The Lies We Tell
Chapter 4
Michael's hand rests on the lower part of my stomach. The gesture feels possessive somehow, in a way that I can't quite explain, and that makes me feel uncomfortable and suffocated. I gently remove it, hoping he doesn't wake up. I slowly untangle myself from the blanket, then tip-toe to the bathroom to relieve my morning bladder. I grab a glass of water, then quietly return back to bed. But as soon as I close my eyes I jump right up again when the sudden blaring ring of my cellphone reverberates throughout the room. `Mmm,' Michael grumbles next to me, awake now.
"Hello," I answer, rubbing my eyes. I'm met with the usual silence. It's been happening daily now. "Who is this?" I inquire, angrily. I'm becoming really tired of this silly game. But whoever is on the other end is refusing to provide any answers. "Stop calling me, whoever you are," I say, then hang up.
"What's going on?" Michael inquires.
"Remember how I told you something weird was going on, with someone canceling the rehearsal dinner and our furniture delivery? Well now I keep getting these silent phone calls. Multiple times throughout the day. And I don't know if I'm completely paranoid, but I swear someone was following me yesterday," I explain. Michael frowns. "Do you think I should maybe go to the police, or am I overreacting?" I ask.
"I think I know what's happening," he replies. He sighs and sits up.
"What do you mean?" I ask, not understanding.
"I haveÉhow do I say this. I have sort of a stalker," he confesses. I'm still confused. I say nothing, and he continues. "I'm pretty sure it's this woman I went out with a couple times. She became a bit obsessed with me, so I cut off all contact. I think she's the one calling you. But don't worry, I'll fix it. I'll go talk to her today." I frown as my heart drops into my stomach, why hasn't he told me this before? I thought we knew everything about each other.
"I don't understand, so she still wants to be with you?" He looks me squarely in the eyes as I fold my arms.
"Yes, she had this idea that we were going to get married. I swear I only went out with her a few times. I think she's mentally unstable. It's sad really. I'll see if I can get in touch with some of her family, get someone to help her."
"How long has this been going on, and why haven't you told me?"
"I just blocked her on all my devices, so I haven't thought about it honestly. But I guess she found out we were engaged somehow. I'm so sorry, I should have told you sooner. I just didn't want to worry you." He sounds genuine, and I slowly calm down. "Come here." He pulls me into a hug. "I'll fix it, I promise."
"No more secrets?"
"No more secrets," he replies, then plants a kiss on my lips. He takes a quick peek at the clock. "I still have some time," he winks at me, then pulls me back down onto the bed.
After Michael is gone, I start to clean up the place and accept a few more shipments of furniture. I answer some emails in regard to our wedding, then order a pizza for lunch. Just as I'm biting into the first slice, the phone rings again. Unknown caller.
"Listen psycho, I know who you are," I say when I hear a loud sob on the other end. Suddenly I feel guilty, even though she's the one that's been harassing me for days now. I listen silently, another sob. "Are youÉare you okay?" I ask, concerned. Michael did say she needed help. Maybe she was at her breaking point, and my rude language sent her over the edge. "I'm not mad at you. I didn't mean to be rude," I continue, but she hangs up.
I continue to eat my pizza in confusion. I wonder whether I should call Michael, but I decide against it. I'll tell him when he gets home. I don't want him to think I'm being hysterical about the situation. My thoughts are interrupted by an incoming text. It reads: "If you want the truth about Michael, meet me at the cafŽ outside of your building after he leaves for work tomorrow morning. DO NOT tell him about this text Ð Emma."
I reread it a couple times, my heart beating fast. What truth is she talking about? I had just told Michael that there would be no more secrets between us, but I have to find out exactly what the hell this woman is going on about. So, I make up my mind. I decide to meet the stalker in the morning.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.