Someone to Watch Over Me by Michelle Stimpson

gaze met mine now. “I’m sorry for whatever I did or didn’t do, okay?”
    I wanted to coax more love talk out of him, but there was no use twisting his arm. He simply didn’t get it. “Okay,” I said, settling for his sincere apology.
    Kisses followed, along with our usual sexual routine. My body went through the motions, but no matter how hard I tried to focus (and believe me, I tried) I couldn’t make my head get into the game.
    Kevin was somewhat distracted by my unresponsiveness. “Do you want to do this or what?” he asked breathlessly at one point.
    â€œI’m sorry. My mind is on other things.”
    I don’t suppose any man has ever stopped himself in the act on account of a woman’s wandering mind. Kevin was no exception.
    Â 
    The three-and-a-half hour drive to Bayford did little to clarify life for me. I wondered how long I could continue the relationship with Kevin, or if I would even classify what we had as a bona fide romantic relationship. He really did love me in his own low-maintenance way, and I appreciated the space we both allowed each other. I didn’t want a clingy boyfriend who didn’t understand my dedication to work or who pressured me to cook and clean like I imagined most committed women did. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t have my cake and eat it, too. Part of me wanted a friend who wouldn’t place any demands on me. The other part wanted someone to be so close that our relationship warranted his presence at all hospital stays, company parties, and holidays.
    I was turning into my own worst needy-chick nightmare.
    The closer I got to Bayford, the fewer exits available on the highway. With my cell phone going in and out of consciousness, I started to get paranoid. A sense of total vulnerability settled over me and I began to note every gas station and Dairy Queen so if I had any type of car trouble, I’d have an idea of which direction I should walk. There was an eighteen-wheeler trailing me and a Honda Accord up ahead. The three of us had been together for at least fifteen miles, the Honda and I trading the lead a couple of times. I began to imagine that the diesel and the Honda were a tag team. The Honda would pour out some nails on the street so my tires would go flat. Then the diesel man would pull over and kidnap me. Since my cell phone was dead, I wouldn’t be able to call for help. No one would know I was missing for several days. Why? Because no one cared enough to report me a missing person.
    And then I’d be dead for so long before they found me, my body would have decomposed and they’d have to wait for forensic dental records to identify me. At my funeral, there’d be hardly anyone present to say good-bye.
    I accelerated my cruise control by five more miles per hour. If anyone was trying to harm me, they’d have to catch me first.
    Snap out of it, Tori! No one is going to kidnap you!
    As I got off at the Bayford exit, I breathed easier. I don’t know why I let myself get all worked up over the worst-case scenario. Habit, I guess. Maybe habit and watching a few too many crime reality shows.
    My drive through town toward the hospital yielded some pleasant surprises. A Sonic drive-in, a Dollar General, even a billboard boasting a new housing development starting in the low hundreds, though I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to move to Bayford. Electricity poles lined the streets and scarcely needed four-way stop signs littered the intersections here and there. Even in the middle of the day, Bayford seemed sleepy compared to Houston, which didn’t calm down until well after midnight—and only then for a few hours.
    First stop in Bayford: Aunt Dottie’s. Since I’d pass her house before nearing the county hospital, I wanted to drop my bag off and change into something other than my riding clothes. The Humble Trail street sign still leaned a little to the right. Every house