The Girl He Loves Page 6

  I’m calm, until I finally get to my destination. As I approach the college, my heart is practically beating out of my ribcage. I close my eyes for a long second, and draw in a breath, just like Eva has shown me. The pristine manicured lawns and clean lines of the building soothe me. I feel somewhat protected by the mature trees all around me. I inhale a long breath of fresh air, standing next to a large tree, partially hidden by its majestic trunk. I fish my phone out of my purse and peruse it in an attempt to appear like a normal young person who is addicted to her phone. No, I’m not an obsessed middle-aged woman stalking a pretty young girl.

  Students are milling about as I intently watch the main entrance of the college. I study the plain black sign, partially obscured by a group of people. How long am I going to stand here, waiting for her to come out? What am I hoping to get out of this? I have no clue. Will I attempt to talk to her? I know I probably won’t — my poor heart probably couldn’t handle it.

  I know why she’s studying here. She’s making up a few courses, and is looking to enroll in a vet tech program — she loves animals. She struggles with school because of her dyslexia. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. I’ve always naturally excelled at school, never quite relating to people who struggle. I’m rooting for her. I really am. I don’t hate her. I don’t even know her.

  I’ve been standing by the tree for over an hour. No one notices me. I finally give my legs a rest and sit cross-legged on the ground, and start to wonder if Ava is even there today. Of course she is — I saw it on her Instagram: a grouchy face selfie with the caption: Another day, another dollar. Off to classes. Perhaps she had early classes today and has already left. I check my watch. It’s now three o’clock, and I can’t stay much longer, but I know this compulsion, this urge to see her in the flesh will ground me here. I’m going to stay here until dark if needed. I can already see the text I will send Brian.

  Sorry, got caught up with errands today. Please fend for yourselves and the boys. Maybe order pizza. :)

  Of course he’ll wonder what the hell is going on with me since I never do that kind of thing. He’ll wonder if I’m having issues again, if I’m off my meds. He’ll demand to know exactly what I was doing, and as a result, I’ll need to make up a whole story. I’ll have plenty of time to do it on the bus back home.

  I quickly check my Gmail account for the thousandth time. When I glance up from my phone, my heart skips a beat. I see her, walking down the pathway, next to a gangly young man. They’re both smiling widely. She’s as beautiful in real life — so young and sweet.

  I’m not sure what propels me to get to my feet and follow them down the sidewalk. My pulse races, my hands feel clammy, and I struggle for air. There are quite a few people walking around thankfully, so I don’t feel too conspicuous.

  There’s something quite exciting, quite delicious about being so close to her, so close I could reach out and touch her. So close, I can see the silkiness of her long hair, the intricate crochet stitching of her soft long-sleeved pink top, the frayed edges of her jean pockets, the roundness of her perfect little rear. I can even hear their conversation — they’re talking about one of their profs. Apparently, he’s so basic.

  I’m not sure what that means. Boring perhaps?

  The crowd has dispersed, and I now feel vulnerable. Do I keep going? Or do I just stop walking, and let them fade away. How far will I take it? She’s bound to notice me eventually. The boy tells her that she’s smart, that she should have more confidence in herself.

  “Oh, Vince, you always say that,” she says, laughing.

  “Because it’s true.”

  At the moment, there’s no chance of her noticing me — she’s too immersed in her conversation. Bursts of laughter mixed with idle chit-chat. Joking around. She strikes me as a typical young woman. Does Vince know what she’s really like? Does he know about the older married high school teacher? Are they close enough for her to share all her secrets?

  He asks her for her notes, and she suddenly jerks to a stop. He takes a few steps before he realizes that she’s bent down to reach into her backpack. He spots me as he turns, and shoots me a quizzical look, almost as if he knows what I’m up to. I stop breathing for a second, and I’m sure he sees the unmistakable panic and guilt in my eyes. He studies me for a beat, and I quickly scurry past the both of them, my heart pounding frantically.

  I practically run away, careful not to appear rushed. I’m breathless, and struggling to walk straight. I have no clue where I’m heading but as soon as I hit the next intersection, I veer right, and as soon as they’re out of sight, I breathe again.

