I reach for the dark-green satchel tucked in the back of the glove box. The thought of it makes me cringe in disgust but comforts me at the same time. As much as I hate having to carry a weapon, it provides a sense of security.
Tonight, feeling vulnerable, I bring it inside the house. I settle the green satchel in the nightstand next to me for safekeeping.
The worst part of Noah’s work schedule is sleeping alone, the fear of being harmed oppressive when the daytime phases out and the darkness replaces it.
As I rest my hands on my belly, the fear becomes magnified, since the thought of protecting another human life is becoming undeniable. I’m filled with a combination of excitement and nerves, wondering when and how I should tell Noah about the baby.
I try to conjure up sleep but I can’t.
Should I get a test and surprise him with the results or take it when he’s present?
Do I need to do something cutesy like I see on Instagram, where people make elaborate announcements with props and clever hashtags?
When I start to toss and turn, I give up and sit cross-legged in bed with my laptop, amassing ideas from Pinterest.
But something else is bothering me . . .
Or someone else, I should say.
Elle. A.k.a. Elizabeth Laughlin.
As much as I’d like to think she’s just a teenager who came to me by accident, a nagging feeling has settled in the pit of my stomach, making sleep impossible.
Who is this strange girl who seems invested in my past, present, and future?
My mind clicks through the timeline of Elle like a photographer taking pictures, each frame from a different angle, a unique perspective. It makes me uneasy to think Elle has become fascinated with the development I live in, for no good reason that I can determine, save for the fact that she seems to run from her own upbringing. She likes the lake and the neighbors, sure, but there are many other areas that provide nature and solitude that don’t take a long bus ride to get there.
And now she’s pet sitting in my neighborhood, out of the blue. She said she was asked, but it can’t be convenient.
I prefer to question the motives of people all the time instead of taking them at face value. Call it my trust issues.
At the diner, Courtney was easy to pry information from in the short time when Elle had walked off. She has loose lips—not the girl you want to confide in, that’s for sure. She would be fun to play a game of telephone with, though. I giggle to myself and can only imagine what she would conjure up.
But for being a known rival, she knows a surprising amount about Elizabeth Laughlin. I guess it makes sense in the same way I had classmates throughout my childhood who grew up with me not by choice but by proximity. We attended the same schools and inadvertently became, at the very least, acquaintances.
Courtney and Elizabeth have grown up together and attended the same schools, and, according to Courtney, Elizabeth’s grades once propelled her into the talented and gifted program and AP classes, before she stopped caring. Or at least it appears that way from her sporadic attendance and tardiness.
The wrought iron bed frame is solid against my back as I rest my head against it to consider both girls. Elle didn’t understand I was trying to help her by doing a favor for Courtney. Maybe it backfired, but if the two of them spent some time together, they’d probably find out they had more similarities than differences.
You thought the same about Lauren, and look how that turned out.
Curiosity causes me to forgo sleep for detective work. If Elle can meddle in my life, I can return the favor. I’m not one to let strangers in, yet this girl has become entwined in my life, and who is she?
Starting a new search, I use both names, Elle and Elizabeth Laughlin, spelling both multiple ways. It should be made easier since I now have her cell phone number, but for some reason, it’s not.
I’m perplexed more by what doesn’t pop up, which raises a streaming bright-red flag.
Every teenager has some type of social media, and most are active on multiple platforms. It’s unheard of that a teen would be able to fly under the radar in this day and age. It’s as if the internet has been scrubbed of her. Not even an address appears.
No Facebook. Instagram. TikTok. Twitter.
Nothing’s listed on the school website, no extracurricular activities or pictures with her name or face. All I find is an article in a student newspaper from last year where random high schoolers were asked what their aspirations were. Elle mentioned she’d like to be a judge so she could counteract the bad with the good. She said her preferred college or university was “undecided.”
Maybe she does have something to hide.
And this puts me on high alert, hence the reason I prefer to stay in my bubble.
I reach out to touch the green velvet case again, just to be sure.
Sleep refuses to come, and, paranoid about Elle, or Elizabeth, I realize I must make it my job to find out who she is and what she wants or needs.
Everyone wants something, I muse, but what does Elizabeth Laughlin want that I have?
The furnace rattles, startling me out of my reverie. The vibration’s strong enough to echo through the vents.
I let out an agitated sigh.
In the morning, I’ll call a repairman to check it. One of the pitfalls of being alone in the house while Noah’s gone. He might earn thousands of airline miles, but at the same time we accumulate costly home repairs. He did mention he would fix it when he got home, but time with him is so limited that I don’t like fixing what’s broken to cut into our time together.
Especially because it’s we who are damaged.
We need the majority of the work.
Twisting my necklace, I’m conscious that one aspect of our relationship we’ve never struggled with is passion.
Noah’s good with his hands, and I imagine his fingers, how they run through my hair, the way he ignites unfettered desire in me.
My face burns as I bury it in a pillow, cringing.
I don’t want to have to tell our child how they were conceived. I picture our evening of truth or dare that ended with us naked on the hood of his car in the middle of a field. It reminded me of college, going into a cornfield to drink beers and smoke a joint underneath the stars.
I must’ve fallen asleep to this image, because the next thing I know, I’m jolting upright at the sound of heavy footsteps.
My instincts kick in, and I claw at the side table for the green satchel, my heart thumping with enough adrenaline to jump-start a marathon.
I hear a door slowly open, a soft creak followed by more footfalls.
My eyes are blurry as I scan the muted darkness of the room.
Then I see the outline of him.
Jonathan.
This can’t be happening.
Wailing, I reach my arms out like tentacles, grabbing whatever’s in their reach.
My arms are pulled to my sides, and his voice cuts through my sobs. “It’s just me, Char.” Noah grabs my shoulders tenderly, rubbing them in a circular motion. “I wanted to surprise you.”
Heaving for air, I give him a well-deserved smack. “What’re you doing home?”
I search for the green illuminated digits on the nightstand.
“It’s four a.m. I caught a red-eye.” He flicks on the lamp next to me, bathing the room in pallid light. “Everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I can smell liquor on him; his breath reeks of airplane bottles of vodka.