Page 13 of Wicked Lies Grow Wildflowers
XANDER
My mind hasn’t stopped thinkingabout Maeren and I can’t get it to. I’ve driven by her house twice since I revealed myself to her at the showing. I would sit in front of her apartment all day if I could—just to get a glimpse of her—but I don’t. Despite my obsessive nature, I’m notcompletelydelusional. I know I need a real way in. I have her contact information, and I could do what any normal guy who’s interested in a woman would do: call or text her.
That’s not me though. I can’t woo her with sweet words and whispered promises. I’m too cold and calloused to that. I can’t be honest about what I want with her, becauseIdon't even have that figured out yet. She clearly doesn’t know how to react to me anyways; she seemed so hot and cold with me. But, she was ambushed and caught off guard by my presence, anyone would be in a situation like that. How else was I to approach her? This way it seemed like I‘accidentally’happened to stumble upon her organically in search of a house. No harm, no foul. No hidden motives, just fate, and certainly not my own obsessive nature ensuring our paths crossed once more.
I already know she’s trouble for me, I just hope she’s worth it.
I burymyself in legitimate work to snuff out my annoyance, temporarily, at least. The day is spent answering emails, processing invoices, and working on websites. The building part is what I enjoy most about this line of work. Coding and creating is one giant puzzle and it challenges me. That’s something I appreciate about both lines of work I’m in. They’re stimulative in different ways and my brain craves the constant challenge they provide. If I don’t feed it what it wants then my cruelty breaks free, and nobody likes when that happens. People die, and I try so hard to make sure my actions are always justifiable, even if not legal.
Hours of tedious work pass with no relief. My mind is plagued by this girl. It’s been weeks since I first met Maeren and I just need to cleanse her from my system. A quick fuck is all I truly need. An hour between her legs and it’ll be over with, surely. What makes her seem so special? I could have any woman I want—so why do I want her? She couldn’t give two fucks about me and that’s part of why I crave her. She’s a challenge I need to win. I may be a bit of a masochist, but perhaps my heart craves some sadism instead, because I have a feeling nothing about her will be easy.
I search through my emails and find the thread detailing my home search before the showing I had with her. She was so cordial in our communication, but I know that was just a front she puts on for work—like the fake customer service voices they use on me at the drive through. There’s a venomous viper lurking under her professional and polished exterior. If I had to guess, the face she shows the world is nothing more than along-practiced defense mechanism. I’ll gladly raze every fucking defense she has to the ground.
I always get what I want and she will be no different. Finding her contact information attached, I grab my phone and craft a business-like text.
Me: Hello Maeren, I wanted to discuss the property I had viewed. I’m a serious buyer and would love to make an offer. Please get back to me at your earliest convenience, I would love to talk to you about moving forward. -Xander.
It’s complete bullshit. I don’t want the fucking house, but I want her, and this is how I plan to weave my way into her life. If she’s so deeply rooted in my mind then it’s time these obsessions are reciprocated. She might not want me now, but she will.
I’ll make sure of it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAEREN
When Sage left,my peace of mind followed her right out the door. She and the booze were a great distraction. They allowed me some time to pretend like the note wasn’tthatbig of a deal. Now in the harsh light of day, I’m not so sure. The two sides of my brain are at war; one half of me is trying to brush everything off as a weird coincidence and the other is freaking out and afraid something more sinister is going on. Thank you anxiety and my constant habit of questioning my own judgment.
Really, I should be thanking my mother for both of those traits. I wouldn’t be this way were it not for her making me constantly question absolutely everything through her narcissism and gaslighting. I don’t have anyone else I can go to about this; aside from Sage, I’m virtually alone. It’s all harmless right now, I tell myself. I’m fine. I’ll be fine, this is all no big deal. Plus it’s broad daylight now. Everything is totally fine,right?
I briefly consider reaching out to my mother but shut that idea down as soon as it crosses my mind. I don’t want to open that can of worms—even if she might offer some extremely temporary reprieve. However, there’s nothing like distracting yourself from an issue with an even bigger one.Lesser of theevils, right?Plus, at least I know my mother isn’t the one dropping flowers and notes at my door.
