Page 11 of Wicked Lies Grow Wildflowers
CHAPTER NINE
MAEREN
After my showing withXander,I went back to my apartment to see the wilting flowers still sitting at my door. Assuming no one would miss three discarded carnations, I brought them inside and put them in water before plopping onto my couch to collect my thoughtsagain.
Brain scrambling is becoming a common theme wherever Xander is concerned. I still can’t believe I didn’t piece together who he was on my own. But then again, why would an asshole who I had a ten second interaction with seek me out not once buttwice?Especially when he initially seemed so disgusted by my mere existence.
I should feel happy to finally have a name for my mystery man, but instead I feel a little heartbroken. The awe and mystique from the unknown is gone now that I have a face to my dance partner. And, of course, it would be my luck that he’s the same man from the bathroom and a verifiable dick.
Just. My. Luck.
I can’t have anything nice. Not that Iwantedthere to possibly be anything between us, but it was a welcome change to have a little fun in my otherwise mundane life. I should be happyit ended before it began. I don’t need anyone getting close to me with my family drama and all—well, I guess it’s just mommy drama, but she’s all the family I have left. I don’t have room in my life for anyone else, she makes sure of that.
I realize I still haven’t heard from mommy dearest and my days have been peacefully quiet.
I check my phone to make sure I didn’t miss any texts or calls, but all I see are the lovely messages she left me two weeks ago. It’s been radio silence since then. Maybe she decided to simply leave me be. Unlikely though, as she doesn’t know how to let anything rest. I shouldn’t worry about her at all, she doesn’t deserve a second of my time. But she’s my mother and no matter how poorly she treats me, I’ll always wish her the best and there will always be one tendril of hope linking my heart to hers. An unfortunate biological reaction.
I blink away the mist in my eyes, not wanting to get too sentimental when it only ever ends in heartache. Closing our messages and locking my phone, I go to my room, knowing just what I need.
Gracie is cuddled up at the foot of my bed and I give her a few pats before stripping out of my work attire and slipping on some black leggings, a sports bra, and my favorite running sweatshirt. I tie my running shoes and throw my hair into a braid—I hate running with a swinging ponytail, especially when it starts to stick to my neck. Talk about sensory overload. I pop in my earbuds and head out to my usual five mile loop through town.
Running is the one thing I do solely for myself. I love pushing my mind and body to work beyond their comfort, the clarity it brings, the steady breaths I take to keep my pace consistent. And I really love the post-run endorphin rush that makes all my problems float away and leaves me on top of the world. I picked this hobby up when I was a preteen because my mom stopped letting me participate in organized sports. Apparently takingme to and from practice, let alone attending any games, was too much work for her. Running was the one thing I could do without needing to depend on her and I could easily slip in and out for a half hour to get a couple miles in without her noticing. I haven’t stopped running since, and it’s definitely helped keep me in shape as an adult, which is great because I’m quite lazy otherwise; you wouldn't see me in a dance or yoga class if my life depended on it.
When I hit the two mile mark, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge. I have the oddest sense of being watched. I can feel a dozen eyes all over me, but a quick glance around shows that I’m alone. I fight to convince myself that it’s simply a random bout of paranoia as I continue on to the second half of my loop. The eerie sensation remains despite my best efforts to ease my mind, and I chance a few glances behind me, just in case. I listen to too many true crime podcasts to not heed my body’s warning and suddenly wish I would have brought the mace that I keep on my keychain.
It’s only five-thirty in the evening and there’s plenty of light left and I have no real reason to be spooked. But beneath my brain’s rationality, my skin is crawling with the sensation of someone watching me. I pick up my pace and race back home to be safe, finishing at just over thirty-six minutes for time. Not bad at all.
I brace my arms over my head outside of my apartment building, slowing my breathing and bringing my heart rate down. I spin in a slow circle, scanning my surroundings to make sure I wasn’t followed home by anyone; better safe than sorry, even if it’s likely overkill. This part of town could definitely be worse, and I’ve never had more than a cat call or two happen on a run, but I’m still paranoid. And like I said—I’m a true crime junkie. Victims are usually those who blindly trust in the falseillusion of safety, but I’ve lived in fight or flight mode for so long that I don’t even know what safety feels like anymore.
The air immediately feels off as I enter my apartment. Something just doesn’t feel quite right in here. I quietly walk through each room, not daring to breathe too loudly as I check every corner, expecting someone to jump out at me. Of course, no one would be inside, that’s crazy. I am absolutely delusional. The only person who would’ve come over is Sage, and she never shows up unannounced.
I enter my room last and find Gracie on the bed where I left her. My bedroom looks mostly normal, except my curtains are open, and I’m sure when I left they were closed. That would be impossible though. I’m just worked up from my run and I should probably lay off the podcasts and YouTube videos I’ve been watching. I think my paranoia is starting to get out of hand.
The followingweek passes by and nothing unusual happens to me again. Still, I make sure to lock my door and take my mace with me on each run out of extra precaution. I had no desire to go out again last weekend after everything that happened, but Sage has been blowing up my phone since she knows I have this weekend off. I don’t know how she has it in her to party so much—she works long hours as a cosmetologist and if I was standing for work all day, everyday, you wouldn’t get me off my couch at the end of a long shift. I’d melt into the cushions, never to move again.
The guilt of ignoring her wins. I finally check the ten unread messages. I don’tmeanto ignore her, but sometimes the effort to reply feels like it's too much. I’m like that with everyone; themental energy needed to form a response is just overwhelming and I’ll look at a message and forget to reply. And then when I remember, it's been an awkward amount of time and it feels too weird to respond. But Sage understands. That’s why she’s my only remaining friend. Our relationship is low maintenance, for the most part, and she’s always there for me. Which is why, on occasion—and a lot more frequently as of late—I humor her by going out.
5:01 pm: Mae, I know you’re off work this weekend! Do you wanna go out?
5:03 pm: We don’t have to go out, I just haven’t seen you in a week and I miss you!
5:07 pm: Oooh we could do a movie night?!
5:07 pm: I can bring wine!!!
5:07 pm: We can order takeout.
5:08 pm: My place or yours, doesn’t matter.
5:15 pm: Don’t keep a lady waiting or I’ll blow up your phone even more.
5:20 pm: MAEREN!
5:23 pm: You have a half hour before I call you non stop until you answer.
5:30 pm: Earth to Maeren.
My phone starts to ring as my eyes scan the last message and a smiling selfie of me and Sage taken a year ago pops up on my screen. I need to turn my read receipts off so she can’t tell when I’ve opened a message. Rolling my eyes, I answer, “Hey Sage, I read yourtenincessant messages. I’ll take you up on your offer to bring wine. But no scary movies! Rom-coms only.”
