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two
Cal wasn’t stalking her. At least not according to the laws of the state of California, which stated that the stalking victim must fear for their safety. He’d die before hurting Ellie, and despite all the pain between them, she knew that.
Okay. Yeah. Even in his head, sounded kind of stalker-like.
Fuck.
He’d waited patiently for nearly a year, hoping she’d give him a second chance, but she was still stubbornly determined to avoid him. So maybe he’d arranged to run into her occasionally, but that was not stalking. That was... strategic coincidences. Yes, he liked the sound of that much better.
As he watched Ellie’s retreating figure disappear into the distance, loss settled heavily in his chest. The sight of her walking away was always like watching a piece of his own soul fade into nothingness.
“You’re being creepy,” a familiar voice called from behind him. “I told you not to be creepy.”
He turned to see Connelly Davis sitting at one of the nearby picnic tables with his ever-present laptop, his dark hair wind-mussed, the stubble on his jaw about three days past a five o’clock shadow. Obviously, Connelly was deep into a book. He always started to look a bit homeless by the time he finished one, though it wasn’t quite as bad now that he was a married man. Veronica reminded him to interact with real humans, not just fictional ones, and she kept him from going full hobo.
“You’re one to give relationship advice, Conn. Didn’t you pine after Veronica for decades before finally doing something about it? And, dude, you slept on her front porch for weeks until she let you in.”
“It was one week.” Connelly glanced up from his laptop and looked at him flat-eyed, unamused. “And I’m not giving you relationship advice. I’m giving you don’t-be-a-stalker advice.”
“Strategic coincidences,” Cal corrected. He walked over and slipped onto the bench across the table from him.
“Jesus, you’re such a lawyer.” Connelly snorted and returned to his writing. “That’s the worst euphemism for stalking I’ve ever heard.”
Over the past year, Cal had come to respect the horror writer’s opinion on most things, but in this case, Connelly was wrong. “I was helping her with her dog. Explain to me how that’s creepy, O Mighty King of Horror.”
“Helping with the dog isn’t creepy,” Connelly said, not looking up from his screen. “Hanging around hoping she’ll change her mind about you and give you another shot? Or that look you get when you’re watching her, the one like you’re about to break into a Shakespearean sonnet or something?—”
“I do not have a look.”
Connelly ignored him. “That is borderline stalker territory.”
Cal scowled. “I’m not maliciously harassing her or making threats to her safety. Hence, I’m not stalking her.”
“Uh-huh.” Connelly finally glanced up, his expression neutral. “Look, Cal, man to man... let it go. She doesn’t want anything to do with you. It may not be stalking according to the law, but Vee has become pretty good friends with both Alexis and Ellie, and I’ve overheard them talking. You are creeping her out.”
“Shit. That was never my intention.” Cal dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “I just… I don’t know what to do. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. She’s…”
“She’s what?” Connelly prompted when he trailed off.
“She’s... she’s everything. She’s brilliant and funny. She’s independent and stubborn as hell. She’s so goddamn beautiful but doesn’t know it. She’s passionate about her work and has more compassion in her little finger than most people have altogether. I’ve never met anyone like her.”
“All right,” Connelly said after a pause. “I’m going to give you some advice then. Straight-up relationship advice this time.”
He lifted his head from his hands. “I’m listening.”
Connelly leaned forward on the table. “If you care about her as much as you say you do, then respect her decision. Maybe she’ll come around again, but it won’t happen because you’ve engineered some situation to run into her. It’ll happen because she decides she wants to see you.”
All the air left him in a hard exhale. He’d been trying so hard to prove to Ellie that their relationship was worth another shot, but all he had accomplished was driving her further away.
“What ever happened with your little side project?” Connelly asked suddenly.
He winced. One night over beers at The Mad Dog, he’d told Connelly about the plan to win Ellie back by finding out what happened to her long-missing older sister, Hope. It had been a stupid long shot, but he’d been desperate enough—and cocky enough—to think he could solve a mystery that had stumped investigators for twenty years. “In 2004, Hope Summers left her home in Chicago, climbed into a black 1977 Trans Am with California plates and a Mt Humboldt sticker on the back window—and vanished off the face of the Earth. For all the information I have, she could’ve been abducted by aliens.”
“Well, that’s probably for the better,” Connelly said with a decisive nod. “You wanted to unearth a two-decade-old tragedy and parade it in front of the woman you claim to love? Man, that’s not a gesture of love. That’s a horror story.”
Cal rubbed his face with both hands, guilt gnawing at his gut. He had considered the possibility that reviving the old wounds might cause Ellie more pain than peace, but had dismissed it, assuming she’d want answers more. “When you put it like that... Yeah, it does sound rather creepy.”
“And desperate.” Connelly folded his arms over his chest. “And manipulative. You really suck at romantic gestures, Holden.”
