Page 35

TWENTY-TWO

COURTNEY

“Wait, say that again,” Delilah says with a yawn while I continue pacing one of the small cubicles of the gender neutral bathroom.

“I thought I had it all figured out in my head, Dee. Like, I was ready to throw caution to the wind and give him a chance.” I pause, staring at my tear streaked face in the small, cloudy mirror above the sink. “Now he comes at me with this? Watching me in my apartment!”

“Umm…” Delilah hums. “I’m not sure what to say here. Does it surprise you?”

“What?”

“Think about it. Like, every conversation we’ve had about the guy revolves around him being everywhere you look and knowing what you want… when you want it…” I swallow at her observation that I should have made for myself already. “How many times have we called him a stalker, Courtney?”

“Auguste’s never intentionally harmed me…”

“Not all fucking stalkers are assholes. Besides, if we think about dating in general, it’s one big stalking loop, right?

Look at my parents, my dad pursued my mom until she got so sick and tired of his face everywhere, she agreed to go on a date.

Now, they’ve been married for thirty-two years and she’s got his phone and every fucking tracking app going stalking his ass everywhere. ”

That actually gets a laugh out of me because Delilah’s dad is the sweetest man. He is totally obsessed with her mom.

“My advice is to follow your gut. If it tells you the man is bad news, stay away from him. Maybe take your dad up on his offer of staying with him.” She’s quiet for a beat, and I take a deep breath, trying to center myself.

“Babe, for what it’s worth, he’s had plenty of opportunity to fuck you up, and he’s used every opportunity to take care of you. ”

“While he invaded my privacy. I don’t even know what he’s seen… for all I know he could have… oh my God! He might have seen me you know…”

A cackle bursts down the line. “Dude, the more we have this conversation the more I feel sorry for him. The blue balls that man must be walking around with.” She whistles.

“You’re worrying about him watching you perform self-care when the last time he was at your place you came all over the poor fucker and he cleaned you up and put you to bed. This conversation is fucking bizarre.”

“I don’t want to be a doormat and?—”

“My God, Courtney, you are not a doormat. Christ, if I were you and a six-foot-two hunk that made me fucking gush all over him with just his fingers was obsessed with me and fulfilling my every want and need… girl, I’d be flat on all angles, rolled all over him until I was worn and ragged.”

“I don’t know…”

“Okay. Answer me this one thing, okay?”

“Sure.”

I grab a wad of hand tissues from the box next to the sink and soak them in warm water before I push them onto my face the way Auguste did with the dish rag the night he came over and took care of me.

It’s not the same. My fingers don’t feel as strong and sure and there’s no hint of his leathery cologne.

“You have less than a month left in LA. What do you have to lose?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t know, then I can’t know for you.”

“You know everything, remember?”

“This once I’ll admit to knowing not everything. Just that there are good guys and shitty guys in this world and we have to make the decision to take a chance on finding the red candy in the mixed bag.”

Jesus, so much for getting my head on straight. I’m more confused now than I was walking in here stupefied. A part of me was ready to make sense of it all and move forward after last night. Delilah is right on the money when she said that Auguste watching me isn’t surprising.

Countless times I’ve asked myself how he knows so much about me.

Makes sense now .

“My mind is blown,” I say, picking up my phone from the edge of the sink when it vibrates.

The notification stays at the top of my screen. Auguste’s nickname staring up at me.

Masterchef

I keep staring right back. The flutters in my stomach going wild because in spite of everything, a simple thought of him thrills me. Just like that, my hand is pulsing with the memory of his warm skin. The scratch of his stubble beard.

“You’re quiet, Courtney.”

“He messaged me.”

“Oh my God!” she says, barely containing the squeal in her voice.

“You’re in the same restaurant. Go talk to him.

Slap him, kiss him, fuck him, and then decide where you’re at.

Just for the love of fuck, stop overthinking.

Stop comparing him to other men. He’s quirky, maybe a little psycho…

but we’ve said time and again that the best men are a little dark, dirty, depraved and down-fucking-bad. ”

“Fine, I’ll call you—” I freeze as I open the message from Auguste. “He’s gone.”

“What?”

“The message it’s just a forwarded booking for an Uber. He’s gone.”

