Stalking the Dancer || 18+

Part Fifteen - Goosebumps

"We only have fifteen minutes left, are you sure that's all you wanted to talk about today?"

I've been fidgeting in my chair for the past five minutes, unwilling to make eye contact with Susan, who was nice enough to fit me into her schedule today. My hands are twisting together as I watch my fingers wrinkle and unwrinkle when they move. Although I know the question was inevitable, I don't want to tell her why I needed a last-minute session. Susan's always happy to sit with me quietly if that's what I need, but she's been much more persistent than normal today. She must feel something is off just like I do.

I force my eyes to meet hers, patiently waiting across the room. "I got goosebumps this morning." She nods slowly before asking, "And you used to get them when he watched you through your apartment window?" It's my turn to slowly nod, my eyes unfocusing as I remember the instances that my body reacted to being stalked like prey; standing at the kitchen counter slicing a tomato or dancing through my apartment while I cleaned. There's no way for me to know if I felt it every single time he came to watch me, although I doubt I did. I don't have magical powers, I had no idea I was being stalked until after he'd broken in, yet somehow I knew he was out there. I could feel his eyes on me even though he was nowhere in sight– and this morning, standing in my old bedroom in Mom's house, I had that feeling again. 

I still feel off. 

"Do you believe it was him?" My eyes focus back on Susan, her face conveying how well she's listening to everything I say. Do I think it was him? I want to, for some sick and twisted reason. I want to see him again, to know what he'd do seeing me living free, but she didn't ask me what I think, she asked what I believe. 

"I've had a pit in my stomach since it happened. It was just unsettling," She's nodding again, a real therapist move if you ask me, "I'm sure it was. You've been doing such an excellent job during this transition and I can imagine getting that feeling felt disruptive to your progress. The good news is that you're here and we've got plenty of time to talk through it." Susan always knows what to say to get me talking and I can feel myself falling into the story that's racing through my mind, "My dad left when I was young, but you know that already," She gives me a knowing look and that's all it takes to spur me on, "I've been wondering if that's why it felt so good to be wanted. Maybe it wasn't him, maybe I would've fallen for anyone who gave me that kind of attention."

She thinks it over for a moment before the corner of her mouth turns up lightly, "You could be right." My brows knit together and I feel the frown wash over my features, which only makes the other corner of her mouth upturn, "Or you could be wrong." Realization hits me like a tidal wave, I don't want that to be true. I don't want Billy to be more collateral damage left over from my father walking out. I want him because my feelings are real, no matter how twisted they are, and that means they could be worth exploring. 

A rush of adrenaline flows through me, sending a shockwave of motivation to every nerve ending in my body. I'm not sure I'm ready to go back– I don't even know if I should– but at least, for once in my life, I know how I feel. Five minutes later I'm walking out of her office with a resolve so strong that Billy himself couldn't move it.

I want him, but now I need to decide if the good outweighs the bad.

_

I'm twirling spaghetti onto my fork, sitting across from my mother at the dining room table when she asks about him again. I haven't told her much but in a moment of weakness during my first week back home, she'd gotten me to admit that my emotional funk was because of a boy. My poker face isn't good, but my mom can see right through it. She has a third eye for lie-detecting that I sadly didn't inherit. I've trusted the wrong person more times than I can count, which was the main reason I wanted to leave this town in the first place.

"Well, as long as he isn't like Mark I'm sure he'll fit right in." I roll my eyes and finish chewing before pointing my fork at her, "I cannot be held accountable for the decisions Teenage Dorothy made, she was naive!" Mom snorts and swats my fork with her own, "Naive is putting it nicely, that boy's a real piece of work." Even though we're joking around I can feel the genuine distaste that laces her voice when she talks about him. Mark was my first boyfriend in high school, he was my first everything. I thought we were happy together but over time things started shifting in our relationship. He wanted the final say in every decision, even if it had nothing to do with him. His jealousy manifested through watching my social media accounts for any activity between myself and other guys, going so far as to demand I unfollow every boy I followed previously. He started losing his mind if I didn't text him back within ten minutes even if I was at school or dance lessons. Soon enough he was pressuring me physically, telling me that 'This is what people in love do,' but it never felt like love. It felt like control at the expense of someone else's safety. My safety.

I knew it had to end two years after we got together. I was cast in a duet for a local dance recital with a dancer a year younger than me. One night, he asked me to stay late after our rehearsal to hammer out some of the transitions in our routine. When we finished up and walked out to the parking lot Mark was already waiting for us. I hadn't checked my phone in hours and from the furious look on his face, he must've texted me. I braced myself for the verbal beating that was bound to fall around me, but Mark's gaze shifted to my dance partner and he was barreling toward him in a flash. I couldn't think, I had no clue what to do, but I couldn't let him hurt my duet partner. I'd lose my spot in the Company if I haven't already.

I jumped in between them before Mark got to him. What kind of boyfriend makes you physically restrain him from getting in an unnecessary fight? Mine, apparently. I punched his chest and screamed in his face as he tried to force his way past me. Thankfully, the kid behind me had the sense to run to his car after he decided that Mark wasn't going to start beating me and drove off into the night. I was mortified– I still am– but he acted like he was some sort of valiant hero who rescued me from a dragon. He tried to kiss me, but I shoved him off of me and mustered the courage to dump his ass while I had the adrenaline on my side. He grabbed my wrist as I opened my car door, twisting it so hard that it left a bruise. 

That's why my mom hates him so much. She spotted the bruise the morning after it happened and I had no reason to cover for Mark at that point, so I told her the truth. She's made it her mission to lead his hate campaign ever since and I honestly can't blame her, if someone treated my kid that way I think I'd commit a crime or seven. 

I shove the memories back into my mental filing cabinet where they belong, taking another mouthful of spaghetti as I think of how far my mom and I have come over the past few weeks. Our bickering has smoothed into lighthearted conversations and that is a change I can be grateful for. As hesitant as I was to come back here, it isn't as bad as I remember it.

After dinner we wash the dishes before going our separate ways, mom parking herself in front of the TV to watch the newest episode of whichever crime drama she's into these days, and me to my room so I can do my stretches before bed. The cast is no excuse for losing my flexibility and I'll need it if I ever want to dance recreationally. I'm sitting on my bed in a front split when the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Is he here? No, that's absurd, he wouldn't come here just to stalk me all over again. Or would he? 

I roll out of my splits and throw my legs over the side of my mattress as I take a long look out of my bedroom window. It's too dark to make out anything other than the oak standing tall in the backyard, no amount of squinting my eyes helps clarify whatever may be lurking in the night. Minutes pass and no visible movement comes from outside, so I sit back before crawling under the covers and grabbing my book from the side table. It's a romance novel about a mysterious, guarded Bratva boss and an innocent young woman who finds herself in the wrong place at the wrong time– one of my favorite tropes of all time. 

Just as she stumbles upon the crime her future lover has committed, before he inevitably sweeps her off her feet and into the seedy underworld that he must protect her from, the flesh on my arms scatters in bumps. They carry a chill that runs up my body into my neck. 

Goosebumps.