Riding Shotgun

When I step outside, the sky has turned dark and the air is cool against my skin. I pull the door shut behind me and zip up my coat.

Derek's car on the opposite side of the street beneath a streetlamp. He's waiting like he promised, hands resting on the wheel, posture straight but not tense. Like he's just happy to be here. He perks up when he catches sight of me, like a golden retriever seeing his owner.

*It's all the spell, it's not me. He wouldn't be happy to see me if I hadn't brainwashed him. He'd be with her instead. And he should be because she's not some evil fairy tale witch who turned her ex into a mindless zombie.* These are the thoughts coursing through my mind in an endless, merciless loop.

I force myself forward despite the guilt enveloping me like a dark, noxious cloud. With an unsteady hand, I open the passenger door, and slide into the seat.

"Hey, baby," Derek says immediately, his face breaking into a big smile. His voice is filled with genuine joy.

I'm about to choke on my own misery.

"Hey," I say back, because I don't know what else to do.

He studies me for a second, tilting his head slightly, like I'm a conundrum he can't quite figure out. "Are you still mad?"

I let out a breath, staring at the dashboard. There's too much chaos in my mind to make sense of the question, especially now that I'm my insides are steeped in self-loathing. "Mad?" I parrot, nonplussed.

"Because I came here," he clarifies. "And because I hugged you like that." His voice turns sheepish. "I just… I saw you, and I couldn't help it. I love you so much, Skye. It... it hurts when I'm not with you. I managed to stand it while you were at work, but when you didn't come home and stopped replying to my texts..."

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, because the way he says it—it's not normal, of course it's not. You shouldn't be in pain just because your partner is at work. That's beyond codependent or clingy. That's madness.

"I—I know," I say, and I'm not even sure what I know. Except that I've ruined everything. Derek wanted to leave me and that sucked. The way he went about it, playing along, not letting me know that he had doubts about the wedding, then telling me out of the blue in public? That sucked too. It was awful and it made me feel like complete shit.

But now that I have him back, I still feel like shit. I can't win.

*Because you don't really have him back,* the little voice in my head reminds me. *You did the magical equivalent of handcuffing him to a radiator in your basement.*

I cringe inwardly at myself.

Derek exhales, his shoulders loosening with relief. It's obvious that he has no clue about what's going on in my head. "Good. I don't want to upset you. I just want to make you happy." He reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing it gently. A car drives past, its headlights dousing us in almost unbearable brightness. "You are happy, right?"

My stomach is wrung by anxiety.

"Yeah," I lie automatically. "Of course."

He beams at me, and splinters of self-loathing burrow deep into my heart.

When he starts the car, I glance at the side mirror. The street is mostly empty, dark houses lining either side. No pedestrians, no traffic.

Except for one car idling just a few houses down.

I don't think much of it at first—it's not unusual for someone to wait like that. Why would it be? Not everything has to be related to me, right? That's just my bad conscience talking.

But when Derek pulls away from the curb, the other car's headlights flick on and so does my paranoia.

And when he turns the corner, it turns, too.

I watch it in the side mirror, a thin blade of unease sliding under my skin.

"Derek," I say carefully, still watching. "Um, could you maybe speed up a little?"

"Sure," he grins at me like we're co-conspirators. "I can't wait to get home either!"

I don't answer right away. My eyes are fixed on the side mirror, on the dark sedan a few car lengths behind us. It's not tailgating. But it is going faster too, just enough to stay within sight. Steady. Following. But too far away for me to read the license plate.

Am I imagining this? Am I losing my mind? Should I tell Derek to floor it? My heart is already racing. I can't take this. I'm definitely not cut out for high-speed chases. Even as I think this I feel like laughing at myself. This isn't a high-speed chase. We're going less than 50 mph.

"Skye?" Derek prompts again, squeezing my hand. "Are you okay? Talk to me, baby."

I force myself to look away from the mirror. "Yeah. I'm fine."

He studies me for a second before his face softens. "I'm truly sorry, you know. For earlier. I just got worried, right? I couldn't stop thinking about you in there, and I—" He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply like he's frustrated with his inability to explain his own actions. "I just love you so much. I don't ever want to make you mad. I cant stand the thought of upsetting you."

