The Last One

I’m not who she thinks I am. Sure, I’m the guy next door who always gives a friendly wave of hello, the guy who picks up her newspaper and puts it on her front porch every morning, the guy who is always watching out for her. I’m nice to a fault. Maybe it’s overbearing. I can’t tell. At this point it’s hard for me to pretend to be normal.

I pull the sheer living room curtain to the side at the rumble of the garbage truck. It will stop at my house first, then hers, giving me the perfect opportunity to talk to her again. I didn’t see her at all yesterday. My skin itches in anticipation. I head out the front door as the truck moves down the street, the screen door banging closed behind me. I knock three times on the wooden railing, one for each stair, as I descend to the brick pavers that lead to the road. My eyes dart over to her yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I notice a thick carpet of orange, brown, and yellow leaves covering the ground and consider offering to rake them up for her. But that’s probably not a good idea considering my history.

I wrap my fingers around the handle of the trash can, pulling it up onto its back wheels. My shoulders tense at the rhythmic crunch of approaching footsteps on the leaves. I turn and pause, preparing myself to exchange our usual morning greeting followed by what I hope is a warm smile.

“Hello there.” I give a small wave as soon as it looks like she might glance in my direction.

She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear and looks down at the ground before returning my smile.

She’s always a little shy before she has her second cup of coffee. It’s one of the many things I find so endearing about her. I grip the handle of the trash can until my fingers turn white. I can’t let my thoughts get away from me. That’s when the trouble starts.

“Hope you have a good one,” I offer, as she drags her trash can to the garage.

She nods, the section of hair she tucked now freeing itself from behind her ear. She lets it conceal her face, making a barrier between us.

The last one did the same thing. She would let her hair fall across her face, daring me to pull it back, to reveal all that she was hiding from me. She loved being coy. Tempting me. Goading me.

But that doesn’t matter, because now I have a fresh start, a new chance to do things right this time. I push the trash can into its place in the garage and head to the small bedroom in the back of the house that I use as an office. I sit at my desk and stare at her again - the last one. It’s only a newspaper photo, but her green eyes are still captivating, drawing me in. I close the file folder, holding it shut with my hand as if she might haunt me again if I let go. I pull open the drawer to my right and slide her folder behind the others. It bothers me that they’re not in alphabetical order, but I decided it’s best to organize them by date, even though I have yet to forget when they occurred. I run my finger across the top of the files, each one its own mausoleum.

My index finger lingers on the first file: Heather Stewart, 2003. I still remember the twinge in my chest when she sat down next to me my freshman year of college. Out of the hundreds of seats in the large lecture hall, she chose to be next to me. It felt like fate. A few months later, we started hiking the Palmetto Trail together, a popular spot for USC students on the weekends. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the rush of the creek in my ears. It was where I last saw her, at the fork in the trail by the water. I was admiring the sun filtering through the trees, highlighting her auburn hair, when she stopped and turned to face me. “Which way should we go?”

“You decide.”

“Hmmm.” She tapped her finger on her pursed lips. “Maybe we don’t decide anything just yet.” She closed the gap between us and tugged at the sides of my open flannel shirt.

The next thing I knew she was pulling me to her and kissing me. Her sweet and sugary perfume filled my nostrils when her fingers combed through my hair. It was euphoric.

My wrists tingled with electricity when I slid my hands around her delicate throat and choked the life out of her. It felt good. Really good. Until it didn’t. Panic eclipsed my fleeting elation when I stared down at her body, crumpled on the ground like discarded trash. I bent down and rolled her corpse into the creek without another thought. A sense of peace and calm washed over me when I watched the current take her away. I went to sleep that night with the scent of her perfume still lingering on my skin. An itch I didn’t know needed to be scratched was finally sated.

Two years later I met Jessica, a fiery, raven-haired woman with a fantastic eye for detail. The twinge in my chest returned. I tried to fight it, to keep the monster inside. I kept my distance from her at school, ignoring her invitations to connect. But fate wouldn’t have it. We were partnered together on an architectural design project. I wanted to object, but she was the best student in class. I relented, vowing that Heather’s death would be the only skeleton in my closet.

I slide my finger over Jessica’s name on the second folder. The monster inside had gnawed at my will to keep her alive until there was nothing left. And every other year, for the last twenty years, I have lost that battle. Not anymore. I close the file drawer, concealing their names from view. This is what I needed. I had to remind myself of what I did so that it won’t happen again. It can’t happen again.

There’s a knock at the front door as I rise from my chair. Perfect timing. I’m expecting the building plans for the new community center. I grab some cash from my wallet to tip the courier.

“Hey there, neighbor,” she says when I open the door.

“Autumn! Sorry, I was expecting a delivery.” I awkwardly shove the cash into my pocket.

“Well, I do have these.” She pulls a small plate of muffins from behind her back.

My stomach growls at the enticing scent of cinnamon and apples wafting through the air.

Her fingers fidget with the edge of the plate. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you for bringing the newspaper up to my porch every morning.”

“I’m happy to do it.” I take the muffins and before I can stop myself, I add, “Do you want to come in?”

Her cheeks flush. “Sure. I’d love to.”

I close the door behind her, ignoring the twinge in my chest.

I’m not who she thinks I am. But I want to be.