Page 110 of The Painter and His Poet

And so I tell him.

I tell him about my Instagram account. I tell him about the fact I haven’t used it in years, and then how I received the first message months ago. I explain that in the beginning they seemed harmless, but over time that the messages have gotten steadily more intrusive.

“There was a point that I thought maybe you were the one sending me the messages,” I admit in a whisper, guilt climbing up my throat.

“Never. I’dneverdo anything to hurt you, Harlow,” he exclaims, rearing back as though I’ve slapped him.

“I know that. I know. I’m sorry for even thinking it,” I quickly say, more tears pooling in my eyes.

“Why did you think it was me?” he asks.

“Initially, I thought you’d come across my account somehow, and after I left the way I did that night we first met, I thought perhaps you were trying to hurt me…”

“Harlow, shit. No…” His voice trails off, but I catch something in his eyes that gives me pause.

“What?”

“I did find your account,” he admits carefully, as though he’s afraid that I might react badly. “And I did send you a message, but nothing like this. I swear to you.”

“You messaged me?” I whisper.

“Yes. Once. You never responded. Then you were singing at our parents' wedding and, well, there was no need for me to message you there anymore.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I guess it didn’t matter at that point.”

“I wish you’d told me, it might’ve saved me from still thinking you were my stalker even after I’d moved in.”

He frowns. “Do you really think so little of me?”

“Please let me explain,” I say, feeling awful.

He nods. “Okay.”

“Do you remember that time in the kitchen when I asked to see your phone?” I ask.

“I remember.”

“I’d received some messages that morning, and you happened to be approaching the kitchen. You were on your phone at exactly the same moment…”

“That’swhy you asked to see my phone?”

“Yes,” I nod.

“But you don’t think it’s me now?”

“No, no I don’t,” I confirm, reaching for him. My palm slides across his cheek as I lift up onto my knees and shift closer to him on the bed. “I trust you. I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t.”

“Fuck, Harlow. Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I thought I was handling it. But the messages have gotten worse, and I think…”

“What? What is it?”

“I think I might know who it is, but I can’t be certain,” I add, as his eyes flare dangerously.

“Who?” he demands.

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