Page 85 of Letters From A Stalker

“How long is a while?” Of course she presses.

I search the ceiling as though the answer might be written there. “Long enough that I’d have to actually think about it.”

“Jesus Christ, Julia.”

“It hasn’t been that long.” It has absolutely been that long. Two-years-four-months-and-two-and-a-half-weeks long.

“Your inability to provide a calendar year is not helping your case.”

I laugh and shove her foot away from me, which only makes her tuck it beneath my leg again.

“I’ve been busy.”

“You have been busy since I met you. That explanation stopped counting years ago.”

“Maybe I simply enjoy peace.”

“You can enjoy peace and an orgasm. Women are versatile.”

I press my lips together around a smile.

Tessa studies me for another second before some of the teasing leaves her expression. “I’m not actually telling you to go fuck a stranger because your psychiatrist made you talk about being assaulted. That would be spectacularly bad advice even for me. I’m just saying you have this tendency to put your entire personal life on hold and then act like wanting physical contact is some optional subscription service you cancelled to save money.”

I stare at her. “That was annoyingly coherent.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You already used that this week.”

“It remains true.” She wiggles her toes under my leg and I swat at her leg.

I take another sip of wine and let my head rest against the back of the sofa. “I do miss sex.”

“There we go.” She raises her glass.

“Do not celebrate.”

Her smile is smug and annoying. “I’m not celebrating. I’m witnessing growth.”

“You’ve been talking eerily similar to Hot Doctor for someone who has never met him.”

“He and I are spiritually aligned.”

“That thought is terrifying.”

Tessa laughs, then watches me quietly enough that I know another question is coming. “Does talking about the assault make sex feel weird right now?”

I think about it. “A little. Not sex itself, necessarily. I’m just more aware of everything at the moment.”

She nods without trying to fill in the answer for me. That is one of the reasons she knows as much as she does.

“The weird thing is that what happened never really changed what I like,” I continue. “At least I don’t think it did. Maybe everything connects somewhere if you dig deep enough, but I’m not particularly interested in turning every sexual preference I have into a trauma response.”

“Fair.”

“I still like what I like.”

Tessa’s mouth curves because she knows exactly what I mean. “You mean you still don’t want anyone making sweet, tender love to you beneath a skylight while Ed Sheeran plays in the background.”