Page 9 of Texting Dr. Stalker

A couple of beers to remind me to let shit go was definitely needed.

“You’re on.” I forced a smile. “See you there.”

* 3 *

Sailor

Home is Where the Pain is

“ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO this?”

I scowled at Lily as she asked the same question she’d asked a hundred times since she’d picked me up from the hospital and kindly driven me back to Ember Drive.

I went to speak and remembered the many guidelines the elderly doctor had advised before discharging me this morning. He’d suggested I stay for another day’s observation, but I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax—constantly on high alert in case Alexander North popped by again.

I hated the fact that I was as wary about him as I was about Milton. That he’d been the catalyst for all my pain, and my body refused to forget that.

I’d refused to stay, but I had agreed not to use my voice for a week to let the swelling in my throat recede. My bruises would fade. My cuts would heal. My slight concussion would disappear on its own. What happened yesterday would be a distant memory in six to eight weeks.

However, that wasn’t what the counsellor had said when she came to visit me as I awkwardly dressed to leave. She warned me of flashbacks and panic attacks, and I’d politely nodded along, all while convincing myself that I would be fine.

I’d survived.

He was locked up.

The end.

Luckily, Milton had tried to murder me on a Monday, which worked in my favour as I didn’t have to be at the market until Saturday. That gave me four whole days to heal and figure out how to use enough concealer to hide my black eye and paint-by-numbers bruises.

Shutting off the engine of her silver Mercedes coupe, Lily turned to face me. “I know you can’t talk, but I feel your annoyance, Sails.” She frowned and pointed a finger in my face. “I don’t like this. I really, really don’t like this. What if he comes back? What if you need someone to help you cook or go to the bathroom or—”

I slapped my good hand over her runaway mouth and smiled as best I could.

God, I didn’t think not being able to speak would be such a pain, but it literally killed me having to stay silent. (And yes, I was aware of the irony that being killed had gotten me into this mess.)

Shaking my head, I dropped my hand and pointed at my inherited home.

Sitting on the grass-striped driveway, the red-brick garage full of Pop’s tools welcomed me back. White jasmine vines draped off the slate roof, window boxes full of rainbow flowers, the gorgeous archway made of bent willow branches, the little fountain that attracted all the blackbirds and finches, the bird feeders, the Japanese maples, the lemon trees and feijoas, right to the huge hobbit-style gate leading to the secret garden of a backyard. The two-story house sat nestled in all of that. Softened by lichen and love, wrapped tightly with a white veranda with a swinging egg chair, and crowned by a front door with a stained-glass window showing a riot of frangipani and freesias.

This place wasn’t like the house I’d grown up in with my parents across the country. That had been stark and sterile with no garden, no welcome, no soul. I’d found who I truly was ever since I’d moved in with Nana, and I’d never felt so safe or so comfortable…so yes.

I was sure I wanted to do this.

Ineededto do this.

I wouldn’t let Milton chase me from my happy place. No matter that my pulse skipped and adrenaline made me jittery at the thought of going inside.

Sighing heavily, Lily nodded as if she’d heard all my thoughts as we stared at the house. “I get it. You love it here. You feel safe here. But…”

I clucked my tongue and arched my eyebrow.

She smirked. Her dark brown hair caught the late morning sunshine, her fierce blue eyes like sapphire chips. She wore a navy power suit with white lapels and pocket trim, looking every inch the successful real estate agent. Next to her, I was the unnoticed skinny Minnie who preferred inappropriate jokes and comfy leggings.

I didn’t always used to be that way.

I used to work in corporate.

I’d been an executive assistant to a publishing house editor. And as much as I loved to read the slush pile and help make other people’s dreams come true, when Nana had admitted that she was past the point of living on her own and was deliberating moving into a home now that Pops was gone, I upped and quit and moved in.

---