Page 92 of Letters From A Stalker

Still, every so often, my mind slips somewhere it shouldn’t. A black envelope sealed with red wax. Little Ember inscription on it. The absence of all of it. I tell myself that should make me feel safer. Instead, I keep wondering whether he stopped watching at the same time he stopped writing. That question bothers me enough that I refuse to answer it.

At lunch, I stay at my desk and eat while reviewing a document, although even I recognize the hypocrisy after an entire therapy assignment built around identifying when I automatically choose usefulness over preference. My preference would be to go outside, buy something warm and eat somewhere without a laptop. My deadline disagrees so this one wins for legitimate reasons. I make a note of that inside my head so Kai cannot accuse me of ignoring the assignment completely.

A message from Tessa appears halfway through lunch.

Tessa:

Still alive?

I stare at it. She means Monday. Obviously.

Me:

Against all odds.

Tessa:

Proud of you. Remember, sex was also on my recommended treatment plan.

I nearly choke on my lunch.

Me:

You are not licensed to create treatment plans.

Tessa:

I have life experience.

Me:

You dated Cody.

There is a longer pause before her answer arrives.

Tessa:

His forearms were magnificent and I refuse to repent.

I smile and put the phone facedown before she finds another way to make my lunch inappropriate. For a few minutes, the conversation from Saturday returns anyway. About sex, about Michael, about control and difference between something being taken and something being voluntarily given. And, inevitably, the letter.

The sun is already low when I finally leave the office, and the temperature has dropped enough that the cold catches the exposed skin above my collar as soon as I step outside. My day wasn’t particularly bad. It was simply Monday in all the predictable ways Mondays manage to be exhausting without earning the distinction of disaster. By the time I turn onto my street, I want dinner, a shower and at least an hour during which nobody expects me to answer anything more complicated than whether I would like to continue watching.

Mrs. Pritchard is outside when I pull into the driveway. She stands on her porch wearing a thick cardigan and holding a small watering can, tending to several pots that appear considerably healthier than anything I have ever attempted to keep alive. The air has enough autumn bite in it that I’m not sure why the plants still require attention, but Mrs. Pritchard treats vegetation with the same level of care other people reserve for elderly relatives. She looks up when I close the car door.

“Long day?”

I adjust my bag higher on my shoulder and walk toward the low hedge separating our properties.

“Usual Monday. Nobody sued us personally and I only considered faking my own death twice, so I’m calling it successful.”

She laughs and lowers the watering can. “I haven’t seen you much lately.”

A flicker of guilt comes automatically. Then, because apparently therapy has infected my entire thought process, I notice it. There it is, the immediate assumption that I have neglected someone.

I smile at her anyway because in this case I actually do miss her. “I know. I’m sorry. Work’s been ridiculous, and Tessa stayed over this weekend, so Saturday and half of Sunday disappeared before I realized it.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me, sweetheart. You have a life.” The simplicity of the answer makes me strangely grateful.