Page 10 of Love at First Sighting
There have been countless theories and words said about me over the past twenty-four hours, but not one of them has been “Are you okay?” or “I believe you.”
Well, of course, in my masses of followers, I do still have some supporters, but @momofcaydenjade43 in Indiana isn’t going to makethatmuch difference in how safe and sane I feel. There is no one in my immediate real life who cares.
Worst of all, my mother, the one person who is programmed to love me, has been giving statements to the press, noting I’ve always “had a flare for the dramatic.” Wannabe magician wonder Alaka-Sam shared a repost of my video with aPraying for El as I Wait Backstage for Tonight’s Show—Tix Still Available!caption, with a link to buy tickets to his magic show. Bex, meanwhile, continues to share “Keep Calm and Carry On” graphics she finds on Pinterest and clips of Winston Churchill’s speeches from World War II.
The internet serves as a full judge, jury, and executioner, and my sentence is clear: I’m either crazy and canceled or an attention whore and canceled. There are a couple of outliers who think I’m participating in some new alternate-reality game and are eagerly waiting for the next episode.
I wish this were a game.
I decide it’s time to face the music. The silence is nice. There’s no one yelling my name, no one demanding anything from me. No Bex shouting through my door to ask if I’m still off my rocker.
I’m within feet of my car when I sense I might not be alone. I feel eyes tracking me, and panic surges up my spine. The paparazzi can’t keep quiet like this. They can hardly take two steps without flashing a camera or falling out of a bush.
I stop and look around, but don’t see or hearanything—just the flickering fluorescents above me and the rush of cars on the street. I’m the only one parked on this level. Shit. I steady my breathing and prepare to finish my trek to the car.
“ARIEL MARTIN!” a male voice shouts. It’s panicked, desperate, and there’s a crack at the end of my name. It echoes and reverberates, but there’s onlyoneof him. No gaggle of paparazzi in tow. “EL!”
I don’t turn around to give my follower the time of day, just scurry to my car and my tinted windows.
“I’m not her!” I say back. “Bye!”
“No, no, no! El! I just need a minute of your time!”
I groan, and, of course, this is the moment when my auto-unlock key fob refuses to sync and allow me a speedy getaway. I scramble through my purse to find it, but the man’s footsteps are getting closer and he’s picked up speed. There are still no camera flashes, though.
Maybe I got the world’s most persistent time-share salesman.
Finally, I grab my keys and unlock the door.
“Hey! Don’t go! Please?”
Please?Oh dear.
As I open the door, he sneaks around the front of the car to reach me. I fling the door wide open, and it collideshardwith his body. He lets out a sad moan and a humiliated “ow” as he hits the ground and reaches for the hat I’ve knocked off his head.
“Please, please, please don’t leave yet. I need to talk to you! It’s important!”
I look down at my pursuer for the first time. As he climbs back to his feet, I notice he’s wearing a black suit, with the jacket hanging open to reveal a crisp white button-down, a tie, and…a pair of suspenders? Does he think this is 1950? His face is shielded by shadows and a black fedora.
Is…this the Neighborhood Watch logo in the flesh?
A veryhandsomeNeighborhood Watch logo.
His eyes are a steely blue and youthful. There’s no hard, determined stare to them, and he looks like a deer in headlights. I examine his strong brows and soft nose, full lips and sharp, clean-shaven jaw. His hat covered a head of thick dirty blond hair and a strand falls across his forehead. It draws my gaze to an aged, curved scar framing his right eye, exactly where I apply my highlighter each morning.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, lowering his voice. “I promise. I just need to talk to you.”
His voice carries a tone of desperation and warmth I haven’t heard in a long time. He’s not chastising me (yet) or coming at me with snide accusations (yet), so perhaps there’s some merit in listening. But I’ll be smart about it first.
I reach into my purse and grasp my branded pepper spray while I remember what I learned from my collab with a women’s self-defense class. The instructor was afraid of me because I have incredibly sharp elbows. I remember that shoutinghelp!will yield no help, because people are self-centered fucks, and to go for the balls when in doubt.
“There’s a link for business inquiries in my bio!” I tell him.
He watches me with deep confusion and mouthswhat?to himself.
“I’ve been followed around left and right, called every name in the book. You better have something good to say andfast.Or I’ll…”
“Oh god, please don’t pepper spray me. This is as close as I’ll come,” he pleads, and holds his hands out in front of him. “I swear.”
