Page 154 of Letters From A Stalker

“You look like shit.”

I look up from my screen. “Good morning to you too.”

“It’s twelve-fifteen.”

“Then your observational skills are slipping.” Normally that would earn me something dramatic.

Today he keeps looking at me. I know exactly what he sees. Concealer can hide a bad night or the fact that I cried myself to sleep, but apparently not whatever has settled behind my eyes since yesterday afternoon.

“You okay?” The question makes something inside me pull tight.

For one awful second, I hear another voice saying the same thing. Kai standing beside the cabinet with his sleeves rolled up.

You okay?

I look back at my screen. “I had a rough night.”

Daniel waits. He is good at that when he decides to be.

“I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

His expression softens immediately, and the absence of pressure almost undoes me more effectively than concern would.

“Okay.”

Daniel giving me the right to pick and choose the time I wanted to talk about things that were bothering me had aways been one of his personality traits that I loved most about him.

He places the folder on my desk. “This can wait until the end of the week.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He pushes it farther from my keyboard anyway. “That was not the question.”

I look at him.

He gives me a small smile. “Eat something.”

Apparently every person in my life has formed a committee about whether I consume lunch.

The thought brings Kai’s last note back so quickly that I have to look away.

Drink plenty of water, eat something that qualifies as an actual meal.

My eyes burn. I hate him. I hate that he cared. I hate that I still believe he did.

“I’m getting lunch in ten minutes,” I tell Daniel.

“Excellent. I’ll alert the media.” He leaves before I can throw anything at him.

I sit very still until the pressure behind my eyes passes. Then I get lunch.

The first email from Mara arrives that afternoon. I nearly delete it without opening it. Her name in my inbox feels like an extension of him even though I know that isn’t fair, and for several seconds my finger stays frozen over the trackpad while anger does something hot and unreasonable behind my ribs. Eventually I click.

There is no message from Kai tucked inside it. No apology passed through her or a suggestion that I need to reconsider. Mara keeps it completely administrative, which I am grateful for even though gratitude feels like another thing I don’t want connected to that office.

She tells me my care with Dr. Blackwood has ended effective immediately and provides four referral options, all outside the practice. Two women, two men. Different locations. Trauma experience listed beneath each. She says she can transfer my records to whichever provider I choose, or send them directly to me if I would rather handle it myself. At the bottom is one final line.

“You don’t owe me a reply until you’re ready.”