Page 13 of Don't Watch Alone
Side by side, we tackle the wreckage like reluctant soldiers—folding, sorting, fluffing neon sweaters and lining up patterned leggings that somehow manage to feel soft despite their blinding colors. The silence between us is companionable, the flow of the work almost reflective. An hour slips by before I realize how dry my throat feels.
“I’m gonna run and grab something from Orange Julius,” I say. “Want one?”
“Hell yes. Small Original.”
I nod and slip out, grateful for the break. The mall’s alive in that specific, familiar way—families moving through crowds, teenagers laughing too loud, the scent of cinnamon sugar and fried grease coating the air. I get in line, order, step to the side. That’s when it hits.
That energy.
That tight itch behind my neck. Like someone’s breathing down it.
I glance around. Casual. Cool. Nothing out of place. Nobody seems to be looking at me. Still, the feeling lingers. I try to shrug it off. Tony handled the problem. Andy should be gone.
The drinks are in my hands, the cups sweating in my palms. I walk back toward the store—but every step tightens the tension in my stomach. My eyes won’t stop darting around like they’ve been trained to expect danger.
I get back inside the store and hand Mary her drink.
“Bless you,” she mutters, chugging like she’s been lost in a desert.
We sip in silence, letting the sweetness cool our nerves. My gaze moves past the glass storefront, across the mall walkway—and then it freezes.
He’s there.
Andy.
By the fountain drink machine. Leaning against the wall, with a magazine in his hand—except he’s not reading it. His eyes are locked on our store, steady, emotionless, like a fucking laser.
“Mary,” I whisper, the cold cup now forgotten in my hand. “He’s back by the fountain, staring right at us.”
She turns to look, and I feel the moment her body tenses up. The joking version of her disappears instantly. She sets her drink down as if it were breakable.
“I’ll be right back,” she says.
Before I can stop her, she’s already out the door. Marching across the courtyard. Straight toward him. I don’t move. I juststand there and watch. Her mouth is already moving, her posture intense with rage. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I see the change in him—his eyes widen, his shoulders slump like someone’s pressing down on him. Mary doesn’t back down, and he doesn’t say a damn word.
She storms back in, with intense anger blazing in her eyes.
“What the hell did you say to him?”
“I told him to stop being a fucking creep. Standing there like a damn perv watching us.”
“And?” I’m not sure what I expect—maybe a lie, maybe some twisted excuse.
“He said he wasn’t. Claimed he was reading his magazine.” She rolls her eyes.
“Bullshit. He was staring at us, period.”
We let it drop, not because it’s over, but because there’s nothing else to say. We go back to dressing a mannequin in overpriced denim, pretending everything’s fine, though the tension still hangs in the air.
The rest of the shift crawls by. Quiet and eerie. Just the sound of the HVAC and the occasional squeak of a lost shopper’s footsteps.
Eventually, Mary glances at the clock and stretches. “I’m heading out. You okay to close by yourself?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine,” I lie. My voice is calm, but something in me knows I’m full of shit. I hate closing alone.
She slings her bag over her shoulder. “I’ve got plans tonight. This is my first time out in like forever.”
“Good. You deserve it.”
