Watching Her Chapter 31 - Fairy Godmother

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Chapter 31 - Fairy Godmother - Cinderella
The Fairy Godmother is very sweet and kind and a motherly type of person.

"Mmmm, I love cookie baking days." Maggie smiles as she walks into the kitchen.

I concentrate on stirring the soft butter into the flour and sugar, and inhale the vanilla as I pour it. I try not to notice the eyes I can feel on me as Maggie watches, silently.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see her peer at the pile of cookie cutters beside me, taking note of the fact that some of these haven't been used before. God, please don't let her ask me about them, I chant in my mind, still stirring, still avoiding.

I chance a peek at her from beneath my hair that's fallen, thankful she's moved toward the large table in the corner of the kitchen. I try to ignore the sudden bubble of bitterness clawing its way up my throat when she sits down at a table made for six … as if there will ever be a time when so many sit at one time in this house.

Stirring done, I spread some flour across the island and scoop the ball of dough out of the bowl. I roll it out, enjoying the slight burn in my arms from pressing down so hard. Maggie clears her throat, and I stop, mid-roll, and lift my head to look at her.

"Did you just feel like baking today, or is there a special reason? You know you just sent cookies up to the hospital yesterday?" Maggie accents the last word so it's more of a question than a statement.

Shit.

I should have known she'd pick up on that. I try to feign nonchalance even though inside my stomach's sort of twisting and my heart's racing.

"Ummm, no, not any special reason. Just feel like baking I guess," I mumble and look back down and watch the rolling pin as it moves back and forth across the golden cookie dough.

"Hmmm." I can tell, and she knows I can, that she doesn't believe me, but I let out a sigh of relief when she says no more.

Maggie is well aware of why I bake. The nurses, doctors, and staff at the hospital, as both she and Kate have told me numerous times, are very grateful for my somewhat odd form of therapy, since they get to reap the benefits. Growing up, my mom always used to bake sugar cookies at least a few times a week. They were my after-school snack, before bed treat, midnight craving, and every now and then they were even a breakfast substitute. There were always sugar cookies in our house. Sometimes they were plain. Sometimes covered with vanilla frosting. When Mom was feeling particularly artistic or ambitious, they'd be so beautifully decorated that they made you just stop and stare, almost too afraid to eat them. So, now, I bake sugar cookies, just so the house smells the way it used to. It's silly maybe, but it's a way for me to feel closer to my mom and to remember my dad and a time when my house was filled with love and laughter and family … not this cold, practically empty, almost silent existence that I live in now. I have a sugar cookie-scented candle in my room, one of those wickless things that's not really a candle but melted wax, that stays on almost twenty-four-seven, but it can't compare to the way fresh-baked, right out of the oven cookies smell.

So I bake.

And today, I'm making cookies for him. For my Creeper.

"Well, whatever the reason, they, as always, smell delicious. I'm sure they won't go to waste," she prods again, hoping I'll take the bait and give her more.

The urge is strong. I love Maggie, I do, and I know she worries about me. I see the way her mouth turns down and the way her eyes pinch when she looks at me sometimes. I feel her brush my hair back over my shoulder, or kiss the side of my head, choking back words she so wishes to say, but won't. I'd be lost without her. She knows this, I know this, but it doesn't negate the fact that I hate why she has to be here in the first place. She doesn't deserve the way I always hold back, but I can't help it. I know I should be, and I am, grateful for all she's done for me and for my mom and Phil … the woman's given up over a year of her life to take care of us, but the sad reality is I wish I'd never met her. It's ugly and hateful to think and it makes me want to throw up to admit it, but it's true. I want to not have to know her at all, because that would mean my mom isn't lying in a bed, here, but not really here.

I feel like such an ungrateful brat sometimes.

So, I'm making cookies, because if he comes back tonight, it will mean I have one person, someone out there, that's just for me.

"Okay, then, sweetie, I'll leave you to it. I need to go take a shower." She reaches across the island and briefly touches the back of my hand and I see her eyes glance at the notebook that's never far from my side.
She's noticed its sudden appearance and the way I carry it everywhere with me, but I know she thinks it's probably some sort of journal … God, I hope so, at least.

I wait until I can't hear her footsteps any longer and then I blow out a long, tension-relieving breath. Alone with my thoughts again, I press the cookie cutters into the flattened dough and carefully lift them from the island and place them on the cookie sheets. Setting the timer on the oven, I close the door with a sigh and smile when I think of what Creeper's face will look like when he sees the cookies.

For a brief moment I contemplate watching for him tonight, just so I can see it for myself, but shake my head. What if he doesn't come back? I couldn't bear to stand at the window, watching, waiting … hoping, and have him not show up.

I sit down on a stool because my knees have suddenly given out. I feel nauseous just thinking about him not coming back. I grab the notebook, flipping it open, so I can read his sweet words and feel close to him.

I skim over the very first few letters and I have to smile just a bit at them. Looking back on it, he must've been ready to have a heart attack the very first time he walked into my building. Now I can appreciate how scared he was, but how determined, too … and how thankful I am he took that first step.

My fingers trace over his words and I turn a few more pages, stopping so I can reread a few of my favorite comments from him.

