Stalk Home (eBook)

Chapter 2

First Date

Brent started texting me almost immediately to ensure that I hadn’t given him a fake number. Once he realized my number was authentic, he stood up, lumbered over to the stage, and tossed me a crisp $10 bill.

I pouted my freshly glossed lips and mouthed the words thank you.

With that, he tipped his cap, gave a nod, turned, and briskly strode out of the building. Strange, I thought. It seemed he wasn’t too inclined to return my attention and wasn’t prepared to pay for exclusivity for the night. But he knew he didn’t need to. He had my number.

We made plans through messaging to meet up at a local bar for drinks, a couple rounds of pool, and karaoke. While I’m a terrible pool player, I’m an avid singer. I’m able to hold my own, and I have a knack for choosing the perfect songs for my vocal range, tone, and style.

Before our “date,” I decided to take a bubble bath. I had my phone on the side of the tub to keep myself entertained while I soaked away my exhaustion. I had two part-time jobs and went to school full-time. Between clinical hours and my two jobs, the only day I had to rest was Sunday. However, that day was also reserved for homework and studying for exams. Thursday through Saturday, I averaged only about three hours of sleep a night. One of the few self-care rituals I allowed myself was my occasional soak in my jetted tub.

I closed my eyes and slowly lay back in my tub to rinse the shampoo from my hair. With eyes still closed and my lips just barely breaking the surface of the water, I felt a presence and was certain I wasn’t alone. I audibly gasped and sat up with such force that I sloshed about half a gallon of sudsy water onto the floor.

It was none other than Stage 5, leaning against the doorway, completely expressionless.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snapped. “You’re just letting yourself in now?”

The disdain in my voice poured out effortlessly, and my words, like vinegar, made him wince.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Out,” I responded bluntly. “You’re smothering me, and I need some time away from you. I need to reevaluate what I want, because I don’t think whatever this is, is working. I was up front from the beginning about what I wanted and what I didn’t want.”

I was livid that he thought he could come in without asking and act like he had a right to me. “You show up at my house uninvited, you want to be with me 24/7, and I just can’t. You’re draining me. I’m sorry, but after work, school, and my daughter, I don’t have a lot of energy or time to invest in you. I’m sorry.”

“Well, what time are you going to be back?” he asked. “Because I’d like to discuss this more with you.”

“I’ll be out until closing, I assume. Don’t wait up for my call, because I’m probably not going to be in the mood to rehash this with you tonight.”

Stage 5 sulked, then slunk his way up the stairs and out of the house like a child who’d been chastised.

I was nervous to meet up with Brent, but Lord only knows why. It felt as if a sparrow was caught in my chest, beating its wings frantically against my insides, trying to escape. I just wanted to make a good impression. But why was I so fixated on having Brent’s approval? Why did his opinion matter so much?

I shook the negative self-talk from my brain. Then I got out of the tub and threw on my favorite pair of jeans and my gray sweater with the embroidered cherry blossoms on the sleeve. I meticulously applied my makeup, threw my hair in a bun, and headed out the door.

As I pulled up to the bar, I checked my makeup in the mirror before opening my driver’s door. Then I stopped. On second thought, I decided to power-drag a cigarette with the intent of calming my ass down before exiting my 4Runner. Halfway through my menthol smoke, I gagged and put it out. That was enough of that. I grabbed my driver’s license and my car keys, then got out to make my grand entrance.

After getting my ID checked at the door, my eyes immediately started scanning the room for Brent.

Bingo. There he was. He already had a pool table picked out and was leaning over it with a pool stick in hand. With one eye closed, he bit his lip and took his shot. I didn’t want to break his concentration, so I hung back and watched. With a flick of his wrist, he sunk the eight ball into a corner pocket. A coy smile spread across his face, and when he looked up, his eyes met mine.

“Hi, Mayhem. Or can I call you Amanda?”

“You can call me anything you want, but Amanda works fine.”

“Well, Amanda. What are you drinking?”

“A double Jack in Diet Coke,” I blurted out, probably too quickly.

