My Perfect Fiancé Was Living a Second Life in Messages Chapter 08

My Perfect Fiancé Was Living a Second Life in Messages Chapter 08

James stayed in my new town.

He didn’t knock again, and he didn’t call again.

Every morning at 7 a.m., a bag of breakfast was left outside my door, something different every day, with a handwritten Post-it note attached.

[It’s cold today. Got you oatmeal.]

[This place’s breakfast burritos are supposed to be good. Let me know if you don’t like it.]

[They were out of scones. Got a croissant instead. Give it a try.]

His handwriting was terrible. A man who required pixel-perfect alignment in his investment banking reports

somehow wrote like a child.

I didn’t eat the breakfasts he left.

Every day before I left, I would put the untouched bag back in the corner by the door.

The first day, he didn’t say anything.

The second day, his note showed a grudging concession.

[You don’t have to eat it. But don’t skip meals.]

The third day, his habitual need for control crept back into his writing.

[The sandwiches from the gas station deli aren’t fresh. Don’t buy those.]

I almost laughed when I read that note.

On my walk home from work, I noticed he was following me, about fifty yards back.

I stopped, and he stopped. I walked, and he walked.

When I reached the corner, I suddenly turned around.

He couldn’t duck out of sight in time. He stood frozen under the streetlight.

We stared at each other from fifty yards.

He didn’t walk toward me. He just held up the umbrella in his hand. The sky looked like it might rain.

I turned and kept walking.

When I got home, a clear, unopened umbrella was hanging from my doorknob.

On the fifth night, I worked late until past nine.

After leaving the building, there was a dark stretch of alley I had to walk through.

I pulled out my phone to turn on the flashlight. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone standing at the entrance of the alley.

James leaned against the wall, watching me.

Still, he didn’t come to me.

He just waited quietly until I walked through the dark stretch. After he saw me turn onto the well-lit main street, he turned and walked the other way.

I stood at the intersection and watched him disappear at the end of the street.

I took a deep breath and kept walking.

On the weekend, my studio coworkers invited me to an arts market by the beach.

I bought a wind chime and hung it outside my window when I got home. When the wind blew, it made a clear,

delicate sound.

That night, lying in bed listening to the chime, I thought of my old home.

I had bought one before, wanting to hang it on the balcony.

James took it down as soon as he saw it.

“Noisy.” That was all he said.

Now, in this new home, I decided where every single object belonged.

The wind chime goes on the window. So it goes on the window.

On the sixth evening, I went downstairs to take out the trash.

In the corner between the first and second floors, he was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed,

dozing off while standing.

A laptop was balanced on his knee, the screen still on.

When he heard my footsteps, his eyes flew open.

We looked at each other.

His first reaction was to glance at the screen, then close the laptop.

But in that split second before it shut down, I caught a glimpse of the screen.

It was a webpage, a long list of rental listings and local guides for this small coastal town.

I didn’t say anything. I walked past him and took out the trash.

When I came back up, he was gone.

But on that corner wall, there was a small smudge where his clothes had rubbed against the wall.

He had been leaning there for a long time.

I reached out and touched the mark with my fingertip.

Then I pulled my hand back and went upstairs.

At my door, today’s breakfast bag was still there.

The note read: [Day six. You still didn’t eat it. But I’m not stopping.]

I looked at that note for a few seconds.

Then I picked up the bag and took it inside.

I set it on the table. I didn’t open it.