I was at cheerleading practice— my favorite place to be. Exercise created endorphins, and I was addicted to it. I had been active my whole life. There was nothing better than muscle pain after training hard, the feeling of adrenaline in my veins and the feeling of being alive.
I had been a cheerleader in school and in college. I had auditioned to be a part of the Florida Sharks Cheerleading Squad, and by some miracle, they accepted me. I’d started training with them last week.
“How are you fitting in?” Dina asked me when we took a water break.
“Oh, I think I’m getting the hang of it,” I said. Dina was the coach who had overseen the auditions. She had insisted they take me.
“You look like you’re managing,” she smiled.
I nodded, “The training is a little more intense than I’m used to these days, but I love a challenge.”
“That’s the spirit,” Dina said then joined the other coach.
I sipped my water and watched some of the other cheerleaders chatting in groups. They weren’t even breaking a sweat while I sat on the bench, dripping and breathing hard. I would get there, I promised myself.
I knew I would.
The squad was amazing. I wasn’t exactly a part of it, yet; I felt like an outsider, but that would change. In time, we would be a team the way I had been at school and at college.
In college, I studied Sports Science. I had wanted a career in sports even after I was too old to be a cheerleader, although that wouldn’t be for quite a few years. I’d worked hard and played hard and loved hard. I had lived the dream in college, and I was doing the same now.
“All right, ladies! Time’s up,” Dina called, and we walked onto the field again. My legs felt like jelly, and I was still breathing hard; the short water break hadn’t exactly been enough to recover.
“Let’s look at lifts,” Dina said. I was grateful. I was one of the cheerleaders being lifted, not doing the lifting. Thank God. My arms felt like spaghetti, and I might have dropped someone.
When training was over, I fished my phone out of my bag and checked it. Sara had been looking for me, even though she knew what time my practice ended.
“What’s up?” I asked when I returned her call.
“We’re tackling the box room,” she said.
I groaned, “I can’t unpack today. I’m dying after training.”
“Muscle up, honey,” Sara said. “See it as a post-workout bonus.”
I laughed.
“I’ll throw in a bottle of wine.”
“Oh, you know just how to win me over,” I said, laughing and ending the call.
Sara and I had been friends since high school. She was like a sister to me. Even though we were practically joined at the hip, we were polar opposites in many ways.
I had long dark hair. She had a blonde pixie cut. My eyes were a deep chocolate brown; hers were a sparkling green. I had a natural tan where Sara was white as a ghost.
We came from different backgrounds. I had grown up with the knowledge that I had to work my ass off for anything I wanted in life while Sara was a “trust fund baby,” who had everything fall in her lap. That didn’t stop us. Sara was a snob, I was outspoken and we were at each other as much as we loved each other.
It worked for us.
We had moved to a beach condo a few weeks ago. Sara had bought it— a cash deal, of course— and I was rooming with her, because where else would I go? She’d asked me to move in with her with that very line. We had been roommates since college, so of course, I agreed.
We had only unpacked the most important boxes since the move but still had a whole room full of unopened boxes that we fondly referred to as the “box room.” Well, today that was going to change, apparently.
“I’m back,” I said when I got home. “I need to shower; I’m drenched.”
“You smell like it, too,” Sara said, coming into the room. She wore faded designer jeans and a crop top that showed off her flat stomach. She pinched her nose. I stuck out my tongue at her, and we laughed.
When I was done showering, I joined Sara in the box room.
“I think we need to do the ornaments first,” Sara said, standing with her hands on her hips.
“I vote for unpacking the wine glasses first,” I said. Sara agreed and opened the box with the wine glasses and whiskey tumblers— things we hadn’t needed until now. We poured two glasses of wine, carried two boxes to the living room and started working.
“You’re in a sad career when it comes to male talent,” Sara said, unpacking photo frames. “Being surrounded by women all day isn’t good for your psyche. Trust me, I know.”
Sara worked at a law firm that represented battered women, so they were all women in the office.
“It’s not like I’m dying to meet a man,” I said. “I have my career to focus on.”
“Only you would make a career of jumping around and shaking your pompoms as hard as you shake your ass,” Sara said.
I laughed, “Only you would make a career out of arguing.”
“Touché,” she said, clinking her glass against mine. “Seriously, Maya, you need a man,” she added.
I shook my head. “For what? One broken heart is enough, thank you very much.”
“Come on; it’s part of life. If I had stopped after my heart got broken, I wouldn’t have met Charlie.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think you’ll get your heart broken if you end it with Charlie. You never get your heart broken.”
“That’s because getting attached is overrated,” Sara said.
I shook my head. There was no arguing with Sara. Her logic was backwards, but it worked for her. It didn’t work for me. I got attached when I was in a relationship. I took love seriously, and when it was ripped way, it hurt.
