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So I stride through the airport with my teeth clenched, ignoring the voices whispering in my head—the ones that say I’m all kinds of twisted for wishing he was here now. Can you get Stockholm syndrome for a stalker?
When I find my gate, I march to the nearest seat and throw myself down on the metal bench. I’m hot and tired and extra cranky, but I force a smile for the little girl sitting opposite me, and I do not—I repeat, I do not—think about the man who watched me all summer long.
Did the songwriter mean for me to notice? Or was his obsession supposed to be a secret?
He never tried to speak with me, so… I guess it doesn’t matter either way. He clearly didn’t want methatbadly in the end.
And I’m not disappointed about that. I’m relieved.
Iam.
That is the healthy way to feel when you fly away from your stalker.
* * *
The plane roars to life all around us, white wings glinting in the dazzling sunshine outside. Flight attendants patrol up and down the aisles, checking seat belts and stowing tray tables, and my stomach churns worse than ever as we lurch into motion.
Turns out I’m not a good flier. Never had much practice, because when I was a kid, all our family holidays were spent camping within a hundred mile radius of our home. I never even had a passport before I got the job for this tour, and it’s still all new and crisp-looking even after a summer of being crammed into my backpack.
“Nervous?” A man in a white shirt sits next to me, smiling at where I’m counting breaths by the window. With his thick brown hair and sharp jawline, I suppose he’s handsome.
Don’t care. He’s hogging my armrest. “Nope.”
The man raises his eyebrows at my blatant lie, but he gets the hint: I’m not interested in chatting. This won’t be a talkative flight.
And maybe I’m being rude, but I’m glad when he turns away and slips in his earbuds, bringing a movie up on his little screen. This is a private meltdown, not one I want to share with a stranger, and after a summer of shared hotel rooms and crowded green rooms, I’m desperate for a few minutes alone.
Slow breaths in. Slower breaths out.
In. Out.
Our plane taxis along the tarmac, lining up with the runway.
…Better. It’s not even about the flight, not really. Sure, the rattling and the jolting motions suck, they make my breath catch and sweat break out on my back, but that’s notreallywhy my chest is so tight.
Why didn’t the songwriter ever speak to me? Why watch me for all those months and never say a word?
Goddamn it. Why did he just let megolike that? Did I dream the whole thing?
And if I didn’t, why am I pining after him like a complete idiot? He’s clearly messed up. My head thumps back against my seat, eyes burning as I stare out at the runway. I scowl at a luggage truck trundling past the window.
It’s a good thing nothing ever happened between us. Agoodthing. He left me alone all summer, only watching me from a distance as the band played for roaring crowds, and now I can go home and forget all about the songwriter.
It’ll be like he never watched me at all.
And that’s good. It’s fine. It’s freaking perfect.
Not soul-crushing at all.
Three
Tudor
Ishould let her go. That is an undeniable fact. I should let the Run Along Ruby merch girl go, and leave this—thisobsessionfar behind me. It’s twisted, and it’s wrong, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
From the first instant I laid eyes on her, I was ruined.
Objectively speaking, Carmen looks like a normal young woman. She has shoulder-length black hair, tan skin, and warm brown eyes. She wears white-framed glasses on days when her eyes get tired, and her favorite pair of jeans are worn through at the knee.
