Secret Admirer

The birds bickered with one another as you drove home from work today. Late summer, windows down, you could even hear them over your station. You know the one. Used to be cool. Now your music is featured on Adult Rock or Oldies. Even the rap music the kids refer to as "Old School." It's "Love in an Elevator," by Aerosmith. Your mind wanders for a moment. You are transported briefly to the time that you and your sister and your brother and your sister's friend went to the concert. You had a jean jacket, a Calvin Klein, that you spent all your babysitting money on. You had a crush on the guy that was the kicker on the football team. He had no idea. Even at your class reunion, years later, you found yourself getting tongue-tied when you asked what he'd been up to, and it was clear that he'd had no idea who you were.

"Go-ing d-o-w-n. . . " You hear the last few notes of the song.

Things are different now. Look at where you ended up. Married with two kids and a dog, Brandy, who will leap up on your work skirt after you open the door. You used to care. Now you don't buy anything that's not washable. Dinner will be spaghetti and meatballs. The kids will be happy. Nothing to exotic, for example, God-forbid freshwater fish. . .

You pull up to the mailbox. In spite of the fact that you've been driving exactly the same path for at least the past ten years, you never seem to be able to get the car in just the right spot to open the mailbox without opening up your door. The radio is still playing. Now, it's "Stairway to Heaven." Prom music. You catch yourself in the rearview. Crow's feet. You had a terrible experience with microdermabrasion. Nothing to be done, you think. Guess the grocery bag boy will be calling you "ma'am" for the rest of your life. Just once, you think, you wouldn't mind a wolf whistle, the kicker from your high school football team staring at you at the next class reunion.

The pile of mail is high. You had forgotten. It's pre-political season. Mailers everywhere. You are a Republican. Your husband is a Democrat. That explains the mailbox, vomiting positive and negative messages from both sides of the aisle. And there are a couple of bills, the kind that you can't pay online. And there is that magazine subscription final notice. You never signed up for it, so you don't know how you ended up getting bills for it. Then there's a thin envelope that has your maiden name on it. It is in cursive writing. You know what it is. It's one of the handwritten solicitations. You and your husband have gotten them before. They are usually from someone in a high place, an influencer and he wants you to tell all your friends to vote Smith or Jones.

Right? No, wait. That wouldn't be sent in your maiden name, would it? You turn it over. It is thin. The handwriting looks anemic. It is not the handwriting of a woman, big and bubbly or neat and narrow, like your best friend's. It is not the handwriting of your in-laws or anyone else you know. It is narrow, light, and unfamiliar.

As you walk it, you slice it open by the edge. It starts with "Hello," instead of "Dear," which in and of itself seems weird, but it's what's at the end that stops you in your tracks. Before you read the body of the letter, you see who it is from. Damien Wilbody. It only takes you a second to recognize the name. Damien had sent you a secret admirer letter in high school. He wanted you to meet him after the football game behind the stadium. The letter had been anonymous, but you and your friends had figured it out. It only took a little bit of asking around. When you found it that it was pale, blond, long-haired and thin Damien, you had immediately dismissed it. He was creepy. Besides, what kind of person sends a secret admirer letter? Someone who has a reason to be secretive, you think. Someone who is smarmy or scary or sly. And why would Damien be writing to you now, so many years later.

Your eyes scan the body of the letter, and before you can finish you feel a sharp blow to the stomach. Brandy. That damn dog. She jumps up on you every day. In a trance, you put down your tote bag and reach for her food. Damien has been watching you, it seems. For the past 15 years, according to the letter. His house is on the hillside that overlooks your gym. You wince. No makeup, your old baggy shorts and the time when your face was still so raw and red from the bad effects of that microdermabrasion. But now, a cold chill creeps up your spine. You don't care how terrible you looked. Actually, you wished you looked worse. It's freakin' weird to write a letter fifteen years later to someone that you stalked in high school.

Now that you are thinking about it, you remember looking up a few times and seeing a light on in the house on the hill, on your way to the gym. You've always gotten there early, 4:30 a.m., since, living in the city allows for all-night gyms. Easier to go at 4:30, catch the train into the city, drive home after. But 4:30 seems awfully early to most people.

Brandy is out the door. You call to your husband and the kids. You want to talk. It's weird, and you don't want to admit that you can still feel frightened as an adult, but you do, and now you just want your husband and the kids, making noise, eating spaghetti, and shaking off the creepiness. Geez, where are they? That's right. It's Wednesday. Lacrosse practice. You forgot that practice started up again. They were planning on getting food on the way home, and it's a summer tournament, so that won't be till late.

You'll feel better if you get something to eat. You can tell your blood sugar dropped. Your hands are trembling. You pull a Lean Cuisine out of the freezer. It's pasta. There have been times when you would savor a meal alone. You'd read your books, or practice your writing, or get caught up on work, or call your mom, or watch some guilty pleasure on TV. But now you only want the normal chaos of the day. Your phone rings. The number is blocked. You pick it up out of instinct. The other end of the line is quiet. "Hello?" you ask. "Hello?" There is only breathing on the other end. Heavy breathing. You hang up.

You curse yourself. Why are you so focused on impressing people? You listened to your stupid radio and you look for attention, and now look, you have it. Some creep from your high school class that has been secretly been watching you. Are you happy now? That Lean Cuisine did not fix your blood sugar. Your hands are still shaking. You know that your husband never picks up the phone at lacrosse. He'll be busy coaching. You call your mom. She never turns her damn cell phone on. The landline goes directly to voice mail. You think about calling your best friend, but inexplicably, you don't. She'll think you are being ridiculous. That's why you don't call. You are being ridiculous, you tell yourself. You are a coward, you say inwardly. You need to prove to yourself that you are not. Your damn hands are still shaking. You go up to your bedroom. You know what you will do. You will change into your gym clothes and go right into that gym. You will wave sunnily to Damien Wilbody and that will be the end of it. He'll smile that sheepish, creepy smile, and the two of you will laugh, and you'll remind yourself to be happy with what you have instead of being so shallow and wishing that others would notice you. You open your drawer. You look down. Your heart is racing. You see a note on your yoga tights: "Hello," it reads. "I see you."