Rebecca has no right to call him, outside of work, at this late hour, and ask for help. She isn't his girlfriend, not even his mistress, anymore, and her rational brain acknowledges she has no claim to him whatsoever. Even though she made the decision, she refused to knock on his door that day, doesn't mean his withdrawal doesn't hurt like hell.
Since he moved out of their shared office, Nathaniel has been aloof, stiff with her. No more surprise lattes on her desk. No more secret smiles that make her heart flutter. No more banter about office supplies or board games or whose snobby school is superior or how Tim screwed up yet another brief. No more parting kisses that last a little too long for two people who are supposed to be fuck buddies. No more loitering at her desk, his fingertips brushing the back of her neck, sending little bumps up her arms.
Sure, he's physically there, side-by-side with her each day, yet, emotionally, he couldn't be more far away. She tries to joke around with him, at first. She tries to establish a witty repartee that's purely platonic. But then she notices the flicker of pain in his eyes as he forces himself to put distance between them, and she knows she has to let go. He's clearly trying, with Mona, that is, and she has to respect that. She has to live with her choices.
Rebecca hasn't had a good night sleep since Trent came barreling back into her life. This is her penance, she thinks, not only for being a home-wrecker but also for jeopardizing her friendship with Paula. Her self-hatred is at sky-high levels these days, even by Rebecca standards.
So, as she stares down at the phone in her hands, trembling, she fights the urge to call him with every last shred of her dwindling will power. But desperation and fear win out, his name on the screen beckoning her, begging for her touch. She succumbs.
Her throat goes dry as she waits for him to pick up.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
An anguished whimper rattles in her throat when it goes to voicemail.
She should hang up. It's bad enough that he'll see the missed call, and yet -
"Hi, it's me," she says after the beep, the words spilling out, sounding way more pitiful than she intends, "I know things are weird between us right now, but I really need you."
She can't help it. She's pleading into the phone as she paces the length of the living room.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know it's the middle of the night, and you're probably with your girlfriend, but I don't know what to do," she says in a rush, her voice breaking on the last word.
She takes a deep breath before continuing. "That guy you thought was my boyfriend...he's not my boyfriend. He's actually the opposite of my boyfriend and I think he's stalking me. I think he might be lurking outside my apartment and I'm scared. Heather's not here and I'm alone and, as much as I hate to admit it, I could use a man here right now. Call me."
Before she ends the call, she adds, "It's Rebecca."
She watches Nathaniel's name flash three times and then disappear from the screen.
She lets out an exaggerated groan into the vast emptiness of the apartment. God, that voicemail was so pathetic. What was she thinking? She presses the phone to her forehead, as if she can psychically erase the message from miles away.
Defeated, she pads back to her bedroom, turning off all the lights on the way. For a moment she stands at the foot of her bed, clutching her phone over her heart like a lifeline. Sucking in a breath, she stoops to the floor and checks under the bed.
Empty.
Her heart races as she stands up and treads over to the window. In a swift motion, she pulls back the curtains.
Nothing.
Unless...are those bushes rustling?
She backs away from the window, her breathing starting to come in shallow, fast bursts. Pressing her back to the nearby wall, she slides down, her butt hitting the floor with a thud. She pulls her knees tight up to her chest, folding herself into a ball.
Is she losing her mind? Is she having a dissociative episode?
The dreams about Trent feel so, so real. Deep in her gut, she feels his presence. He's out there. He's watching her.
Oh god, he could break in at any moment and no one would ever know. He could easily overpower her and she would be helpless.
She threads her fingers together. "Dear god, I know we don't talk very much. Or, ever. But if you let me survive tonight, I promise I'll start lifting weights and bulk up these weak arms. I'll take self-defense classes. I'll get protection -"
That's it. Protection. A weapon.
She peels herself off the floor and hurries to the kitchen, her gaze zeroing in on the knife block on the counter. When she unsheathes their largest, most intimidating knife, a ray of moonlight glints off the blade, giving it a menacing aura.
What now?
As she's contemplating her next move, a loud knock pierces the unnerving silence, causing her to let out a small scream. She immediately cups her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
Her stomach is doing its own little gymnastics routine and her hand grips the knife so tightly her knuckles turn white.
This is how I die.
She quietly creeps to the door, her breathing becoming even more labored and erratic.
Should she confront him head-on? Throw open the door and pretend she's not afraid? Hide in the closet and hope he goes away? Escape out the bedroom window and run?
Another knock. "Rebecca?"
Oh, thank god. Her prayers have been answered.
