Before His Wedding, the Good Girl He Used Quietly Vanished Chapter 11

Before His Wedding, the Good Girl He Used Quietly Vanished Chapter 11

After that night, he never tried to force his way in again.

But he didn’t leave either.

The first month, every time I opened the door, a black SUV was parked across the alley.

He sat inside, the window cracked just enough.

All I could see were his fingers, holding a cigarette.

Long fingers. Sharp knuckles.

You didn’t need to see his face to know what he looked like.

But none of it moved me anymore.

I’d already had my taste of him.

The taste had long since gone stale. I didn’t want it back.

I walked past his car all the time, on my way to campus, the grocery store, the library. A bag of

tangerines in hand.

I never looked.

He didn’t get out. He just sat.

The second month, the car disappeared.

He started showing up on foot.

When I took the trash out, he’d be under the sycamore tree.

When I studied by the window, I’d catch him at the edge of my vision, standing at the end of the

alley.

The wind in Bellwether City cut right through you in winter.

After half an hour, he’d have to pace just to keep warm.

One day, it snowed.

I came back from the store and found a snowman under the streetlight.

Lopsided. Uneven. It had tangerine seeds for eyes.

He wasn’t there.

But there was a note stuck in the top of its head.

Two words. [Stay warm.]

On my way up, the elderly woman downstairs opened her door and waved me over, smiling.

She pointed to the snowman outside.

Then, in her slow, raspy drawl:

“That boy… came by this morning… stood out there… for a long time…”

He came back the next day.

Half the snowman had melted into slush.

He looked at the snowman. Then at me.

I didn’t stop. I went straight inside.

He called after me. “It’s gonna drop below freezing tomorrow.” The wind swallowed half of it.

Before the door shut, I caught the rest. “…Wear something warmer.”

I kicked off my shoes at the door and wondered when he’d learned to say things like that.

He used to say, “Don’t bundle up like that. It ruins the look.”

By the third month, I’d gotten used to him being there.

I didn’t greet him. Didn’t go near him. Didn’t respond.

He was just part of the scenery, at the end of the alley, every day, like clockwork.

Different clothes some days. A coffee in hand on others.

When I walked past, he didn’t follow.

He just watched me go.

One morning in the sixth month, I opened the curtains, and the alley was empty.

The ground under the bare tree was clean.

No one. No car. No cigarette butts.

I stood at the window, looking down, for a full minute. Making sure.

Tessa asked me that day, “Is your alley guy gone?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She tugged my scarf tighter. “He was creepy.”

I said nothing.

That evening, when I passed the end of the alley, my feet drifted toward the tree before I realized what I was doing.

I caught myself and kept walking.