.

“Are poppies your favorite?” Dale’s question sends my heart racing. Her face is drawn up, clearly lost in thought, trying to piece together the mystery that is my life.

---