The Watcher Girl(24)

Besides, I don’t know Bliss well enough to go over the intricacies of my intimacy issues, the difficulties I’ve had with maintaining relationships, my tendency to destroy things once I deem them too “perfect.”

Plus, if she diagnoses me, she might feel inclined to help me—and I don’t need help.

I stub the joint out on the concrete pavers and tuck it back into a baggie in my purse before rising from the lounge chair.

“Going to take this to go.” I swipe my wineglass from a side table and give her a wink, though it’s dark so I don’t know if she can tell I’m being playful.

“Sleep well, Grace,” she calls after me, her voice soft the way my mother’s once was when she’d tuck us in at the end of an exhausting day.

As I trudge upstairs to my room, I think about what she said—about my father worrying about me, about how thrilled he is to have me home—and then I think about Sutton.

The mere notion of someone being elated to see me is farcical.

I don’t bring joy to people’s lives—quite the opposite.

I’m a rain cloud. I bring thunder, lightning, dusk, and gloom.

I see the worst in people. I prefer my own company to anyone else’s. And things like love and togetherness make me physically ill.

Everyone—and I mean everyone—is better off with a little less of that shit in their lives . . . even if they don’t know it. And most of them don’t.

The average person has no idea what’s good for them. In fact, my family should be happy I’ve made the decision for them. I’m the wet blanket of the family. I serve no purpose but to make those around me uncomfortable. I stare too hard, sometimes. Think too deeply. It makes people nervous.

What Sutton saw in me, I’ll never know.

Or maybe he was always seeing what he wanted to see. He could have been projecting. Convinced he could bring out a lighter side of me by marrying me and making me a family woman, giving me the picture-perfect life I never had.

Ha.

All of that said, I don’t suppose it would pain me to spend a little one-on-one time with my father while I’m here, to make him smile the way Sutton once did for me when he sensed my mood needing a lift.

If I’m here to offer my ex closure, I might as well kill two birds.

Especially since, after this, I may never set foot in Monarch Falls again.





CHAPTER 8

Impatience gnaws at me with sharp, kitten-like teeth. I can’t get comfortable. I scratch the hives forming on my arms before fixating on a hangnail, and on my way to find a pair of nail scissors in the bathroom, I get distracted by what appears to be a gray hair at my temple.

Or maybe I’m imagining it.

All this waiting has me going insane, coming out of my skin.

I text Campbell Friday morning to see if she and Gigi are up for a walk around the neighborhood.

Fresh air? I send in a second text, adding a smiling emoji. I add a tree and sun but delete them before pressing “Send.” Overkill. I don’t need to illustrate the mental, physical, and emotional benefits of a leisurely walk-and-talk.

I figure less than seventy-two hours is enough breathing room after Tuesday’s weirdness. The last thing I want to do is smother the poor girl or bombard her with this insta-friendship, but I’m genuinely concerned.

The message shows as READ within seconds, and I keep an eye on the screen, awaiting some kind of response.

But I get nothing . . . not even three dots indicating a response is on the way.

Chewing my lip, I leave my phone on the nightstand and get changed. If she doesn’t text me back in ten minutes, I’m hopping in my car and driving past. At this point, I don’t care if it’s a psychotic move. I don’t care if normal people don’t do this sort of thing. I’ve never been “normal,” and I’m not about to start now.

Plus, I need to know she’s okay.

Fifteen minutes later—I gave her an extra five just in case—I’m turning the corner to Lakemont, easing up on the gas as I get closer to their brick-blood craftsman. Going too slow would be obvious, but speeding past would get me noticed just as much.

I check my speed and approach the Whitlock residence, palms sweaty on the wheel.

From behind sunglasses, I watch from my periphery.

My heart plunges when I spot Sutton’s Toyota in the driveway.

He’s back from Baltimore—is that why she’s been ignoring me?

Is she not allowed to leave the house if he’s there? I wouldn’t think so, but after the private phone calls and the fact that he “freaks” if there’s a speck of dirt on the floor because he’s so particular . . . it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility.

I continue on my way, fingers crossed she didn’t happen to be gazing out the window at the exact moment I cruised by. The history of our newly minted friendship—if one can call it that—plays like a movie in my head from our very first interaction until our last.

She invited me inside.

She accepted my coffee invite.

She initiated all this.

Everything was going well until the coffee shop when she just . . . bolted. A hundred times I’ve replayed our conversation, scrutinizing and overanalyzing each and every question until I’m certain I didn’t overstep any boundaries. She claimed Gigi felt feverish—and I might have believed her if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s been ignoring my texts and blowing me off ever since.