Page 156 of Letters From A Stalker

“No.”

“Tessa.” I walk over to the cabinets just so I get a moment to compose myself.

“You look like somebody died, and I know Nanna didn’t because she sent me a meme at nine-thirty this morning.”

I stop and turn around. “Nanna sends you memes?”

“Apparently we’re friends now. Focus.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, though it barely lasts long enough to qualify. Tessa notices that too, and her whole expression softens.

“Oh, honey.”

That nearly does it. I turn away again before she can hug me because if she puts her arms around me now, I will start crying, and I’m not ready to begin this conversation from somewhere I can’t find my way back from.

“Pour the wine.” I mutter.

For once, she doesn’t argue. Ten minutes later, the food is cooling untouched on the coffee table while we sit on opposite ends of my couch with our glasses between us. Tessa has turned completely toward me with one leg folded underneath her, while I keep staring at the dark television because apparently telling your best friend that you have been secretly fucking your stalker becomes considerably more difficult once you actually have to form the sentence.

There is no elegant entry point into this so I just blurt it out.

“I’ve been seeing someone.”

Tessa’s eyebrows climb. “Okay.”

I wait. She waits. When I don’t immediately continue, her eyebrows climb higher.

“Are you going to tell me who, or is this one of those interactive experiences where I’m supposed to guess?”

“I’m getting there.”

“You’ve been ‘seeing someone’ and haven’t told me?” The genuine offence in her voice almost makes me smile.

“I knew you were going to get stuck on that part.”

“Of course I’m stuck on that part. We discuss men who smile at you in elevators.”

“I know.”

“How long?”

“A while.”

“That is not a measurement of time, Julia.”

I take a drink, mostly because it buys me several seconds. “Long enough that you’re going to be pissed I didn’t tell you.”

Tessa settles farther back against the cushion with the wary expression as if she’s preparing for impact. “Fantastic. Strong opening.”

“He isn’t somebody I met normally.”

“What does that even mean?”

I stare down into my wine, watching the reflection of the room tremble slightly because my hand isn’t as steady as I thought it was.

“He kind of found me.” The joke she was about to make never comes, so I continue. “There was somebody watching the house.”

Her glass stops halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean, watching your house?”