"Yes, you've been THAT obvious. Enough games. I want to know why you're following me."
He seems to consider whether to answer me or not. Then he looks me in the eye and says softly, "I knew Leo. He asked me to check on you."
CHAPTER 4
My world comes to a screeching halt and I freeze, my mouth falling open. "What?" I croak out. With one name, he's left me a trembling, reeling mess. I steel myself though. This stranger doesn't need to know that. I straighten up and ask in a stronger voice, "What do you mean you knew Leo?" I don't let on that I'm afraid of what that past tense means.
Of course, I've wondered a thousand times if something happened to Leo, convincing myself that something had to have happened to Leo for him not to have contacted me all these years, and especially for him to break his promise to me about writing as soon as he arrived in San Diego. My mind came up with a million scenarios over those first few months about why my beautiful boy disappeared from my world… a car wreck on the way from the airport to their new home… surprising a robber in their house as they arrived...
When I was 16, I went to the library and sorted through California newspapers from the week he moved, in search of any news stories about the untimely demise of a mom, dad and their teenage son. Each fruitless search brought both relief and frustration.
I even created a fake account on Facebook once and looked up his name but came up with nothing. I didn't keep an account of my own. There were too many people from my past who might attempt to contact me and that I did not need.
The problem was, I had precious little information about Leo's family to go on, except for the fact that his adoptive father worked in a hospital. I didn't know if that meant he was a doctor or an administrator or what, but that piece of information, the city they were moving to, and Leo's name and age is all I ever had to work with.
Of course, my resources were small, a library computer and old newspaper microfiche, so it's no wonder I never got far.
After my unsuccessful attempts at finding any information on him, I made a vow to myself that I would stop wondering all the time. It was too painful. And so on my 18th birthday, the day he had promised to come for me, I closed my eyes and pictured him smiling at me on a roof under a winter sky and that's where I left him in my mind.
I look up to see that the man is studying me closely, a small frown on his face, but he doesn't move closer now or attempt to touch me in any way. I turn around and walk to some porch steps a few feet behind me and sit down and take a deep breath. My legs feel shaky. I repeat my question, "What do you mean, you knew Leo?"
He moves slowly towards me and gestures to the other side of the step I'm sitting on, asking silently for permission to sit. I nod. He sits on the other side of the stairs, one step down, turned slightly towards me and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his muscular thighs and I catch a whiff of his cologne, something clean and woodsy and delicious. He sighs and says, "Leo died in a car accident last year. We were friends, teammates in school. We all thought he might make it for a couple days, but he didn't. We visited him together and he pulled me aside and told me a little about you. He made me promise to check on you to make sure that you were okay, that you were in a good place, happy. He knew I was moving here to work for my dad's company, and that it would be easy for me to check up on you in person." His brow is furrowed and he's talking slowly, as if he's making sure to deliver the information he's giving me in just the right way. He's also leaving something out. I don't know exactly how I know this, I just do.
I feel numb and confused and I'm silent for several minutes. "I see. What exactly did Leo tell you about me?" I finally ask, glancing down at the man. He's watching me intently.
"Just that he knew you in foster care and you were special to him. He said you lost touch but he'd always wondered about how your life turned out. That's really all."
I don't say anything and so he continues. "I moved here in June, but it took me a couple months to settle in. Then I finally had the time to dedicate to being the creepster I had promised to be." He smiles at me, looking up through long carmel lashes. But it's a sad smile now. Unsure.
I offer a small smile in return. I will not let on how much his words about Leo hurt. We lost touch? And all those years he was alive and well and living in San Diego and never once wrote to me or called or tried in any way to get in touch with me? Why? I don't even know how to process the fact that I've just learned that he died. I need to go home and curl up in a ball for a couple of hours. I need to process this. I stand shakily, and the man jumps to his feet beside me. I wipe my clammy hands on the front of my jeans.