“Why am I here?”
“You fell asleep watching the show.”
“Shit. Sorry.” She winces. “I’m not very much fun.”
I want to tell her that sitting in the dark, being her pillow, and watching a couple try to figure out if their house is haunted or just a disaster was enjoyable in a way I don’t quite understand. I want to tell her that she’s plenty of fun, that I’ve had more fun in the few days she’s been here than I’d had in the last year. But I don’t.
“You’re fine. Get some rest.”
She mumbles, “Good night,” and shuffles out, not looking back. I head back to my room, but once I’m in bed, I can’t sleep. The end of our arrangement hangs over my head, and I hate it.
Turning over, I open my nightstand, feeling around until my fingers close on a small metal tube. Claire’s lipstick. It’s half-used, the circle sticker on the bottom starting to peel. As I roll the tube back and forth between my forefinger and thumb, I think back to the day I acquired it. Back when I was trying to figure out the best way to finagle a no-strings-attached sexual relationship with Claire that she might consider.
Three Months Earlier
Stalking is one of those words that gets thrown around too casually. Hiding in bushes, peeking in windows—that’s stalking. What I’m doing now, sitting in my SUV in the side parking lot of the Green Bean, waiting for Claire to arrive for her weekly coffee date with a few other teachers, is merely observation. No different from the evenings when I sit on the front porch, watching deer lurk at the edge of the woods, their bravery growing as the light wanes. When dusk falls, they’ll venture onto the lawn, and I’ll appreciate their beauty, observe them as they graze.
The first time I saw her here, it was unplanned. Every other instance—five, so far—I’ve orchestrated. I’m just not sure to what end. It’s mid-March, and she’s officially divorced now. Since the Christmas party where I discovered what primal play was, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her—well, hunting her. Considering that wasn’t last Christmas but the Christmas before proves this obsession isn’t going to vanish as quickly as it appeared.
The two professionals I hired in an attempt to scratch this primal itch were wildly disappointing. Rather, my cock’s lack of interest in them was. Maybe I should take that as a sign that this kink isn’t for me, but I can’t. Not until I’ve tried it with Claire.
For fifteen minutes I sit in the parking lot, answering emails on my phone. I’m far enough from the building to go unnoticed, but close enough to keep an eye on the patrons coming and going. When a small green pickup pulls in and parks in front of the building, I put down my phone. Claire climbs out of the vehicle. She’s wearing leggings, a navy North Face jacket, a gray beanie, and hiking boots. Face flushed and wind-kissed, her hair in a messy knot at the nape of her neck, she must have come straight from a hike. Leaning back into the cab—fuck, her ass is incredible—she emerges with one of those cross-body backpacks and a reusable water bottle. I watch her unscrew the cap and drink with a level of fascination that would be appropriate for more X-rated activities.
Where does she hike?
There are several trail systems in and around Newbound, Maine, where the Green Bean and the firm are located. Would running into her at one of those be more advantageous than the coffee shop encounters I keep arranging? I decide against it. Besides the impracticality of trying to figure out where she hikes, bumping into me in a coffee shop is very different from bumping into me in the woods. I’m toeing the line of propriety as is; sitting in a parking lot of a trailhead waiting for her to arrive might take me from intensely interested admirer to creepy motherfucker.
Despite my impatience, I stay put. Walking in right after her is too obvious. I need to give her time to get her drink and settle in. Two women walk into the coffee shop. I recognize them from previous visits—one’s a math teacher, and I’m fairly certain the other is the school counselor. I don’t know their names. The one woman in Claire’s friend group whose name I do know, Sydney, is absent today. Grabbing my laptop bag from the passenger seat, it’s all I can do not to head in.
Give them a few minutes.
I wait seven, which feels generous. Then I’m crossing the parking lot, mentally cursing the brisk wind that cuts through my denim jacket and sends an empty paper cup cartwheeling across the pavement in front of me. I try to step on it, but the breeze carries it away before I can. Speeding up, I finally snatch the cup and drop it into the designated bin outside the door.
Stepping into the Green Bean is like stepping into summer. If a place could cure seasonal affective disorder, this one could. The heater is cranked high. Scarves are draped over seatbacks, and coats are piled on empty chairs. Plants are scattered throughout the spacious coffee shop, lush and vibrant, a stark contrast to the dreary Maine March outside. Natural light streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows during the summer, and sunlight-mimicking artificial lighting fills the spaces the windows can’t reach, keeping a cheerful atmosphere on even the grayest days. The couple who own Green Thumb Nursery, Britney and Amanda Fitzner, also own the Green Bean. They were one of my first clients when I started at the firm, and they’re still with us.
I see Claire and a few other women at a table near a mini forest of fiddle-leaf figs. There are several possible seats I could take that would put me in earshot. Excellent. I go through the line and get my beverage, then settle myself at a small table on the other side of the trees. Claire’s back is to me, and she’s fully absorbed in conversation. Unpacking my laptop and putting in my earbuds, I open the document where I keep my Claire notes. It’s frustratingly sparse. I know she likes a home improvement show and lives with Sydney, and a handful of other random tidbits about her work at the school. Next, I open my emails but don’t turn on any music. I’m sitting with my back to the wall, so the chance of someone coming along behind me and wondering why I’m staring at a blank screen is near impossible, but it’s good to be prepared.
Sipping my coffee, I listen to them brainstorm fundraising ideas for classroom supplies. They debate 5Ks and car washes, bake sales and GoFundMes. Responding to emails, I half listen until the conversation shifts from professional to personal.
They’re talking about summer plans. Math Teacher is visiting family in Massachusetts, and she asks Claire what she’s doing.
“Hoping to teach a class at NCC. Probably serving too.”
Summer: teaching + serving, I type into my document. NCC is Newbound Community College. I wish she’d say what restaurant she’s planning to work at.
“Are you at least taking a week or two off? It’s been one thing after another; some downtime wouldn’t kill you.” I think the voice belongs to the counselor, but I can’t look to be certain.
“It’ll be fine.” Claire doesn’t sound like she’s sure. “I’ll be more stressed if I go into the school year without having made a dent in my loans.”
Someone makes a sympathetic sound, and someone else makes a disgruntled noise.
“I wish you would have used my lawyer; there has to be something they can do,” Math Teacher says. “Reimbursement alimony or something.”
Claire sighs, the sound weary, like she’s had this conversation before. “It would have been a fight. We both brought our student loans into the marriage.”
“You helped pay his with the understanding that then you’d work on yours together,” Math Teacher keeps going. “With a good lawyer, you could have made him pay half. It isn’t fair.”
Claire says nothing.
