Page 7 of Watching Ames

The words hit me suddenly, a lightning bolt that froze time for a moment as his words burrowed deep and took hold. I recalled the strange sensation I felt every time I received one of those silver envelopes. Not worry or fear, just a feeling that the gifts were out-of-place. I thought back to the bouquet, surprised that Peter had recalled my pitch and for the first time in years ordered me flowers that I’d enjoy and sent a hand-written card. The “nice flowers” comment he had made, which I had thought was a fun inside-joke but was actually a reaction to a bouquet of flowers he had never seen before.

I felt Bex’s eyes on the side of my face, her curious gaze trying to catch mine as I tried to keep my face neutral. Despite having years of practice keeping my face prettily interested in Peter’s work stories and political events for his father’s campaign, I worried that covering up my disdain for rich politicos and disinterest in boring law talk was much different than hiding the fact that my world was crumbling after being slowly re-built this past week.

But I didn’t need to worry; Peter was already looking back down at his computer, shooting off another email before standing up and packing up his bags, barely making an excuse for his early departure. He gave me a quick kiss goodbye and barely grated out a few words in Bex’s direction. My mind was too fuzzy for me to process what he said to her, but I heard the stilted cadence of the farewell, his snide tone making it obvious why he was leaving so abruptly. But for once, I felt grateful for his long-standing rivalry with Bex because I wasn’t sure how much longer I could maintain this false, barely-serene expression on my face.

The door barely clicked shut before Bex had me on the couch, kneeling in front of me with a hard look in her eyes. She didn’t even have to ask a question before the story spilled out of me, starting with the flowers and ending with my realization that Peter was never the one sending me gifts and I had no idea who else could be.

But that wasn’t entirely the truth. A part of me recognized, as I retold the story to Bex in one quick stream of events, that I’d always known this; that as soon as I saw the flowers sitting in my kitchen, deep down I knew they were from somebody else. Thinking back now, I realized it was the reason I had never reached out to Peter to thank him for the gifts, and why I hadn’t mentioned them since he came back into my life. Because acknowledging the gifts would have meant acknowledging that despite my willingness to believe otherwise, Peter hadn’t made any effort to bridge the gap between us since our fight, and we were still right back where we were all those weeks ago when he walked out.

Bex stayed frozen for a moment, until her face suddenly broke into a smirk, joking in a dry tone, “So youdohave a stalker.”

“This isn’t funny!” I gaped at how she took the news, but couldn’t bring myself to feel surprised. Bex had always made light of situations I took more seriously. Or maybe she just felt more comfortable in criminal situations, considering they made up most of her dating history. “This is dangerous.”

Bex rolled her eyes, but her face finally sobered once she realized how freaked out this truly made me. Laying a hand on my arm, she gently reassured me, “I’m just joking. Ames, you have a secret admirer, that’s all.”

“You just said he’s a stalker!” Even I heard how shrill my voice had gotten, the octaves rising along with my heartbeat. It was one of the first times I could remember raising my voice since my parents died, and I tried to take a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart.

Bex sighed in exasperation at my frantic expression, her voice soothing me slightly. She sounded like the older sister, and it helped to settle my nerves a bit, knowing she wouldn’t be this calm if she actually believed I was at risk.

“If you think about it,” she mused aloud, standing up and beginning to rummage through my cabinets for hidden snacks now that I’d started to calm down a bit, “a stalker and a secret admirer have some overlap. They both send gifts and have somewhat of an obsession, only a stalker does so in an unwanted or threatening way.”

“When did you become an expert on stalkers?” I muttered, but Bex just ignored me, pausing a moment before looking back over her shoulder to ask me, “Have they ever broken in? How did you get the gifts?”

“No.” I took a moment, thinking back to the gifts I’d gotten so far. “All the gifts were delivered to my door. The flowers were in the apartment but Peter’s assistant could’ve easily brought them in from the front porch. She had put a few new sticky notes around the kitchen that morning, so she could’ve easily grabbed the flowers from outside.”

Bex finally made her way back over to the couch, where I’d been slowly sinking into the leather as much as possible, though the sticky material that Peter picked out kept me from fully wallowing. She held something in her arms as she sat down next to me, and I tipped my chin as I told her, “Those are from him.”

Bex took a moment to consider the snacks before picking out a piece of candy and popping it into her mouth.

