Forget the medals. You’ve already won just by being you. -Coach
Tears blur the words in front of me, my injured heart squeezing in my chest.
Lies. He couldn’t have meant that. Or maybe he did at the time, but once he got a taste of the accolades that come with winning a gold medal, he changed.
After drying my eyes with the hem of my dress, I leave the house. But instead of driving to the phone store, as planned, I find myself idling in front of Everett’s house. It’s a small but well-tended Colonial not too far from where I live. There are several newspapers in the driveway since he hasn’t been home to receive them. The shades are pulled down tight.
I’ve never once been inside, which is odd. How many times has he been over to my house for dinner? More than I can count. I’m sure it’s meticulously organized and functional, just like the man himself.
That thought causes my throat muscles to tighten up. I miss him. The lack of him is a physical ache growing worse and worse by the second. I don’t think I’ve gone a full day without some form of contact with my coach for two full years. It feels wrong. It hurts. I want him. To hear his voice and feel him inside of me, his hand around my throat or his sweat dripping on my back. Those strained calls of my name are haunting me.
A rising need to have some form of contact with Everett has me climbing out of the car without realizing what I’m doing. Feeling out of sorts and wired and hypnotized all at once, I go through a low gate and circle around to the back of his house. There is one chair on the patio. A barbeque. A round, glass table with a hole for an umbrella.
I sit in the chair in an attempt to be close with Everett, running my palms up and down the metal arms, but it’s not enough. I need more. I’m suddenly breathless. Fiending for connection with this man who has become my life, then taken himself out of it.
Turning in the chair, my eyes land on a series of rocks in the garden. One of them is ever so slightly askew and somehow I know there’s a key underneath. I get to my feet, anticipation building in my bloodstream. And I toe the rock aside, staring down at the shiny metal key in the dirt. Picking it up and all but throwing myself at the back door, fitting metal into lock, heart rapping with the need to get inside. To be near him.
I step into his kitchen and the scent of him attacks my senses immediately. Crisp aftershave with hints of pear and sandalwood. All I can do is close my eyes and suck it down.
It’s when I open my eyes, that everything I believed about Everett becomes a lie.
Just beyond the kitchen is the living room. And it’s in shambles.
The walls have been slashed so badly, one could almost assume he’s been robbed. Or targeted by someone with a vendetta. Or one might assume that if it wasn’t my name carved into every available inch of the wall. It’s a wonder they’re still standing.
I swallow hard and move farther into the living room, the space throbbing around me like a beating heart. My old swimsuits are tacked to the walls alongside pictures of me. Photos where I am unaware of being pictured at all. Oblivious. I’m sleeping in some of them, my leg thrown over the comforter. There are up close shots of my private parts. My sex. My breasts. My mouth. So many pictures of my mouth. Stolen panties and various items I thought I’d misplaced over the years surround me on every surface.
And there’s an electronic device siting on a side table.
Fingers numb, I turn it on and listen to the crackle of static that matches the white noise in my brain. A second later, I hear my parents’ voices through the device, tinny and distant.
“Margot? Honey? Are you home?” Then more quietly, “Her stuff is here. She must have been here at some point…”
Oh God.
There’s a listening device in my house. My room.
Everett has been listening to me.
He’s been stalking me.
How did I not have a clue?
I stumble backward and my back lands against a wall of photos and souvenirs, my breath sounding loud in my head. What do I do? I have to get out of here. I have to run, right? If Everett took a flight home after me, he could be home any second. I should…report this. I should tell my parents.
But I don’t move.
I can’t move because my thighs are squeezing together in an attempt to subdue the erotic dampening. The clenching of tiny muscles. I’m not turned on by this. I can’t be.