Page 13 of Texting Dr. Stalker

I couldn’t keep looking at her. If I did, I’d do something stupid like go over there.

Forcing myself to move away from the window, I grabbed the case for my spare sunglasses on my dresser and strode in my flip-flops to the door. My black shorts and white tee allowed me to soak up as much vitamin D as possible seeing as I spent most of my life in a hospital. “It’s understandable. She’s brave to want to come back so soon, but it will take time before she feels safe again. You coming?” I arched my chin. “Those wings will be done by now. I’m assuming that’s why you came to find me.”

Abandoning his post by the window, Colin followed me down the stairs to the large foyer and open-plan living. I’d gotten rid of the paisley curtains and shagadelic carpet. I’d stripped off the busy wallpaper and refreshed the walls with off-white and grey.

I might’ve updated every inch of this place over the years, but I still got the feeling that my grandparents would be in the conservatory reading their magazines and newspapers, refusing to enter the digital age with iPads and interwebs.

“I came to find you as Iknowyou.” Colin shrugged and pushed past me. Swinging by the modern wood and marble kitchen, he snagged another beer from the fridge before stepping into the hexagonal conservatory and the deck beyond. “I know you’re worried about her, just like you worried about your folks. You become personally invested in the lives of others and—”

“And you don’t?” I grabbed another beer and joined him on the deck. The scents of charcoal-roasted chicken wings, garlic bread, and creamy potato salad accompanied the late afternoon perfectly. “I’ve seen you take work home all the time. You spent countless hours on that woman’s leg last month, ensuring the knee joint was reinforced so she could keep jumping her horses.”

“I did. But the difference between us is I like the puzzle of how to keep her doing something she loves, while you’d worry about her returning to a sport that made her lose her leg to begin with.” Using the tongs, he loaded up a platter already towering with sausages, juicy steaks, and grilled corn on the cob. “It’s fun for me to figure out ways for a new mechanism to work. Each patient is different with their needs and prosthetics.” Grabbing a sausage, he bit into it and pointed the rest in my face. “The difference between us, Zan, is I don’t worry about their mental health. I’m there to provide a service. A service I’m good at. And they wouldn’t be getting the best of me if I constantly worried about their state of mind while adapting to their new way of life. That’s not my job. My job is to gift that new way of life. The rest is up to them. See where I’m going with this?”

Scowling, I snagged a wing and sat heavily in the wooden deck chair I’d made with my gramps before he passed away. “You’re being pretty heavy-handed, so yes. I see where you’re going.”

“Good.” Finishing his mouthful, he dolloped a spoonful of potato salad onto a plate, tore off some garlic bread, and stacked a dangerously high mountain of wings before taking the seat beside me and tucking in. “Her mental health is not your responsibility. Her wounds were dealt with. Her overseeing physician will see her for a check-up. She has numbers to call if she’s not coping. The only thing you should worry about is how long you should give her before asking her out for a drink.”

I choked on my beer. “You what?”

He chuckled. “Oh, come on. You can’t be that dense or believe I’m that blind.” Biting off a hunk of bread, he said, “You’ve been sneaking peeks for years. You think you’re fooling me, but you’re only fooling yourself. You want her.” Swallowing his large bite, he grinned. “And now she’s finally single, so…how long are you going to wait to remind her that not all men are murderous assholes? That she lives next to one of the best guys I know and—”

“Quit talking while you’re ahead.” Leaping to my feet, I busied myself with loading a plate of food. I was grateful for my sunglasses—not only to block the sun but his far too piercing gaze. “I’m not interested in her in that way. I’m merely keeping an eye on her like her grandmother told me—”

“Yeah, yeah,sureyou are. So this grandma of hers specifically told you to stand in a dark bedroom while she’s in hers with her lights on? Did she tell you to freeze each time you see her by the letterbox? Maybe she also told you not to bring women here in case your neighbour sees you with someone else, and it breaks her itty-bitty heart?”

I groaned and sank back into my chair. “One timeI asked to use your place. One time, Col.”

“Because you wanted to fuck and not have your neighbour—”

“No, because I was too exhausted to drive anywhere, and she was tipsy. Your apartment was closer. Nothing happened that night.”

“You’re shitting me.” He raised an eyebrow. “You went home with a super pretty girl from the bar, used my place with its bachelor vibes with a spa tub on the balcony, andstilldidn’t score?” Leaning toward me, he scowled. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Like I said. She was tipsy.”

“Tipsy isn’t drunk.”

“It’s still not right.” I couldn’t hold his eye contact or stop remembering how the woman in question had tried to instigate sex multiple times throughout the night. And each time, I’d politely but firmly turned her down.

By the time morning came around and she’d sobered up enough to make a rational decision, I’d frustrated her so much by doing the right thing she said I’d ruined her self-esteem, called me a tease, and left.

Which was fine.

Completelytotallyfine.

I didn’t have time for a girlfriend.

I barely had time for a friend, and we both worked crazy hours, so our relationship came with built-in understanding.

I’d gone into this profession knowing full well I might struggle to balance love and career. I’d chosen it because I was great at what I did, got satisfaction from helping people, and had grown used to being on my own.

So what if I’d completely forgotten what it felt like to be touched by someone? So what if every release I had was by my hand and no one else’s?

I was doing something worthwhile, which made up for the loneliness.

Not that I’m lonely.

Of course not.

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