“They have good taste,” she told me around the candy sitting on her tongue, and I broke out a small smile. I had already eaten my way through half the basket, at the time thinking that Peter must know me better than I thought considering every snack in the basket was one of my favorites. Bex’s too, since we’d always had similar taste in snacks and grew up sharing them on car trips and in movie theaters.

“Ames, I trust you. If you think this person is dangerous, I will take you right to the nearest police station to report it. I’ll grab my computer and track the creep down myself. I’ll help you move, change your name, whatever you want. Just tell me what you want. Do you feel unsafe?”

This time I didn't need to take a moment, instantly responding, “No. He doesn’t make me feel unsafe.”

I didn’t tell her that I felt more safe receiving these gifts than I had in years, knowing exactly how crazy that would sound. She nodded, appeased at my answer, throwing another handful of sour candy in her mouth.

“What makes you think it’s a man, by the way?” She narrowed her eyes, giving the same look she’d given me since we were children; the one where she was trying to see past all the bullshit and figure me out. Lucky for me, I had always been good at evading that look, even more so in recent years with her constant inquisitions about Peter, and I did so now, allowing my eyes to shutter the emotion I felt swirling behind them.

“The handwriting,” I told her, unwilling to admit that I wasn’t sure how I knew my admirer was a man, just that I did. That I’d gotten the same feeling every time I saw his gifts, that he had a presence in my head, that I felt like I knew him even though I had no idea who he was. That I’d imagined his voice whispering in my ear and his face between my legs, his hands wrapping around my hips and my throat late into the night as darkness faded into dreams. And that even then, he was there too.

Chapter7

Her

I pushedthoughts of my admirer to the back of my mind over the next few days, focusing on work during the day and spending my afternoons and evenings exploring the city with Bex. We were familiar with downtown, both because I lived close and because we’d grown up in the suburbs close by, but always liked exploring the new spots that popped up whenever Bex came to visit. Peter hadn’t even pretended to be interested in joining us, instead sending a vague text about being stuck in D.C. over the next week or two.

His intentional vagueness was clearly an attempt at avoiding Bex for however long she stayed, but rather than feeling annoyed when I first read it, I was relieved. I still hadn’t considered what I planned to do about our relationship. The one thing that had kept me optimistic about a future with Peter was off the table, making me feel like another huge confrontation was on the horizon. And considering just how shamed and shattered I felt after the last one, I wasn’t in a rush for a repeat. Even though it made me a coward, I couldn’t quite reconcile the idea that I’d wasted years of my life on a man who respected me so little that he would re-enter my life after leaving just as abruptly without any sort of change. So I didn’t try to.

In the meantime, I simply enjoyed time with my sister, who I hadn’t spent such an extended period of time with in months. We did a couple of short hikes in the area, ate out at some of my favorite local spots, and a few nights Bex joined me at the studio, typing away at her computer while I tried to catch up on my backlog of commissions.

I had been caught off guard by a rush order on an entire set of dinnerware - entree and dessert plates, bowls, mugs - that would take hours of work. Twelve full place settings along with a smattering of mugs and serving bowls. Interestingly, the customer requested little to no personalization regarding the design. Most orders of this size were personalized by size, glaze, and design; understandably, because custom-made ceramic ware couldn’t be returned with free two-day shipping. But this request had just listed the types of plates and bowls they wanted. Under the section for design specifications they had simply written:I trust your taste. Make them to your preference.

So I spent a few hours throwing large and small plates at the studio, giving them winding, asymmetrical wave-like edges that added a unique twist. The customer told me to run with my own preferences, and I took that request seriously; I liked saucy dishes, so I created thin lips on the edges of the plates to keep any liquids from spilling. If I had the time and an excess of materials to create a set of my own dinnerware, these dishes were what I would want. The full design was already mapped out in my head, and as I set aside the plates to dry I imagined how the plates would look with a navy interior and black exterior, colors reminiscent of deep space or the ocean at night.

I considered adding the same flecks of white to this set of plates as theMorelline, lost in design as Bex and I climbed the steps to my apartment, when Bex stopped in her tracks, causing me to slam into her back.

“What -” My question died off, the answer right in front of me. There was an envelope taped to my front door, the white paper stark against the black paint of the wood. But it wasn’t the envelope that stood out - the plain white stationary could’ve held a utility bill - but rather the familiar handwriting I recognized from down the hallway. Relief flowed through me, the warm feeling easing some of the anxiety that had plagued me the past few days.

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