  I make another right onto a quiet residential street, and I stop and lean against a light post. What have I achieved? Some might say I’ve achieved absolutely nothing. But for me, a compulsion was satisfied, an itch was scratched. I’ve seen her in the flesh, like I so desperately wanted to.

  I barely make it back home in time to make dinner. Thankfully, I’ve planned ahead. I’ve bought a pre-made salad, and have taken out beef stroganoff from the freezer, and have already made a loaf of brioche in my breadmaker earlier in the day. All I need to do is heat up the stroganoff, slice the loaf and set the table.

  Following dinner, I catch up on work. Because of today’s little excursion, my schedule was shot to hell. I hate breaking my routine, and I only usually do so in extreme circumstances, or if a stronger compulsion makes me do so, as was the case here.

  Brian walks into my office, curious. His eyes dart over the papers spread out on my desk as he nears. He kisses the top of my head. “Working late? That’s not like you.”

  “There’s a lot of work these days,” I explain, not taking my eyes off my desk.

  “Tristan’s done his homework,” he tells me. “He’s having an easier time these days.”

  “That’s great,” I say absentmindedly. Tristan has always struggled more than Trevor. His brother usually breezes through tests and assignments, although that doesn’t prevent him from stressing over them. Brian and I usually take turns helping Tristan out with his schoolwork.

  “You almost done? I thought we could watch Broadchurch.” Broadchurch is a British series following the story of a missing boy. Being the mother of two boys, it absolutely wrecks me. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. We’re still on the first season.

  “Almost.” I shoot him a smile. Caught up in my work, I’d completely forgotten about Ava, but just for a second. She comes back to me, and my smile fades.

  * * *

  We’re stretched out on the sofa, my head on Brian’s lap. He’s stroking my hair as we watch the program. It helps me relax at night, and tonight is no exception. After years of therapy, I can somewhat compartmentalize. It’s something Dr. Russell and I have been working on tirelessly. I settle my worries, one by one, into a drawer, and close it, only to be opened at a convenient time. The opening of the drawer is key — I need to ruminate over these concerns. I sometimes schedule my ruminating time. I list it on my schedule as ‘lounging’ because to pen ‘ruminating’ into my schedule just seems crazy, which sadly is exactly what I am.

  I’m having a difficult time keeping my stuff in the drawer tonight. Ava keeps popping into my head, unwelcome. So do her parents. Even her adorable cat. They are in themselves, like another show I’ve been watching, binging on.

  I spot a stray hair on my white t-shirt. I pick it up and slide the length of it between the pads of my thumb and finger, until I feel the bulbous tiny root. Most people would flick it on the floor, but I’m incapable of doing so. The thought of a lone strand of hair on my hardwood floor would cause me great anxiety. Despite the fact that I couldn’t even see it, my brain would focus on its presence, and I would never be able to enjoy the show.

  “Can you pause it for a second?” I ask Brian. “I need a glass of water.”

  I take the opportunity to dispose my strand of hair into the garbage, and get myself a glass of water with ice. I’d never dream of telling Brian
the truth. He knows I’m crazy but doesn’t quite realize the true extent of it — I hide many of my neuroses from him. It’s best that way.

  * * *

  It’s Saturday, and I stand in my spacious closet. I’ve taken ownership of about ninety percent of it. Thankfully, Brian doesn’t seem to mind. I’ve set up three shoe racks on the shelf lining the width of it. My shoes are organized by color, a beautiful rainbow of perfectly aligned pointy heeled pumps. Nine West mostly, and a single pair of Valentinos (a gift from Brian for my thirtieth).

  I get off on it. Just standing here and gazing at my rainbow of shoes. As soon as I wear a pair, I’ll set it back to its proper place. My little mischievous Tristan has been known to mess with my shoes too. He’s been doing it a lot less lately, but when he was little, he’d drag a chair into my closet to pursue his misdeeds. He probably had to stretch his body to its limits, he was so small. I smile at the memory.