Guilt clenches around my ribs. I open my mouth, ready to tell him it's not your fault, I did this to you, I'm the one who should be sorry, but the headlights in the mirror catch my eye again, and my throat closes up.

The sedan is still there.

I can't shake the feeling that it's because of me. That I'm being followed because I did something evil and somebody knows. They already texted me. Maybe this is just whoever sent me that message making good on their promise. What if this is it? Someone coming to get me, to punish me?

"Hey," I say abruptly, my voice strained with the effort of not completely losing my shit. Derek looks over at me briefly. 

"Can you take a different route home?" I ask, trying to sound playful and not like I'm this close to crying.

His brows furrow slightly, but he nods without hesitation. "Sure. Anything you want."

I'm relieved he doesn't question my strange request and I don't tell him why. I don't say I think someone's following us, because it sounds insane even in my own head. I just watch as he takes a left instead of a right, leading us down a different quiet residential street.

The sedan follows.

My pulse stutters. My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth.

Derek doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy sneaking more glances at me, smiling like he's just happy to be running errands for his beloved. Like he's being a good boy who will surely get a treat for his trouble. If he had a tail it would be wagging.

"Sure everything's okay?" he asks. "You seem a little tense."

"Yeah, no, it's just been a long day," I lie. My stomach produces a strange acidic noise.

"Can't wait for you to try the dinner I cooked for you," Derek comments.

Another turn. Another. I make him take the most convoluted way home possible, zigzagging through the city in a desperate attempt to lose this creeping sense of paranoia.

And still—the sedan remains behind us. Not aggressive. Never too close. Just always freaking there.

When we finally reach our apartment complex, I feel like I can't breathe. My hands are clammy, my skin prickling with cold sweat. Derek pulls into our usual parking spot, humming to himself like nothing is wrong. And why shouldn't he? From his perspective, nothing is wrong. He has no clue I've put a weird love spell on him, he doesn't know I hexed up one million and one dollars in a duffel bag, and he sure as hell has no idea I might now be hunted by... By whom? That is the question.

And then the sedan is gone.

I stare hard at the rear view mirror heart hammering. My brain is screaming memorize the plates, memorize the plates, but my vision blurs with panic, and by the time I blink, it's disappeared.

I swallow hard.

Derek leans over and presses a kiss to my temple. "Let's go inside," he murmurs. "You're probably exhausted and I can't wait to feed you dinner and massage your feet."

I can't muster a reply to this, so I just nod weakly and stumble out of the car when he holds the door open for me.

*Inside. Yes. Inside is good. Inside has doors that lock.*

All I want is to feel safe, to feel okay, to feel normal.

The door clicks shut behind us, and I twist the key to lock it like my life depends on it. Then I resist the urge to press my back against the wall and slide into a puddle on the ground.

Derek doesn't seem to notice my urgency. He just smiles at me, sweet and stupidly adoring, as he shrugs off his jacket and kicks off his shoes. He doesn't say anything when I keep mine on like the slob that I am. I wonder if he'll ever criticize me again. I never thought I'd miss it.

"You hungry?" he asks. "I made your favorite."

I force a smile. The smell of tomato sauce and cheese is hanging in the air. It doesn't really excite me, not after that rush of adrenaline. "Yeah, sure. That's so thoughtful of you."

He beams like I just told him he won the lottery. It makes my insides twist into a pretzel.

"I'll just be a second," Derek tells me.

I watch as he disappears into the bathroom, and then I move to the couch, sinking into it like my bones are made of rubber. I think of the notebook, stashed beneath our bed, and shudder. I do want to get rid of it. Having it in the apartment feels like inviting calamity.

I should call the kid.

I should return it.

I take out my phone, scrolling until I find the number Rica gave me. My thumb hovers over the call button.

It's the right thing to do. I'll wash my hands of the whole thing and try to move on with my life.

But is it really what I need to do?

I glance toward the bathroom, toward the muffled sound of the sink running. Derek is still in there, or at least his body is, possessed by this new subservient golden retriever type personality.

If I give the notebook back, I might never fix him.

A lump rises in my throat. I could do it right now. Go into the bedroom, take out the notebook and wish for Derek to return to his old self. It might be as simple as that.

I close my eyes and try to make up my mind.