Page 42 of The Longshot

How did he find me?

“Look at you.” Simon runs his cool touch along my cheek before his hands securely find their way into my hair, brushing through the strands the way he did once before. This time, feigning disbelief ridden over his face. “You look so different, Chels. You… you cut your hair?”

My body demands that I take a short breath. I need oxygen. I need to breathe.

“Yeah.” I swallow, building up the courage to muster out a response. “I did.”

He grazes the ends of my fringe—staring down at me as if he no longer recognizes who I am.

Good.

I don’t want him to.

When I arrived in Crawley, I was determined to rid any piece of myself that reminded me of Simon.

“You know, I love your long hair,” he used to tell me repeatedly. “It’s beautiful. Promise me that you’ll never cut it. Promise me?”

That’s what he used to do: make me promise things to him, and I would. My promises to him became an oath, but I couldn’t go on any longer.

He didn’t deserve to have any say, claim, input, or promise, and so, despite his voice that cried out in the back of my mind as I sat in the salon chair, I cut off my long hair, just like I cut him out of my life.

“Hm.” His face is full of disappointment as he swallows deeply, using this opportunity to brush my fringe away from my face and tuck it behind my ear. “So, tell me.” He pulls back, his voice dropping an octave. “Is there anything else new about you that I should know about? I mean, new hair, new job, new life? Christ, Chelsie. It’s only been a month. What the hell is going on?”

I shy my body away from his dissecting gaze, one that continues to pick me apart as I rub along my arm in comfort.

I don’t answer his question. Instead, I ask him one in return. “How did you… find me?”

The once simple task of formulating a sentence becomes so difficult. Now, I’m finding myself talking to the ground as I speak, afraid of what those icy eyes might tell me in response.

“Oh, darling.” He eliminates any space between the two of us, clutching onto either side of my cheeks and drawing me in. “You didn’t think I’d stop looking for you, did you?”

He chuckles softly as I freeze. His firm grasp commands my wandering eyes as he towers over me, forcing my chin upwards. “C’mon, darling,” he repeatedly calls me. “Don’t you know me by now? You know that I’ll always do what it takes. That I never, ever, give up.”

I resort to chewing on the inside of my cheek to stop the emotions washing across my face. He makes it so difficult to hold out, but as I watch him reach into his back pocket and reveal a series of envelopes, a wince falls from my lips.

My mail.

The mail Holly said she would send me.

He has them.

How did he get them?

“Wanna hear a funny story?” Simon flaunts the envelopes in front of my face. “I just so happened to run into your roomie who was on her way to the post office earlier today. Holly, right?” he asks rhetorically.

He knows her name.

He knows exactly who she is.

“Anyway, it turned out that after all this time, she did know where you were. I mean, she was even going out of her way to make sure you were getting your mail. What a good, loyal, honest friend. Am I right?”

I grind my teeth. I can’t stand the underlying cadence in his tone. “Simon…” His name is like poison as it taints my lips. “What did you do?”

He places a victimized hand against his chest. “What did I do?” he asks, visibly offended. “Whatever do you mean, darling?” He looks at me with a face full of disillusion. “All I did was save Holly the hassle of the postage costs. Christ, if anything, me coming all the way down out here has cost me money!”

I shake my head, having difficulty processing what he’s evidently trying to tell me.

“Holly wouldn’t do that.” I rub along my temples in an attempt to soothe the pounding in my skull. “She wouldn’t have just given my mail to you. I know her.”

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