I don’t know. Why?
I need to know what it looks like.
I thought about the last time—thereallast time—I’d said no, and it was when a waiter asked if I wanted Parmesan. I had a feeling that wasn’t what he was looking for.
Why do you care? Aren’t you supposed to be asking me my safe word? Or learning my limits?
I am learning your limits, Shay.
I sat up against my headboard, suddenly no longer tired, fingers flying as it sped.
Does this mean my stalker will meet me in person?
Not even close, but nice try, Maniac.
Our conversations happened for weeks, until January was blending into February. I went to work. I had book club. I saw my mom and sister for dinner on Sundays. I watched TV with my sister.
All the while, I was spilling secrets to a stranger.
I was starting to get attached to his questions. Expecting to see him in my phone. I didn’t know when it happened, when this curiosity with Void turned into a compulsion.
An addiction.
Is stalking the worst thing you’ve done?
I asked Void on a bleary February evening, just as I got home from work. I shrugged out of my coat and beelined for the bathroom—it was a hot-bath kind of night. It had been a bitter cold, gray day, the kind where morning, afternoon, and eveningall blended into the same overcast sky. Just as I turned on the water, Void responded.
No.
I rolled my eyes, because that was a total cop-out, and amended my question.
What’s the worst thing you’ve done?
My turn, Maniac. Why did you break up with your fiancé?
I should have seen the question coming. He’d already tried to ask it once. Adrenaline burned my throat. I was all at once naked and on fire.
Graham screamed until his voice gave out?—
The memory of the last time I’d seen Graham blasted into me, and I shook my head, getting rid of it before it could start. I’d never told anyone the real reason Graham and I broke up. I don’t know, maybe because repeating his words solidified what he’d said as truth.
Or maybe it was the deep well of shame inside me that I could ever have let someone speak to me like that.
That I’d believed him.
That a part of mestillbelieved him.
You can always send a picture, Maniac.
I wasn’t sure how to sum it up. Calling him abusive felt wrong. He never hit me or anything. But…
He wasn’t a nice person.
I finally sent, then slid into the bath.
The lavender-and-vanilla candle I’d lit was my only lighting. It flickered on the floral renter-friendly tiles my sister had installed over the plain white ones.
What was I doing? Some stranger I met, someone I didn’t know, now knew more about me than anyone.