I had dated a guy in college for almost two years, and breaking it off with him had stung like a bitch. I wasn’t looking for something like that again unless the guy was worth my while. And so far, none the guys I’d met had been worth any of my time.
My phone rang. I got up and found it in my bag, looking at the caller ID.
“God, not again,” I wailed.
“Who is it?” Sara asked.
“Guess.”
Sara looked irritated. “There’s only one person that gets that reaction from you. God, I’m getting sick of him.”
“You and me both,” I said. I watched the phone ring until my voicemail picked up the call. There was no way I was answering it.
Two years ago, when I had thought I would brave the dating scene again, I had gone on a date with a guy named Tyler. He had been sweet but a little overbearing, so I’d told him I wasn’t interested in a second date.
I’d figured that mainly I wasn’t over my ex and hadn’t been ready to plunge back into the dating scene— not that I ever really would be it turned out, because to this day I still hadn’t found myself able to go on dates. Also, no matter the reason, I knew Tyler wasn’t my type. Unfortunately, he had decided I was exactly his type, and he wouldn’t leave me alone. Ever.
He kept track of my life, where I was and who I was with. He was one step short of a restraining order, which was the only reason I hadn’t gotten one against him. If I had been able to, I would have done it in a wink.
“Are you going to listen to it?” Sara asked when my phone beeped, alerting me with a new voice message.
I sighed, “I don’t want to hear what he has to say, but if I don’t listen to it I’m not going to know what he’s doing this time. I have to know what he’s up to.”
Sara shrugged. She couldn’t argue with me. The old adage rang true: know your enemies.
I dialed the number for the voice mailbox and listened.
“Why did you move, Maya?” he asked.
That was it. It was a short message, but it gave me the chills. I saved the voice message in case I had to use it as evidence against him then sat down next to Sara again. I had abandoned the box I was unpacking.
“What did he say?” Sara asked.
I sighed. “He asked why we moved.”
“How the hell does he know this? Did you post it on Facebook?”
I shook my head. I had stopped broadcasting my life on Facebook, keeping my contact details and location private. I didn’t “check-in” when I went to restaurants with friends, and I didn’t post photos until the next day. I tried everything to throw Tyler off my scent.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m starting to think the guy put a tracker on me or something.”
Sara downed the last of her wine. “This is bullshit. If I see him, he’ll be sorry he’s following you around.”
But that was the problem. We never saw him. He was like a ghost, knowing what went on in my life but never showing his face. If he had, I would have faced him ages ago.
“What are you doing to do about it?” Sara asked.
“I don’t know. There’s not much I can do. I went to the police, but you know what they said.”
“That you can’t get a restraining order, because he’s not physically harassing you, I know. He’s never doing anything to hurt you. But it’s horrible, anyway.”
“I don’t know how to get rid of him,” I said.
“Well, first you have to change your number. Again.”
I groaned. “God, that is such a hassle, and it’s not that simple. I have to change it everywhere: the banks, my various accounts, not to mention my friends and my job.”
“I know,” Sara said. “But it’s better than a happily ever after with Tyler.”
I had to agree with her. I wanted nothing to do with him. He had seemed nice when we had gone out on our one little date. He wasn’t a knight in shining armor by a long shot, but I hadn’t disliked him.
I sure disliked him now, though.
“I don’t think anything would get him off your case unless you were permanently unavailable,” Sara said, sitting back against the couch.
“Like what, marriage?”
Sara shrugged.
“Who am I going to get married to? I’m not even dating.”
“That’s a problem. You see? It’s just another reason for you to get a man.”
I laughed. “I’m pretty happy single for now. You’re a serial dater, so I know you don’t get it. But I have no intention of finding some guy for the sake of getting rid of my stalker. No matter how enticing that sounds. Before you know it, I have another stalker on my hands.”
We sat in silence for a while.
“You have to look at the positive side,” Sara said when she finished the second glass of wine.
“There’s a bright side to this?”
“Always. Silver lining, you know? It means you’re a total bomb. Sexy and sassy and all that. Because someone wants you that badly.”
I laughed. “Thanks, Sara. I’m afraid it doesn’t as much mean I’m hot as it means that Tyler is a little psychotic.”
Sara rolled her eyes, “I was complimenting you.”
I laughed again. “And I appreciate it. But I’m so sick of this shit. I just want to be able to live my life without having to be so damn careful. Things are going really well for me right now, so I don’t want anything to spoil it.”
“You can’t win them all,” Sara said, tipping her empty glass at me.
“Such sound advice,” I said dryly.
“Hey, what are friends for?” Sara asked, a big grin on her face.