Page 2 of The Silent Night Stalker
“You’re so nice to notice. God. Most people are oblivious.”
I sit up straighter, filled with a strange sort of pride that I recognized her pain and made her feel a little better. That I saw her when she needed to be understood. That’s something I can fully relate to. I feel like no one’s ever seen me until now.
I reach out my hand to her. “I’m Constantine.”
She shakes my hand with a delicate grip. “I’m Emma. That’s a really unique name. I like it.”
“Thanks. I, ah, like yours, too.”
I take a sip of beer as I try to pull out some confidence to get her to open up more. “Do you want to talk about it? I’m a good listener.” That’s what people ask, right?
Her eyes water again, but she sits up straighter. “Okay. Yeah, thanks. I need to talk to someone about it, but there’s no one else. So, I moved to Chicago a few months ago, and I don’t really have any friends.” She shrugs and wipes away a stray tear. “It feels stupid, you know? Like, there are worse things out there, but… It’s my father. It’s been like this for years. I should give up hope, but I can’t seem to let him go. We were supposed to meet up yesterday and spend some time together for the holidays, but each year, he finds an excuse to back out of it. This has been going on for the better part of a decade now. See? I’m so stupid. I know I should move on, but I just can’t.”
I want to hug her, but I’m not sure if it’s too weird. It just feels like I should. “You’re not being stupid at all. I totally get that. My dad abandoned me, and my stepdad was really mean. Still, you try so hard to be a good kid, you know? You want them to love you and be proud of you, and when you get that spark of hope, you hold on to it until they shatter it again.”
“Oh my god! Yes! Exactly! Thank you for that.”
I sit taller, feeling bolder and more confident. She did that for me. I helped her, and she’s grateful. Grateful tome. And oddly, she’s helping me without even realizing it. I feel useful.
I glance at her and really see her beauty. She stops crying, but she’s still sad.
“I hate the holidays,” she says.
“Cheers to that. Me too.”
I raise my beer glass, she raises her wine goblet, and we clink them together.
“I’ve never liked them,” she goes on to explain. “Everything bad happens then. I can’t get past it. Whenever the holidays get near, I fall into this… I don’t know… depression. I’m always alone despite trying so hard to bring my father into my life. My mom passed away a few years ago, which also happened close to Christmas, making it all worse. I usually try to find a date during this time to get over the holiday blues, but I’m usually too down in the dumps. But tonight? Well, my date stood me up, so here I am, alone again. God, I hate this.”
“Gosh, I’m really sorry, Emma.”
She gives me a brief smile, but her eyes redden and water again. “Thanks.” Emma chugs back her wine and orders another. “Anyway, yeah, Christmas sucks. If I could erase this damn holiday, I would.”
I huff a laugh and watch her drink. “I couldn’t agree more.”
God, I wish there were some way to ease her pain.
The anxiety I feel growing inside me as Christmas Eve nears suddenly eases like a crushing weight has been lifted. I’ve not only found someone who doesn’t make fun of me or see me as some strange freak, but someone she can relate to. And I relate to her on such a profound level, she has no idea. Never have I met someone like her, where it’s easy to talk and just be myself.
Emma chugs back her second wine, pays her tab, and hops off the barstool. My stomach sinks when I realize she’s leaving.
“Well, it’s been real.” Before she heads out, she taps me on the shoulder. I look at her, not wanting her to go, but I have no idea what to do about it or how to keep talking to her. “Look, thanks for listening to me whine. You’ve been amazing. I hope you find your happiness despite this shitty holiday. Maybe both of us will get lucky and something great will happen.”
“Thanks,” I mumble and watch her walk away, desperate to go after her, but I don’t. As I sip my beer, I notice that her receipt just sits there on the wooden bar, beckoning me. I quickly glance around. Since no one is paying any attention to me, and the bartender is taking an order from a group of women who just walked in, I nonchalantly rest my hand on top of the receipt and slide it my way. My heart is as excited as I am as I slip the piece of paper into the pocket of my jeans.
After tossing a twenty on the bar, I quickly leave.
“EmmaSt.James,”Isay out loud. It smoothly rolls off the tongue. I love her name.
It’s Christmas Eve, and for the first time since I can remember, the anxiety isn’t crippling me.
I tuck myself into an alley across the street and watch her grab a cup of coffee from the shop a block from her apartment. I already know that her job is five blocks away. She works at a floral shop during the day, and at night, she serves drinks at a popular bar she can also walk to. It appears she doesn’t own a car, which is good for me, making it easy to follow her.
When Emma comes out of the coffee shop, she looks down at her cup with a frown on her face before moving on. I follow her across the street just like I did yesterday. She’s still so damn sad, and I ache for her.
The day is gusty, and the temperature is below freezing. She’s hunched into herself from the wind and in her depression.
A plan formulated in my mind when I researched her name, which she had neatly printed on her receipt. It didn’t take long to find her.
