The Watcher Girl(9)
The two exchange laughs and words I can’t make out from this far away. A moment later, he takes Grace off her hands so she can stack those mountains of junk mail and magazines under her arm for the journey back.
They visit for another minute before he hands the child over, and he leaves her with a wave as he continues on his way.
It hurts to blink, and I have no idea if I’ve done so in the past five minutes. My mind attempts to catalog every detail about her, from the logo on her pale-pink sneakers to the way her sandy ponytail bounces on her shoulders with each buoyant step.
I rub my eyes and force myself to focus on something else for a second. It’s an old trick I learned after spending endless hour upon endless hour glued to a computer monitor. But the last thing I expect to see when I steal another glimpse across the street . . . is Campbell walking this way.
My throat constricts, and I reach for my phone, pulling up a random app in hopes of appearing preoccupied and nonchalant.
From behind the dash, I observe as Campbell walks closer, closer still. For a fraction of a moment, I manage to convince myself she’s returning a neighbor’s misdelivered mail, maybe strolling across the street to say hello to someone.
I close my eyes and brace, waiting for her to pass.
Stick me behind a computer screen and I’m fearless, unstoppable—a force to be reckoned with. But stalking people—physically stalking people—is outside my scope of expertise. It’s creepy, and it brings with it the burn of acid bile in the back of my throat.
The sound of knuckles rapping on glass forces me to accept that I’ve completely lost control of this situation.
I roll the driver’s side window down a few inches and ignore the heat inching up my neck despite the full-blast air-conditioning.
“Hi. Can I help you?” My voice is meek and mild. Pathetic. Not how I imagined meeting my doppelg?nger—not that I ever imagined meeting her.
In all my scenarios involving Sutton, she was never a part of them. There was never any need. This isn’t about her. Truthfully, I feel sorry for the poor thing because she hasn’t the slightest inkling that she’s anything more than a standin.
Second choice.
“Hi there,” she says, her makeup-free lashes batting. She hoists the child on her hip again and almost loses a flyer tucked beneath her arm. My stare intersects with hers, causing my breath to hitch. We share the same oblong face, the same unremarkable plain-brown eyes. The same aquiline nose. Of course I’ve seen her in photos this past week, but nothing compares to up close and personal. “I’m so sorry to bother you.”
She’s apologizing to me?
“Just wanted to let you know you’re parked in a no-parking zone,” Campbell continues, nodding toward a red-and-white sign several yards ahead that clearly says NO PARKING ON SATURDAYS.
Since when has that been a thing?
“Ah. Had no idea. I’m so sorry about that.” I grip the steering wheel, foot pressed against the brake before I shift out of park. “I was just sending a few texts . . . didn’t want to text and drive so I pulled over . . . wasn’t paying attention . . .”
Since when have I been a nervous rambler?
Campbell manages a shrug, and her full mouth pulls into a smile. “So not a huge deal. It’s just that it’s trash day, and the truck should be coming through any minute. Those guys love doling out citations. They don’t even give you a chance to move, they just take down your plate number and send it in. It’s like the city gives them a cut of the profits or something.”
She clucks her tongue and rolls her eyes as if this issue directly inconveniences her, too. An attempt to be personable, maybe? To get on my level? The scent of fruit snacks and the sweet tang of vanilla-clementine perfume trails from her to me—the very kind I’m all too familiar with, because it was my signature scent in college.
I conjure up a vision of Sutton breathing her in after a long day at the office, nuzzling his nose in the bend between her neck and shoulder, pretending she’s me.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” I wave, roll up my window, and get the hell out of there.
In the rearview mirror I see Campbell and her daughter schlep home, mail in tow, and I can still smell her—no—my fragrance with every inhalation.
It clings to me the entire three blocks home, sticking to my lungs with each shallow breath.
Turning into our shady driveway, I park my rental behind the third stall of the garage in case our street, too, is suddenly a NO PARKING ON SATURDAYS street.
Now that Campbell has seen my face—sunglasses and hat aside—this changes things.
I’m going to have to be careful about how I approach Sutton. I can’t show up at one of his favorite restaurants and pretend to be back in town by chance—my original (if not lame) Plan A. I could show up at his office, but that’d be a jerk move regardless of my well-meaning intentions. Odds are, if I run into him outside work hours, he’ll be with his family. With her. And she could recognize me. The idea of her mentioning to him that she saw me on their street sends me cringing.
Last thing I want is for him to think I’m the crazy one here.
I need to think about this some more.
I’m halfway to the front door, visions of researching Campbell in my head, when someone calls my name from the street, stopping me dead in my tracks.
From the corner of my eye, I spot my younger sister climbing out of her electric SUV in such a rush she almost forgets to shut the door. Her long legs break into a gazelle-like canter across the driveway. Before I have a chance to react, she wraps me in a hug that smells like gardenias—and our mother—and chokes every last bit of air from my lungs.