  No, it’s decided. I cannot get rid of any of these pumps. To do so would mess the perfect display I’ve created. I’ll need to keep it to clothing. I flip through my dresses, blouses and skirts, looking for a few items I can part with. The brands are all perfect for what I’m looking to do: Tahari, Nine West, Jones New York, Ann Klein and Ralph Lauren mostly.

  My pulse races as I select a few pieces — an Ann Klein sheath dress, a Ralph Lauren blouse, and a few other things I haven’t worn in forever. I fold them perfectly and store them in a linen bag. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I know it’s wrong, but I itch for it. I need to see Renee in the flesh. I wonder if she’s as beautiful in real life.

  Unfortunately, another bus ride awaits me, but thankfully, this one is short. I absolutely hate everything about public transportation; the germs lurking inconspicuously on every surface, the too-loud people, the chaos, the litter on the floor. Yet I’m compelled to be here because my compulsion to see Renee is stronger than any reservations I might hold toward public transit. Thanks to my extensive ‘research’, I know Renee owns an upscale consignment fashion shop.

  I sit up straight, emitting an aloofness that hopefully will keep people at bay, lest someone get the urge to suddenly strike a conversation with me. I stare at a plastic water bottle and an empty bag of potato chips on the dirty floor — it hurts my eyes. I want to turn my gaze away, but for some reason, I can’t. The sight of them helps me take my thoughts off Renee and our impending meeting.

  When I finally get to my destination and exit the bus, I draw in a long breath and squeeze a drop of hand disinfectant onto my palm — I have a handy little Purell bottle keychain for such occasions.

  I check the map on my phone once again — it’s just around the corner. My heart is beating frantically. My heels are digging into my ankles and my legs feel heavy as I walk slowly down the sidewalk. I’ve dressed the part; a stylish pencil skirt and blouse, and matching heels. My hair is up in a bun, and I’m sporting the low prescription glasses I rarely wear — very librarian chic. A Nine West handbag hangs over one shoulder, and the linen bag of clothes on the other.

  I tell myself the story again, because if I say it enough times, I might actually start to believe it. I am Lara Smith, a thirty-something stylish woman who loves fashion and checking out new stores. I’ve heard about this place from my friend Sarah (also fictional). I have no agenda. I’m absolutely normal — not a crazy stalker lady who thinks her husband may be in the midst of a torrid affair with a woman much too young for him, a.k.a your daughter.

  When I finally spot the sign in the distance, RESTYLE FOR YOU, my heart jumps into overdrive. There is absolutely no way I can go in there in my current state. I’ll need to relax a little before I step in. I blow out a long breath, just as Dr.Russell has taught me. Long deep breaths, in and out. I tell myself that I don’t need to stress. I am Lara Smith and I’m completely relaxed today, just out and about.

  I study the display in the window — it appeases me — everything is esthetically pleasing, arranged just so. The two mannequins are beautifully dressed. One is wearing a pink vintage spring jacket with black detailing. It’s paired with stylish black booties and gloves. The other statue is wearing a pretty flower print dress and tall brown suede books, a Coach handbag. I drink the items in; everything is so beautiful. For a moment, I completely forget about my initial agenda as the fashionista in me rears her pretty head.

  I try to peek inside to see if I might catch a glimpse of Renee, but I can’t quite see.

  I’ve been standing here long enough. Any longer might look strange to anyone who happens to walk by. I draw in a breath and gently open the shop door. The old-fashioned doorbell chimes, announcing my arrival. Renee, who is at the back, hanging a dress, turns to me and smiles.

  “Hello,” she says.

  9

  Her voice is friendly and welcoming.

  I falter for a second. “H-hello,” I say softly and turn my gaze to the clothing — the perfect distraction. Everything is aligned neatly in rows, color coordinated. A few star items are displayed in perfect arrangements against the walls. There are a few more mannequins, flawlessly dressed. The purses are hung together next to the cash register desk. The symmetry and order of items reminds me of my own closet. In another life, Renee and I could probably be great friends — she seems to understand order. I wonder if she gets off on it like I do.

  “Feel free to look around,” she says, “and let me know if you need any help.”

