Page 133 of American Beauty

He looks at me for a moment, then turns and leaves without another word.

By the time I get home, the sun has dipped low behind the city skyline, throwing long shadows across the floor of my apartment. I drop my bag on the table, kick off my shoes, and sink onto the couch.

I’m okay. Nothing happened—technically––but the remaining tremble in my hands says otherwise. The way mychest still rises too fast, as if my body hasn’t realized the danger has passed.

Or has it?

I press the heels of my palms to my eyes and sit there, breathing slow and deep, trying to steady myself. To not let his voice echo in my head. But it’s there anyway.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or both.

Instead, I reach for my phone. Alex called while I was driving home, but I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t ready to talk, too afraid he’d hear it—the fear I couldn’t hide in my voice.

I could tell him what happened, let the anger in his voice wrap around me like armor. Let him rage for me. Worry for me.

But I don’t. Because I know what this would do to him.

He’s still healing, still in pain, even if he won’t admit it. If I tell him Tyson showed up at my office and crossed a line, I know what will happen.

Alex won’t just be angry. He’ll be consumed. And right now, he needs peace, rest, time to recover without this polluting his mind.

So I swallow it.

The flowers arrive mid-morning.

I’m in the middle of reviewing fabric samples when the delivery driver walks in, holding a tall glass vase overflowing with red roses.

Beautiful. Thoughtful. Deliberate.

But Alex knows I prefer white hydrangeas and pale pink roses. That’s what he always sends me.

Alex didn’t send these.

My stomach turns as I reach for the envelope, fingers stiff, breath held.

Magnolia,

I’m sorry. For everything. I’ll make it right.

—T

I walk the vase to the back of the studio and toss the entire thing in the dumpster, water and all. I don’t care how beautiful they are. They reek of manipulation.

There’sa car parked across the street from my office, blacked out from top to tires. Matte finish. No chrome. No shine. The windows are tinted too dark to be legal.

It’s there when I arrive in the morning. Still there after lunch. Gone by early afternoon… but back again before I shut down for the day.

I try not to let it get to me, but my skin is tight with awareness, my every move more careful. I find myself repeatedly glancing over my shoulder without meaning to. Listening for footsteps I don’t hear.

It might be nothing. A coincidence. But deep down, I know it’s something.

I try to shake it off. Charleston isn’t that big. People park in weird places all the time. But it sticks with me—that tight feeling at the base of my spine. The itch of being watched. Of knowing I’m not alone even when I am.

My nerves are frayed by the time I leave work and go to Violet’s. I’m two steps in before she picks up on my vibe. “What’s he done now?”

God, how does she do that?

“Vi, I’m okay. It’ll––”

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