Eyes on You

This story contains themes or mention of voyeurism and sexual harassment.

“So, what’s the catch?”

“Let’s just accept it. It’s okay for good things to happen to us.”

I look at her skeptically. Is it okay? It certainly doesn’t feel okay. Nothing has felt okay in a long, long time. We have been living in this shitty apartment for three months. The floorboards creak in the kitchen right in front of the fridge, the bathroom faucet drips, the dog next door is an incessant barker, the lighting always feels low because the windows are poorly placed. It’s like everywhere I turn there is a small reminder that things aren’t quite right—that they could be better.

But he isn’t here. And that is better.  

If we accept the money, we can leave at the end of the 6-month lease. We can find a place that feels less like a dungeon. 

“It’s weird though, right? It’s weird that she just gave it to you.”

She shrugs. “It’s not that weird. I am her kid.”

“Right. And the last time we saw her was when she kicked us out of the house because we said her other kid was a creep. So, what am I missing here?”

She turns away from me and sorts through the mail on the counter. I only get it every few days because what’s the point? No one knows where we are. The only thing in there is junk and bills. 

“I told her.”

“I’m sorry- say what now?” 

She throws the envelope she has in her hand back onto the counter. She turns to face me, her expression blank. “I TOLD her.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yes…I did.” She says slowly. “She should know. There’s no reason we should have to live with it and she shouldn’t. It’s her fault that he’s like that.”

“You told her everything?”

“Yes.”

“No. No, no, no, no this isn’t happening. You wouldn’t do this without talking to me first. We AGREED! We AGREED not to tell her.” 

“We did until we didn’t. I’m tired of carrying this weight. Living like this. We just need to get out of here. And we can’t do that without money. She solved the problem. The only one she’s ever solved.”

I thought of the wedding day. She had us wear scratchy orange dresses and called us peaches all day. The sun was out, not a cloud in the sky. It would have been a beautiful day if not for the occasion. I hadn’t spent a lot of time with her kids before the wedding, but enough to know that I didn’t like her son. I remember his eyes slithering over me as I adjusted the tight dress. I looked at him, expecting that he would turn away knowing that I had caught him looking. Instead, he stared back, watching me watch him. 

“I don’t want her money! I don’t want anything from her!”

“You’re thinking about this the wrong way. This is payment. You are OWED this. I am owed this. For every time he walked into the bathroom while we showered, for every time he ‘accidentally’ walked into our rooms, for every picture we found. For every time she turned her head and pretended she didn’t see.”

“What about my dad? Doesn’t he have any responsibility in this?!

“He was never home.”

“I TOLD him. And he told me I was crazy.” Tears stream down my cheeks faster than I can swipe them away.   

“And I told her and she told me I was crazy. Listen, I’m just as sorry as you are that we are in this fucked up situation with these fucked up people. You certainly didn’t ask for this. But, they aren’t our family anymore. You and I are a family. We’re going to take this money and pretend like our whole lives began a different way.” 

So, we do. We get a better apartment in an old Victorian house. Not too far, but far enough that people don’t know us. There are two bedrooms and the sunlight filters through in just the right spots when you sit on the couch to drink your coffee. We recreated our narrative. We say we are sisters, not stepsisters. No other siblings. Parents far away. 

Fresh, funded start. But, there had been a catch. She wanted us silent. She didn’t want to hear the things her son did ever again, and she wanted it to be clear that she didn’t believe us. That didn’t surprise me, but it still hurt. No one wants to reveal something painful and be called a liar. My dad not believing me ripped a tear in my soul that I won’t be able to repair. Ultimately though, I want to put them all out of my mind, out of my life. 

Easier said than done. As far away as we want to be we still sometimes drive by the house. He still lives there as far as we can tell, his white BMW parked in the driveway. Whenever his car isn’t there I return to the familiar dread. Knowing where he is feels invariably better than wondering where he could be. 

Until we don’t wonder.

“I’ll go in and get it. It will be quicker.”

“Ugh, fine, let’s both just go in.” I say trying to find a spot that won’t get blocked by the steady stream of customers in the drive-thru.

“I’ll take a flat white and the egg white bites please. What do you want?” she says turning to me. I watch as the color drains from her face, her gaze fixed over my shoulder. 

“What?” I turn and there he is, staring back at me. A smile in his eyes, on his lips. He rises and motions to the girl he is with to do the same. They approach us and he says with ease, “These are my sisters.”

“Oh! You didn’t mention that you had sisters.” The girl says with a friendly smile. 

“Ah, they moved out recently. So, we really haven’t gotten to see as much of each other as I would like.” 

I feel frozen. And sick. I feel a tug on my arm and force my feet to move my body out of the coffee shop. 

Back at the apartment we do a deep dive on social media and find out that the girl he was with lives nearby. They’d met online and she thought he was ‘just so sweet’. 

“Unbelievable. Is that really how our day just started? I can’t go to work like this.” My heart is pounding, my palms sweaty. 

“Oh we aren’t going to work today.” 

She dials her phone. “Hey, oh man what a morning. We got in a car accident on our way. Yeah, so annoying. The guy just hit us from behind. On his phone I bet. I’m really sorry. Yeah, I’ll keep you posted.”

I look at her in disbelief. “What are we going to say when we go to work and there’s no dent?”

“Let’s worry about one problem at a time.” She says. “Right now we need to tell this poor girl who she is really dealing with.”

She pulls up her fake profile and starts typing. “What are you writing?”

“I’m sending her a DM saying that he isn’t who she thinks he is.”

“And why would she listen to some random person?”

“Maybe she won’t. Maybe she will. At least we’ll know we tried.”

“Don’t send that! What if she shows him and he traces it back to you?” 

She puts her phone down. “I have to do something. Did you see his stupid face? Smiling like an idiot.”

“Oh I saw it.”

That night we drive to the girl’s house, park and wait. The next night we go to the restaurant they eat dinner at. The third night we go to the parking lot of his work. Snapping pictures along the way. Click, click, move. 

“What are we going to do with these? It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong in them.”

“We are going to show him what it’s like to be watched.”

We wait at the Walgreens counter for the greasy-haired clerk to give us our prints. Then we head to the stationary aisle, I grab a large manila envelope and she rips open a package of Sharpies. She shoves the pictures inside and scrawls something across the front. 

We go to the parking lot before he will be getting off work and put the envelope under his windshield. It feels like a pointless move. But a powerful one. We park rows away, our view partially obstructed by a large SUV. We wait, the black writing scrawled across the envelope our mantra-

“This time WE are watching YOU.”