My chest constricts, making it impossible to breathe as I throw the wet tissue clump in the bin and leave the bathroom. The hallway is blocked by a line of servers with waiting trays.

“Dee, I gotta go, okay?” She doesn’t get a chance to reply as I end the call instantly. Gripping my backpack tighter in my hand while I weave through the servers to the table area.

The booth is empty. Our glasses are gone…

I rush to the door and look outside for Auguste's car. He said he was driving but his Lexus is nowhere to be seen.

When I open up the message from him with the Uber booking, I notice the number plate matches the sleek, black Mercedes parked right outside the door.

The contrary part of me that’s pissed Auguste would drop this bomb and then leave, wants to walk out and find her own ride. The part that’s exhausted and confused by the tumult of feelings and emotions coursing through her, wants nothing more than to get in that car and go home.

That’s the part that wins the tug-o-war in my head.

Showing the driver the booking, I allow him to open the door for me and take my backpack as I get in the back of the luxury sedan.

The leather is a creamy butterscotch that hugs me in all the right places while the driver stows my backpack at my feet and then presents me with a coffee cup from the place near the facility that does the best hot cocoa with coconut cream whip, marshmallows and salted caramel sprinkles.

“Thank you,” I tell the driver, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent.

“You’re welcome, Miss. Would you like the massage activated?”

“No, that’s okay.” I might fall asleep and never wake up.

“If you change your mind, you can activate the function on the console right there,” he points to the screen embedded in the armrest before closing the door and setting off.

The entire drive, I hug the cup of hot cocoa with both hands. Trying to figure out what will happen at the other end. When I reach home.

Despite the chaos in my head, there’s a flicker of certainty in my chest. I want to knock on Auguste’s door and ask him why? Why spy on me when he was right across the hallway, and all he had to do was knock on my door?

The sad part about that question is that I already know the answer. The same way he did. I would’ve made an excuse not to spend time with him and close the door. If I had known what this thing between us would become, I would not even open the door.

When I think about it like that—who’s the asshole? Me or him? Or maybe Delilah has been right all along and he is perfectly suited to the darker fantasies in my head that I know should never leave the pages of the books I read.

The car comes to a stop and after the driver has helped me out, I cradle the hot cocoa in my hands even though my stomach is too unsettled for me to drink it. I’m holding on to it out of principle. Because Auguste got it for me. Because it’s another reminder that his intentions are not bad.

I swear the elevator is super slow today. It feels like forever from the moment I get in to when the doors open and I get out. I head straight for his door even though I have no idea what I’m going to do or say.

Then I knock, and my heart is beating so damn fast I can’t see straight. My mouth is dry and my throat is thick.

I wait for a while and then a moment longer, listening to Samson’s nails scratch on the other side of the door.

“I miss you, too, buddy,” I tell him before I turn around and amble to my door .

Every second I fumble for my key, there’s a glimmer of hope that the elevator doors will ping open again and Auguste will saunter out.

Of course, hope is a killer.

Doesn’t matter how slow I close my door, there’s nothing except Samson’s intermittent whining.

When I’m inside my apartment. It hits me harder than when Auguste told me about the cameras. I look around the hallway, spotting the first one—a discreet, black globe that’s almost lost to the dark painted coving.

After I spot that one, I drop my backpack and look for the rest. They’re all over the place, getting every angle of the living space and when I move to the master suite, there’s a few more. One in the walk-in closet, and another two in the bedroom.

I’ve never felt so exposed, invaded… vulnerable. At the same time, beneath the confusion and disbelief, under the disappointment and the slurry of anger… there’s a whisper of thrill. That someone like him would be so interested in someone like me.

I’m nobody.

I’ve always been nobody.

Maybe that’s why I’m so terrified of being somebody to him.

Or worse, that once I allow him closer, he’ll realize that’s all I am. A nobody to everybody.

That’s the thought I take to bed with me.

His hot cocoa now cold and still untouched on my bedside table.

His hoodie engulfing me. The light whisper of coconut reminds me of what it was like when he hugged me.

When I nuzzle into the thick cotton, it takes me back to my face being buried in the crook of his neck and his stubble scratching my face.

And every now and then, while sleep evades me, I glance up at the camera in the corner of the room and ask myself…

Is he watching me right now?