Page 3 of To Obsess

For the last year or so, we’ve been tossing around the idea of starting a podcast. There’s always been some excuse or another for why it just isn’t the right time or we’re too busy or whatever random reason we can come up with to avoid the inevitable. Six months ago, however, I started doing some research in my spare time. “How’s that going?” she asks as the waitress takes her coffee order.

I shut the laptop, focusing all of my attention on her now. “It’s been going okay. Some days are better than others, of course, but I think I’m making some decent headway finally.”

Abby and I have been friends for basically forever. We were both three when we met at a local farm on a hayride for Halloween. Since then, we’ve been nearly inseparable. That was almost twenty-five years ago now. Through the good, the bad, and the ugly, we’ve been by each other’s side.

When she brought up the idea of this podcast, I was beyond hesitant. I have too much on my plate already, but I’d walk through literal fire for this girl. If she wants to do a podcast, we’re going to do a podcast.

Abby sips her coffee, waiting patiently for me to explain what I’ve found out. “I don’t really know how to start it exactly, but I’ve been doing some work on trying to figure out how to even make the episodes in the first place. I thought it would be pretty cool to do a lesser-known case to start,” I explain, flipping open my notebook.

She smirks, and I roll my eyes, opening up to my notes. She’s always given me hell for physically writing my notes down instead of using a laptop like everyone else my age. Unfortunately for me, I’ve never trusted technology and would much rather have the information written down somewhere. My notebook can’t crash out on me at any given second.

“Everyone knows Bundy, Dahmer, and Kemper. We all know the Unabomber, BTK, and the Son of Sam. Those cases have been done over and over again. I want to find one that hasn’t been covered so much,” I say, skimming over the page.

When she doesn’t respond, I peek up at her, only to find a big goofy smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. I’ve known her long enough to know I’m not going to like where this is headed.

“Hear me out,” she starts. Never a good sign. “What if we covered your birthday cards? Only a handful of people even know that has been going on. It’s a total mystery all the way around. We have no idea who sends them or why. We could even give updates periodically if we find anything out.” She rattles the words off quickly, barely taking a second to breathe.

“No, thank you,” I say with a decisive headshake. “I have no desire to put my personal business out there for the world to hear.”

“Oh, come on,” she pouts, sticking her bottom lip out at me. “Maybe it would bring him out of hiding finally!”

I shake my head again, giving her my best death glare. “We don’t even know if it is a he, first of all. It could be a woman for all we know. Also, what if it just makes them mad and they come murder me in my sleep? I have a full life to live, and murder isn’t penciled into it anytime soon.”

“I bet he’s hot,” she continues, completely ignoring any of the logical words that spewed from my mouth.

“Maybe he’s finished with the card bullshit now anyway.” I shrug. A secret part of me loves the attention and mystery surrounding the cards, but lately, I’ve been feeling more anxious about them. When I was younger, I got excited about them, of course, but I didn’t think much about them until they showed up in the box. Now, that isn’t the case at all. I’ve been thinking about the next cards for months now. When will it arrive? Will it have the same message it’s had for twenty years? Will the shading inside the box be a different color this year? What if he does stop leaving them for me? Will I be devastated or wait with bated breath for weeks, hoping to find a card lying inside every time I check my mailbox? Those thoughts have consumed way too much of my time.

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows at me.

We finish our coffee date and go our separate ways. We were supposed to meet to discuss the podcast. I’ve researched equipment, the best places to record, and the best platforms to upload our work to. Instead, we end up talking mostly about the birthday cards.

As we say goodbye, a sinking feeling takes root in my stomach. As luck would have it, tomorrow is my birthday.

When my alarm goes off at 7:30 a.m., I roll over with a groan. “Alexa, shut up.” The alarm stops, but it’s too late. I’m already wide awake, which is nice for my boss, I’m sure, but it sucks for me. A night of tossing and turning has left me completely devoid of energy and dreading the day.

After a couple minutes of self-pity, I crawl out of bed and turn the knob on the shower. As steam starts to fill the bathroom, I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts and push them down over my hips, begging my muscles to move enough to step out of them.

When I step into the hot water, the rest of the world fades away. In here, the only thing that matters is the routine of washing and conditioning my hair, followed by shaving my legs, and finishing off with scrubbing my body clean. Even the thoughts seem to slow down in here.

After quickly drying off, I slip a plain black T-shirt over my head, pull up my black leggings, and run the brush through my towel-dried hair. With a quick swipe of my hand, the fog on the mirror is replaced with water droplets, allowing me to see a slightly distorted version of myself.

I slide the eyeliner across my waterline, coat my lashes in a layer of mascara, and run my favorite lip gloss across my lips. It has a light cherry scent but is completely clear. “Happy birthday to me,” I grumble, pulling back from the mirror to survey my auburn hair and the freckles that are scattered across the bridge of my nose and cheeks.

I absolutely hated them when I was younger. When I first got to middle school, the kids were so mean about them because they were different. Pair them with my hair and I was an easy target for bullies. The bullying lasted until the end of eighth grade when they found someone else to pick on for some other insignificant thing.

Since then, I’ve grown to be okay with them. They’re part of who I am, and I’m growing to love that person day by day.

I snag my phone from the charger as I pass through the bedroom, scrolling down to see notifications from my mom, dad, and Abby. I type out quick replies as I slip my shoes on and grab my keys, and laptop. In a matter of minutes, I’m out the door, ready to get this day started.

The drive to the bookstore only takes about fifteen minutes, thankfully. There’s not enough time for me to get in my head about what today is. Soon enough, I hear the chime of the bell above the front door as I enter. Clipping my name tag to my shirt, I slip into the work mentality, ready to help people discover their new favorite book.

The day flies by as one person after another makes their way to my register. I make small talk with each of them, never remembering the details for more than a moment, until the flow eventually tapers off.

The store has been unusually busy this week with the sale going on. The owners found a new shipping partner and decided to have a twenty percent off sale on every item in the store to celebrate. It may not seem like much, but a new shipping partner can easily make or break such a small-town store.

After clocking out, I finally take a second to look at my phone. I frown at the message from Abby, thumb hovering over the screen.

With a heavy sigh, I tap back a response, hit send and lock the phone, sliding it into my pocket.