Drummer Girl, 

No matter how many times I see this written, it never fails to make my heart stutter step in my chest.

Okay, since you answered my questions … and chimichangas? Truly? (You're definitely going to have to explain that one day) I guess it's only fair to answer the same ones myself. Um, favorite food. I could be predictable and say pizza, which I'm a guy, so of course I love it, but really, if I had to only pick one it would be peanut butter and bananas. I could eat that every meal, every day, I swear I could. Well, probably not really, but you know what I mean. 

Your favorite color is red; mine's blue. 

My mom taught me how to play the piano, but I taught myself how to play the guitar. I used to hate piano lessons. I'd always much rather be outside playing soccer with my friends, but I couldn't imagine my life without music in it now. I love soccer, don't get me wrong, and I hope to play professionally, maybe, someday, but music will always be a part of me. Do you feel that way about the drums? 

I have to say it'd be really fucking tragic if you ever stopped playing. 

The boy does love to watch me play, no doubt about it. I can't say I mind it, either. Now that we've established this pattern we have, and now that we're … whatever we are … I find myself wanting - needing - to play for him.

I flip a few pages ahead and sigh. He's so sweet, in an almost uncanny way, and it should scare me, I think, but it most definitely doesn't.

Drummer Girl, 

You looked … ah hell, you looked so pretty tonight. 

God, I sound like such a tool saying that, but it's the fucking truth. And tease … man you sure know how to tease a guy. Not that I mind, so please don't you dare stop. 

Someone's Watching Me, huh? Nice touch, I liked it. 

Did I tell you, you looked pretty and happy and well, just all around amazing tonight?

What happened? Was it something good? Is it totally douchey of me to say I hope it had to do with me, maybe just a little bit? 

Thank God you can't see me right now, that's all I'm saying. 

Christ, you drive me crazy …

#18

And … cue more sighs, because really, how can I not?

A few more pages ahead and I look over his letter from his birthday, the second time he apologized, which was needed less than the first time. Admittedly, when I walked outside and saw that there wasn't a different notebook waiting on my stool, I was frozen in place. My stomach roiled and I clamped a hand over my mouth, the sense of hurt and aching loneliness that erupted was enough to make me feel sick. I started to move, to walk toward the trees beside my building to see if I could find him, because the thought of him not being out there scared me to fucking death. I hated that and irrationally I hated him, for all of thirty seconds, for making me feel that way. Of course I didn't hate him, but I did miss him. I can feel when he's out there now, and I could definitely tell when he wasn't.

It's still a little scary to think about what that means, because I know he won't always be here. I know his parents are coming home soon, he hasn't said exactly when yet, but this whatever it is, can't go on this way indefinitely.

Not sure how I feel about that yet. It's only been a few weeks and already I can't imagine not having him out there.

I recall my words to him, saying pretty much that exact same thing, because even though he didn't show up that night, I still wrote to him. I have to now. It's addicting, it's cathartic, and I hope we don't ever stop doing it. I can tell him things in our notebooks I'd never, ever be able to say out loud, not even over the phone, and I know for a fact I'd never be as open, at least not this quickly, or let myself be so vulnerable, face to face.
But his words, they move me. They urge me to poke at wounds, long since scabbed over, and expose them to the elements, or more specifically him. The thing that's most terrifying? I want him to know me. I try not to want it so badly, but I can't help it.

He might have mentioned it first, but almost from the very beginning I felt something. A pull. A presence. A sense of peace and warmth and comfort that I've never felt with anyone but him. It's wonderful and scary and it makes me want things I'm not sure I should, but I can't help wanting anyway.

Drummer Girl, 

No matter what you say, I still feel like shit for not showing up the other night. I didn't mean to not come to you, and I didn't mean to scare you or upset you. No matter what you tell me, I know I did because if it were me, I'd feel the same way. 

Isn't it strange how we've never been face to face, never spoken a word to each other, but yet, you are the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before falling asleep. Yes, I'm aware that might have something to do with the fact that by the time I make it home and fall into bed, I've just spent hours watching you, memorizing everything about you, but it's still true nonetheless. 

What did you write tonight? You looked so sad, so lost and alone and afraid. What scares you so badly? What secrets have you kept inside for so long that it took you hours to write them all down? I know you were talking to me, and not just because you were writing in our notebook either. I could feel it from all the way where I watch you. 

I wanted to go to you, a whole fucking lot. It almost, no not almost, it DID hurt watching you for so long sit there and write. 

I hope I'm strong enough to help you, because I know whatever took you so long to write down has to be something bad. 

I stare at his letter again, even though I think I've read it at least fifteen times since he left it. Once again, I'm torn between being petrified of him and the need to just give in to whatever force is pulling us together. I've told him already that he probably knows me better than anyone. He's never spoken to me, but he sees so much. It's only a matter of time before he knows everything about me.

The timer goes off on the oven, startling me, and I set the notebook down. As I lift the cookies from the sheet and onto the cooling racks I think about what I want to say to him.

He gave me a pen, I'm giving him cookies … and when I see the rectangles, an idea forms and I smile.
I'll also give him some of me, too.

I hope it's enough.
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