Page 2 of Ask for Andrea

I moved faster than I’d ever moved in my life, the pounding in my head and my chest and the crushing pressure of the scarf forgotten.

I didn’t care where I was going. All that mattered was putting as much distance between us as possible, even if it meant running headlong into the looming woods.

I thought I heard someone call out as I dove down the rocky slope of the shallow stream bed. It sounded like a woman.

I ignored it and kept running.

He didn’t follow me.

He didn’t need to.

Because when I finally stopped running, I realized to my amazement that I wasn’t out of breath.

Just as quickly, the amazement turned to horror.

I wasn’t breathing hard because I wasn’t breathing at all.

2. BRECIA

Boulder, Colorado

2 Years Before

I first realized I was dead the same way you realize you’ve been dreaming. Except backwards, I guess. Because the bad dream was real.

I didn’t know it had happened at first. Not for a few seconds. Not until I stood up—while my own body stayed put. I looked at the soft chambray pajamas I’d changed into after getting home from work, now dirty and damp. One of my slippers was kicked off, so you could see the chipped peach polish on my bare toes. My long, dark hair was streaked with something darker and sticky. I couldn’t feel the throbbing in my head or the awful pressure on my neck anymore.

He was looking at me, too. Not at me, me. At my body. At my unblinking, bloodshot hazel eyes. He was breathing hard, expressionless. He was still holding the extension cord.

He’d grown out a Joaquin Phoenix beard that nearly—but not quite—obscured the dark mole on his cheek. It made him look ten years older than the last time I’d seen him. If he’d been sporting the beard back then, we probably wouldn’t have gone out in the first place. Don’t get me wrong: I’ll swoon for a good five-o-clock shadow, but this thing was fully bird-nest material. It took him from a comfortable nine to a very solid three.

A year earlier, we had dated for exactly one week. How do I know that? Because he was upset when I spent our “one-week anniversary” with my girlfriends. I couldn’t understand why it bothered him so much. It was Lanelle’s birthday. And like I said, we’d been dating for one week. Still, I talked about him the whole time. I hadn’t dated much since my last breakup a couple years earlier, and it felt good to say the word “boyfriend” again. It felt good to answer all the juicy questions over watermelon margaritas about whether he was a good kisser (yes), good in bed (no idea, early days), and how we’d met. That one, I fudged a little. I wasn’t proud I’d finally gotten desperate enough to make a profile on MatchStrike. So I dodged the question. I decided that if we lasted, I’d fess up.

When I ran into him on my way out of the restaurant after Lanelle’s party, I didn’t know what to think at first. He smiled his pretty smile and acted like it was a wild coincidence. That’s how I played it off to Lanelle and the rest of my friends. I could tell that they thought he was cute. That I’d done well. So I pushed aside the uncomfortable feeling in my gut as I tried to remember whether I’d mentioned the name of the restaurant to him earlier. I was pretty sure I hadn’t.

I let him drive me home, even though that meant leaving my car in the Barbacoa parking lot. At first, he just seemed happy to see me. But when I asked who he’d met up with at Barbacoa, he sort of dodged the question. So I asked again. That was when he just kind of blew up.

He went on and on about me brushing him off to hang out with my friends. Then he ranted about me not even being glad to see him at the restaurant.

I texted him later that night to tell him I thought we should break up. He tried to call me immediately. When I didn’t pick up, he called again. And again. And again. I put the phone in airplane mode and went to bed, still feeling the watermelon margs and wishing I hadn’t told Lanelle or the girls about him yet.

When I woke up the next morning, I had twenty-two text messages waiting for me. They started out sort of sweet. He’d had a terrible day yesterday and just really wanted to see me. He understood why I was upset. Could he have another chance? By the last text message, I was a fat bitch. A fat bitch who had wasted his time. As soon as I had finished reading that one, another text came through. He could see that I had read his texts, so why wasn’t I responding? I’d wasted his time, broken his heart, and now I wouldn’t even write back.

The texts trickled in for the next three days, even though I didn’t respond. I finally blocked his number and reported his profile on MatchStrike, figuring that maybe I’d save other girls the trouble.

When the texts stopped, I pretty much forgot about him.

I redecorated my duplex. I got a new job and a raise. I got bangs and highlights in my hair. I deleted MatchStrike after a handful of duds who didn’t even make it past a second date. And I adopted a cat: a fire-point named Frank.

So when I took the recycle bin out to the side yard in my pajamas that night, he was the last person I was expecting to see.

I didn’t even recognize him at first with that awful beard. He was standing there almost casually, like maybe it was some kind of coincidence. Just like he had that night at Barbacoa. Except this time he was standing in my side yard. Behind my fence.

I almost screamed. I only caught myself when I recognized his eyes. Honestly, I was a little relieved that he wasn’t a stranger.

Then I got mad. It had been an entire year. What the fuck was wrong with him, showing up like this? Scaring me like this? Did he think I was going to take him back now?

That was when he pulled out the extension cord. My extension cord. I recognized it in slow motion as he came toward me. I hadn’t bothered to bring it inside yet after using it to plug in the Christmas lights I’d finally goaded myself into putting up.