  “I will,” I say meekly and turn my gaze to a rack of skirts. I flip through them, not quite seeing them. She’s even more beautiful in the flesh. Her voice is deeper, huskier than I would have imagined, and she’s very tall. Probably about five feet nine or so. What do I say to her? I already know everything about her and her family. Does she have any clue what her daughter is up to? Fair enough, Ava is officially an adult now and is free to make her own choices. But an older married man with two kids? Didn’t Renee teach her integrity? Or is Renee as promiscuous as her daughter? I glance in her direction. She is turned away from me. I take the opportunity to study her. She is wearing a short A-line black leather skirt, paired with a fluffy short sleeved white blouse. She wears tall black boots with a low chunky heel. She manages to look both sexy and sweet — a lethal combination.

  Yes, she’s definitely promiscuous.

  I turn my gaze back to the skirts — the prices are fantastic and the styles are really nice. I like this store. The girls would love it too, although I’m not sure how they would feel about previously worn clothing — I’m a little iffy about it myself. I decide to pick out a few pieces to try on. I might as well kill two birds with one stone.

  After extensively perusing the aisles, I finally select four pieces. Linen capris. A frilly polka-dot skirt, a pretty pink top and a pair of stylish skinny jeans, torn at the knees. Trying on clothes will give me an excuse to talk to her. And I also have the clothes in my bag. I will be here for a while.

  She’s at the front desk when I walk up to her. She looks up from her Glamour magazine. “All set? Would you like to try those on?”

  I smile. “Yes… and I also have a few items to sell, if you…” I hand her my linen bag. “You might be interested.”

  She grins widely. “Of course, we’re always looking for new supply.” She takes the bag off my hands. “I’ll have a quick look-through while you try on your items.” Her hair is so long and beautiful; luscious and thick with golden highlights. I wonder what kind of conditioner she uses. Probably some homemade miracle potion.

  “Sounds good.”

  I’m struck by her eyes — blue as the sky. Ava has her mother’s eyes. My heart sinks at the thought of the beautiful girl, and visions of her entangled in my husband’s arms.

  Renee leads me to one of the two change rooms.

  “Thank you,” I say as I close the door. The small room is adorned with a silver framed mirror and a purple velvet chair. I stare at my reflection. I feel plain. Small and insignificant. Odd.

  I’ve never adored myself, but I’ve a
lways been in a relatively good place as far as my looks are concerned. I know I’m not exceptionally beautiful like Renee or Ava, but I’m pretty… some might say cute even — pixie-like, quirky.

  I usually own it, but today I’m at an all-time low. I shrug out of my blouse and skirt, and find myself in my purple underwear. I look so normal on the outside. But inside, it’s a total utter fucked-up circus. Renee has no idea.

  The sight of me in the pretty top and skinny jeans raises my mood — they fit perfectly. I’m keen to try on the skirt and capris. I’m giddy as I slip into the silky fabrics. Suddenly, I’m pretty again — thus is the power of fashion.

  As I slip back into my regular clothing, I assess my situation. What am I trying to achieve here? I’m achieving absolutely nothing. Perhaps a little chit-chat. That’s it. If my friends knew what I was up to, they’d ask me what’s the point. They just wouldn’t understand. It’s a compulsion to see further, closer up, an insurmountable curiosity, an itch. I know there is no point.

  I decide to buy all the items, and then quickly leave. I’ve come here. I’ve seen her in the flesh. She’s not going to give me the answers I seek. What am I going to say? Hey, by the way. I think your daughter might be having an affair with my husband. Thoughts? Do you have any pertinent information that might possibly help me in my investigation? Of course I’m not going to say that. Especially when I have no proof. I’m not about to act like the crazy woman I really am. I need to move on.

  “Any success?” she asks as I make my way to the cash.

  “Actually, yes,” I say cheerfully. “Everything fit.”

  “That’s great,” she says but her smile fades as she hands me back my linen bag. “Unfortunately, I won’t be be buying your items today. Although, they’re quite nice. They’re not quite what our customer base is looking for.”

  Her words vex me. My clothes are not good enough for her, not good enough for her precious customers. For a moment, I have the urge to storm out in a huff. Of course I won’t. I do still want to purchase the items I’ve tried on.