“Hmm. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a whiskey drinker,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, I’m mysterious and full of surprises,” I said with a wink.

I quickly gulped down my drink, almost giving myself a brain freeze. Then, like magic, my face and chest flushed, and the tops of my ears went hot. Yep. I was buzzed. I hadn’t eaten much before I’d left, and I’d let my nerves get the better of me.

“Whoa, easy there, tiger. Are you all right?” Brent asked.

“Oh yeah, I feel fanfuckingtastic. I’m gonna go put my name on the list ’cause I wanna sing.” I pranced over to the DJ and told him what song I wanted.

When I turned around, Brent had another Jack and Coke ready for me, and I immediately began sipping it. Somehow I felt as if I was embarrassing myself over and over again. I kept profusely apologizing for stupid things. I explained it had been so long since I’d been on a date that I didn’t know how to act. With a wave of his hand, he quickly dismissed my concerns.

We played a couple of games of pool. I won once, but only because he let me play slops. We talked about movies, places we’d been to, and music we liked.

Before long, the DJ announced my turn to sing and my choice of song. I’d almost forgotten entirely about singing. With sweaty palms and my heart thumping, I took hold of the microphone and made my way over to the screen. I sing better when I’m sober, but somehow I managed to sing “Bette Davis Eyes” flawlessly in my raspy style without any hiccups, regardless of my shaking. I could feel Brent’s gaze, like lasers burning holes in the back of my head. He slowly made his way to my left, and I could see him in my peripheral vision. His expression showed complete awe and adoration. I caught his gaze, and, like the naive girl I was, I blushed and cast my eyes downward.

When my song was over and the applause and hollering from the patrons had subsided, I playfully scampered over to Brent. Before I could say anything stupid to inevitably fuck up the moment, he placed a hand under my chin and firmly brought his lips to mine.

His kiss took my breath away. It made my knees weak and set my thighs ablaze. There was more passion in that kiss than in the entirety of my marriage.

After the dizziness subsided, Brent led me to a chair along the south wall and carefully guided me onto his lap. I willfully obliged without hesitation. I was immersed in the moment, no doubt throwing my head back and laughing hysterically at an ill-timed joke, when Brent’s arm suddenly flew up and blocked something from hitting me square in the face.

I sobered up instantly.

Brent shoved me aside and lunged out of the chair. Stage 5 had managed to discover my whereabouts and had thrown a pack of tropical Starbursts at my head!

I was furious. I’d been trying to distance myself from him for over a month, and he wasn’t taking a hint. I’d told him I needed space and didn’t want to see him tonight, and this was how he listened? He was acting as if we were together even though I’d reiterated daily that we weren’t.

How did he find me? I wondered. Did he drive to every local bar looking for my car? He was giving off serious creeper vibes, and I’d had enough of him.

I had to tug on Brent’s arm, dig my heels into the carpet, and lean backward with my entire body weight to prevent Brent from sending Stage 5 to meet Jesus.

Luckily for Stage 5, he was able to skulk his way outside and disappear into the night. Once Brent finished ranting about the “little fucking bastard” triggering his PTSD, I convinced him to calm down and leave the bar. The last thing I wanted to do was make a scene.

We sat in Brent’s blue Dodge pickup truck in the parking lot while we decided where to go. I chain-smoked about four cigarettes while I regained my composure and explained to Brent the predicament I’d found myself in with Stage 5.

Brent listened intently, then interjected, “Do you want to go to Denny’s?”

I was confused by his question but relieved at the thought of a change in scenery, so I silently nodded between drags on my cigarette.

On the ride over to the diner, Brent asked me about my friends and family. I babbled and chattered on about a childhood friend I’d recently kicked out of my house. She was a homeless meth addict who’d been living in Olympia, Washington, until she’d called me begging for help. Though I’d had my reservations about the notion, I’d finally capitulated on the condition that she detox, hold a job, and follow my house rules. Unfortunately, she was unable to stay clean and had made the grievous error of bringing...