Page 115 of Letters From A Stalker

“I’m not comparing you to him. I said you have the same tendency.”

“That is literally a comparison.”

“You always twist what I say.”

A humorless laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Okay.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I straighten and stare at the tiled backsplash because looking at anything else suddenly feels too difficult.

“It means I’m not doing this.”

Her voice becomes sharper. “Of course. You don’t want to hear anything you don’t like.”

“No, I don’t want to spend Saturday morning being told I’m a bad daughter because I said I might come over next weekend instead of today.”

“I never said you were a bad daughter.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence settles between us again and I muster enough strength to end the conversation. “I’m going to go,”

“Fine.” The coldness in her voice makes my chest hurt.

“Mom.”

“What?”

I close my eyes for a second before forcing myself to continue. “I love you, but I’m not coming over because you made me feel guilty enough to rearrange my weekend.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“No.” My voice is quieter now, but steadier. “You just made sure I knew what kind of person you think I am if I don’t.”

There is no answer.

“I’ll talk to you later.” The call ends.

For a long moment, I remain against the counter with the phone still pressed loosely in my hand. The confidence I had while talking to her disappears almost as soon as the call does. I feel like shit. Every instinct I have tells me to call back and fix it, although I don’t even know what fixing it would mean beyond offering tomorrow as proof that I love her enough.

I don’t call. Instead, I pick up my coffee and carry it into the living room, where I sit long enough for it to go cold while the guilt slowly changes from something sharp into something I can at least breathe around. The rest of Saturday continues whether I want it to or not. Laundry needs folding. Groceries need ordering. Tessa sends me a video of a dog wearing sunglasses in a convertible with the caption this is you when you finally lose your mind and leave Minnesota, and I laugh hard enough that she immediately follows with three more.

By late afternoon, I have stopped thinking about driving to Mom’s just to make the feeling disappear. I suppose that counts as progress. I only wish progress didn’t feel so much like doing the wrong thing on purpose.

The black envelope appears Sunday evening. I notice it after carrying a bowl into the kitchen and wandering back toward the living room, stopping to open the front door and check if it’s there. Because doing that suddenly feels as normal as anything else.

My pulse responds before the rest of me does. The heaviness left over from Saturday loosens slightly as curiosity moves into its place. I picked it up from where it was resting against the bottom of the door beneath the porch light.

Little Ember,

You have no idea what you looked like Friday night.

I watched you walk to that window still fighting yourself. I watched you stop, give yourself the chance to walk away, and stay anyway.

You looked for me. That was the part that almost wrecked me. Not your hand down your shorts. Not the way your mouth opened when you stopped trying to stay quiet. Not even the way you came with your forehead on the glass because I told you to keep your eyes on the trees. You looked for me because you wanted my eyes on you while you fucked yourself.

I was there. I saw every second of it. If I had been inside your house, I would not have let you do it alone. I would have come up behind you at that window, put your hands on the glass, and shoved those shorts aside myself. I would have slid two fingers into that wet little cunt and made you feel exactly how ready you already were for me. Then I would have wrapped my hand around yours and forced you to rub your clit the way I wanted it. Slow at first. Then harder. I would have told you when to stop. When to start again. When you were allowed to come.