That kind of morning
Ruthie’s POV
At first I tell myself it’s nothing. Just… coincidences. It’s a word I say to myself over and over until it almost sounds believable. It’s a mantra against the tightening knot in my stomach. Eliot’s sweet. Too sweet maybe. The kind of guy who listens, remembers the small details. Before I even open my eyes he’s already texting me good morning, a digital sunrise I’m used to. He arrives with my favorite snacks – the spicy chili-lime chips I mentioned only once a few weeks ago.
Without my even requesting it, he amazes me by picking me up from work, his vehicle a source of warm familiarity waiting for me on the curb.
It’s all perfect. Too perfect. A perfect so fragile it’s like a thin layer of sheet ice over black water. And I steel myself not to dwell on that. I try to concentrate on the wedding and the soft white dress that’s hanging in my closet and on the life we’re expect to be building. I’m just jittery. Pre-wedding jitters, that’s all. I want it so badly to be true that I almost convince myself it is. But the feeling remains, a vague sense of wrongness under the surface of our perfect life.
It’s like a puzzle piece being forced into a spot where it doesn’t belong, the edges tearing just a little.
I’m at the health clinic, in the middle of a deep-tissue treatment by Mrs. Petrov, my hands unclenching the knots in her shoulders, when I break for water—and there he is.
Eliot.
He’s leaned on the desk at the front reception talking nonchalantly with my colleague, Sarah, who appears to be in no small amount of distress. He breaks that soft, movie-worthy smile of his as soon as he lays eyes on me. “Hey, you,” he says, his voice a low, private thrum that sends a blush to Sarah. “Thought I’d surprise you with lunch.”
I blink, letting down my professional mask. Lavender and sterile disinfectant are the scents that hit you upon entering the clinic, and with Eliot somewhat suddenly now in attendance, his presence feels jarringly out of place. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” He holds up a paper bag, garlic smelling bag. “Your favorite—pasta and pita with extra garlic bread from Luigi’s.”
My coworkers giggle behind me. “He’s such a keeper,” one of them whispers, loud enough for me to hear.
I smile because I’m supposed to. It’s the smile I give to tough clients. But my stomach is tightening and pulling that knot further. I didn’t tell him when my break was today. I didn’t even text him my schedule; I was running too late this morning. That said, I shrug with a rattling laugh and trail him out the door to a bench by the parking lot.
He peels open the food delicately, as if he’s holding something breakable, and gives me a fork. He asks, his eyes turning to analyze me.
“You look tired.”
“Yeah,” I lie with a forkful of pasta. “Just work. Mrs. Petrov’s back is a mess.”
He touches my cheek, his thumb trailing across my skin. “You’ve been doing too much. After the wedding, I want you to leave that place. You need rest.”
I blink at him, the fork pointed at my mouth. “Eliot, I like my job. I started my client list from scratch.”
“I know, I know,” he says quickly, smiling again, smoothing it over. “Just saying, you don’t have to stress anymore. You’ll have me.”
It’s supposed to sound comforting. It sounds like a cage.
Later that night: I’m home alone. The apartment seems too quiet to me, hollowed out by my best friend's absence. Aiden’s still at the precinct, probably drowning in files and stale coffee again. I’m in my oldest pajamas, the ones with the faded cartoon dogs, my hair piled in a messy knot. I’m scrolling mindlessly through my phone, thumb flicking past lives that seem infinitely simpler than mine, when I see it—a text from Eliot.
Eliot: “You look beautiful tonight.”
My heart doesn’t just skip. It stops. It drops into my stomach and sits there, a cold, hard stone. Beautiful? Tonight? I look around my empty room, at the closet door slightly ajar, the curtains were drawn. I’m not on a video call. It’s been days since I posted a photo online. I have glasses and no makeup on, a definitive “not beautiful” picture. My fingers are cold as I fingertip away.
Me: “How do you know what I look like?”
The three dots pop up and then disappear. A minute elongates into a torment of silence. Then—
Eliot: “Just meant you’re always beautiful. Don’t think too much about it ❤️.”
I weakly laugh, a puff of air that fogs up the screen. Overthinking. Right. I’m being paranoid. He’s just being sweet. Too sweet. I’m about to text back when I catch a shadow pass my window. It’s on the second floor; there's no balcony, just a narrow ledge and a sturdy oak tree branch close. It wasn’t a bird. It was solid, man-shaped, and gone in a flash. I scramble off the bed, my heart clawing it way up my neck. I yank the curtain back, pressing my face against the cold glass. Nothing. Just the empty street, the flickering streetlight, the swaying branches. And all of a sudden I can’t breathe.
\---
The next day, I tell myself it’s all right. It was the branch. It was a trick of the light. Eliot was just being poetic.
I am scheduled to get together with one of my friends Louisa for coffee, a much-needed vent session. I have to tell somebody. I want to hear someone else say I’m nuts. I arrive at the diner near my office, The Daily Grind, the one I told Louisa to meet me at, and I freeze. Eliot’s already there. He is seated at a table by the window, with a steaming mug before him.
“Hey,” he says, smiling as he stands to pull out a chair for me.
I freeze, my hand still on the door. “Eliot? What are you doing here?”
“Just getting some coffee before my meeting. I thought I’d see if you were on break.”
“I… I’m meeting Louisa here.” at the door.
“Oh, perfect! I’d love to see her.” at the door.
“But I thought we were meeting at the other café,” I say slowly, my mind racing. “The one on Elm Street.”
He frowns, pretending to think. “Oh, right. You mentioned this one last week, didn’t you? Said you loved their scones.”
I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t. I am so not a fan of their scones. They are always dry.”
Louisa arrives minutes later, apologizing for being late and looking flustered. Eliot is charm personified, kissing me on the forehead and buying Louisa’s coffee before leaving. As soon as he’s gone, Louisa stares after him. “Wow. He’s… something.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, my fingers cold around my cup.
“You okay? You look tense.”
“I don’t know,” I admit, the words spilling out in a whisper. “He’s just… always around. Even when I don’t tell him where I’ll be. He showed up at my work yesterday. He knew which café I’d be at today, even though I told you a different one.”
Louisa smirks, taking a sip of her latte. “That’s what you call a good boyfriend, babe. He’s attentive. He loves you."
“Maybe,” I whisper. “Or perhaps it’s something else,” I say.
That night I dream of the sound of gunfire, crisp and c
onclusive. I come out of sleep trembling and my pillow is wet with perspiration.