It's Nathaniel.
She lunges to the door and flings it open. When she sees him standing there, half-asleep, in his soft gray t-shirt and running pants, all the breath rushes out of her lungs. She grabs his arm and pulls him inside, shutting the door behind him.
For a beat they simply stare at each other, relief washing over her, until his eyes drift to the knife in her hand. "Whoa," he says, pointing to the object.
She follows his eyes and realizes how this must look, her holding a butcher knife in the dark, her appearance disheveled, haggard, quite a contrast to how she presents herself at the office each day.
"Sorry," she mutters and deposits the knife onto the coffee table. "I, um, I'm a little freaked out. To put it mildly. I haven't been sleeping," she admits, rubbing her hands over her pajama top, smoothing invisible wrinkles.
He clears his throat. "You sounded...I was worried about you."
"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have asked…"
He waves his hand, pushing away all her apologies. "Stop. It's ok. Just tell me how I can help."
"I know it sounds crazy, but I can't shake this feeling that he's outside, watching me."
"Yea, circling back to that. He's not your," he trails off, hoping she'll fill in the rest.
She shakes her head, no.
His forehead wrinkles and she knows she's confused the hell out of him, but how could she even begin to explain Trent's presence in her life?
When she offers no explanation and the silence drags on too long, he says, "I'll check the perimeter of the apartment, ok?"
"Ok," she breathes, beyond grateful. "Maybe you should take this," she begins, reaching for the knife, but he playfully raises one of his eyebrows and she can't help but let out a small laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "Ok, no knife."
With a smirk, he walks out the front door and her eyes follow his outline through the windows as he checks every bush and surveys the surrounding area. She already feels some modicum of solace solely from his presence.
When he returns ten minutes later, she's still waiting patiently by the door for him.
"All clear," he says when he re-enters, shutting the door with finality.
"Ok," she says, nodding, unsure if she should be relieved or embarrassed that she dragged him all the way out for nothing.
"I can stay," he offers. "Do you want me to stay?" She knows what she's supposed to say. She's supposed to refuse and insist he go home and apologize profusely for the trouble. But there's the tiniest hint of hope in his voice, a softness she recognizes all too well, that tells her he wants to stay.
"Yea," she says and his eyebrows lift in surprise, almost excitement, at her answer. "Would you just lay next to me until I fall asleep? Is that ok? I can even put a pillow between us."
He chuckles. "It's ok. No pillow required."
She leads him to the bedroom and they pull back the blankets on either side of the bed in unison, settling in a few inches away from each other, not touching. They both stare up at the ceiling, at first, and Rebecca closes her eyes, willing herself to calm down. But, as soon as she does, she can feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the fear finally catching up with her, causing her body to shake all over.
Sensing her distress, he curls on his side to face her, but both their faces are obscured by the darkness. "Hey, hey," he says softly, "what's going on?"
She mirrors him so they face each other, and he wraps his hand around the nape of her neck, his thumb tracing a circle on her skin. "Don't be scared, I'm right here."
Her face crumples, and she closes the distance between them, burying her face in his chest. He tucks his arm around her and pulls her tight against his body. "I promise I won't let anything happen to you, ok?" he whispers and rubs his hand up and down her back.
Her body shudders, releasing all the built up anxiety, a physical manifestation of weeks of emotional distress. Silently, he continues stroking her back with metronomic precision, riding out the waves, his nose in her hair, a leg hooked over hers.
After a few minutes, the shaking subsides and she focuses on her breathing until it slows.
In and out. In and out.
"I'm so sorry," she says into his chest. "You came out here for nothing."
He shakes his head. "You're worth it. I hope you know that," he says and she believes him, believes that he means it. "You know how I feel."
She decides, impulsively, in that moment, that he deserves to know the truth. "I was there, you know, at your apartment."
"What? When?"
"That day I texted you. I was standing right outside your door."
His chest contracts under her ear as he sucks in a breath, the thrum of his heartbeat quickening.
"But I got scared," she says, her voice dropping down to a whisper. "After what happened with Josh, I don't know if I trust myself yet."
His hand reaches to cup her jaw and she pulls away from his chest, trying to see his face in the darkness, and he presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering about five seconds too long for a kiss between friends.
"You need sleep," he says, his voice gravelly and low. "We'll talk about it later. For now, just sleep."
She brings her head back down to his chest, allowing herself to revel in his warmth, his familiar scent, the steady rhythm of his breathing, his arm secure around her, until she lulls to sleep.