Maybe reaching out won’t hurt after all. If anything, I can get another wonderfully awful dinner out of it. My fingers hover over my keyboard but I can’t bring myself to type anything. My stomach turns as I stare at the last messages she sent me. My heart rate picks up and my blood runs hot. I can’t think of anything to say that won’t be met with more anger, so I throw my phone onto the couch before letting out a loud groan of frustration.
I feel claustrophobic and restless; I don’t want to be in my apartment anymore. The walls that used to comfort me now feel as though they are made of glass, and I’m an animal being watched from inside their cage.
Space is what I need, and I decide to head out for some errands. Yes, getting out for a bit is a much better distraction than setting myself up for unavoidable trauma. It’s not like I don’t already have enough of that to last a lifetime.
When I’m leaving the grocery store and unloading the bags into my car, I notice something caught under my windshield wiper. I see it’s one of my business cards and on the backside there’s a heart drawn on it. Nothing else. I don’t remember drawing it but I must’ve. Someone obviously saw it fall from my bag and returned it in case I needed it. My mother’s voice whispers at me to not overreact or make issues out of nothing. I heed the echoes of her words and don’t give much thought to any other alternatives. I always carry extra cards in my purse so that was probably it. It just fluttered out when I grabbed my phone from my bag.
Heading home I make a much-needed stop for an oat milk espresso. I need a little pick me up for my cleaning marathon tonight and if one thing gets me relaxed that isn’t running—it’s stress cleaning. When I’m home and have the groceries putaway, I change into loungewear and throw my hair up. I play a true crime podcast on my Bluetooth speaker and get to work as I listen to a decades old murder mystery. The frustration leaves my body with every speck of dirt I find, and I scrub until my hands are red and sore. An hour and a half later I feel much more relaxed and everything is shiny, clean, andperfect. Keeping my personal space in order makes me feel less appalled with my personal life. If my surroundings are pristine then my life isn’t deteriorating. That’s what I tell myself, at least.
My phone pings, my heart thumping heavily at the idea that it could be my mother. It would be just my luck to manifest her. Flipping it over I see it’s an unsaved number, and when I click the message I realize it’s a client. Okay, not unusual at all and much better than my bitching mother. Thank God I didn't falter and actually text her. Small blessings. I read the message and the signature at the end shows that it’s—no.no.no. It’s Xander.
Never mind—not a blessing. My heart is racing so fast that I can hear the frantic thudding in my ears. Clients texting meisnormal.Xandertexting me is not. He hasn’t so much as emailed me in over a week, why is he reaching out now?Oh right, selling houses is quite literally my job, even if clients are slightly psychotic assholes. And he isn’t a threat to me, at least, I don’t think he is. I certainly don’t feelunsafearound him.
Composing my thoughts, my fingers fly across my keyboard as I type out a response. I don’t actually have to reply right now since it’s after hours, but I choose to because the hope I have for this sale has just rekindled. A two million dollar home? Sold by me? Please, please,pleaseeeeeuniverse let this happen, Xander aside.
Me: Good evening, Xander. I would be happy to move forward with the home buying process. Would you like to schedule a call tomorrow? I can email the appropriate forms beforehand. Thanks for reaching out. -Maeren.
Easy and to the point. Typical business, it’s nothing weird and nothing more than surface level communication. Totally one hundred percent professional, unlike our previous encounters.
I’ve got this.
My phone pings again just seconds later with his reply.
Xander: Actually, I would like to meet in person. The Ivy & Bean at 9:30 for coffee tomorrow? With a sale this large, I’d like to make sure no details are missed in the paperwork.
My pulse picks up at the idea of meeting him face to face in broad daylight again, this time knowing who he is. It’s not an unusual request, I remind myself. I’ve met plenty of clients in person to go over any hang ups and properly file all of the paperwork required. And it’s only coffee, nothing serious; it shouldn’t take more than an hour. I can do this. It’s not like it’s a date or anything, so I have no reason to be this nervous.
