Page 21 of Texting Dr. Stalker

Time to get over this and move the hell on.

Shoving Lily toward the door, I smiled and shooed her onto the porch.

“I’m going. I’m going.” With a huff, she gave me one last look, then followed the garden path to the gate and left me alone.

* * * * *

I winced as I caught my finger on the edge of the hot tin as I tipped it upright. I held my breath as the peach syrup upside-down cake plopped perfectly onto the flower-printed plate below.

Thank goodness it’s not a disaster.

Tossing the tea towel aside, I ran my singed finger under the cold tap for a moment while eyeing up the dessert I’d made for Jim. Peaches were his favourite—according to the conversations he and Nana would share over the fence. Peach in anything. Cobblers, crumbles, biscuits, muffins.

I’d never been a baker until I’d moved in with Nana, but thanks to some immensely enjoyable days spent in the kitchen with her, I’d graduated from eating store bought prepackaged monstrosities to scrumptious delights from scratch.

Licking my lips—still tasting the sweetness of the peaches that I’d sliced and caramelised in brown sugar—I checked the plastic bag wrapped around my bandaged wrist and stacked the dishwasher with my dirty utensils.

I’d stayed busy all day despite my injuries nudging me to rest.

I’d cleaned, even though the house was still spotless from Jim and the neighbours. I’d harvested all the herbs and flowers that were ready and gone through the intricate process of starting the oil press to make a new tincture of peppermint and geranium. The oil worked well on headaches, and stocks were low for the natural pharmacy that I offered at the market.

Nana had called her little stallFrom Soil to Soul,and when I’d first started helping her, I’d thought it would bring in pocket change from her friends in the area.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

People travelled from all over to visit her. Far too many had her personal number for refills, and when I’d offered to put her concoctions online, orders came through day and night.

She often joked that she worked more hours at ninety than she did when she was nineteen, and I believed it. I was also endlessly grateful to have inherited her customers because if I hadn’t, I honestly didn’t know how I would’ve tamed my racing thoughts.

Every time the house cracked from expanding with the sun, I jumped. Each time a bird pecked at the windows demanding more seed, I flinched.

I hated being this wary, this afraid.

It isn’t me.

And the sooner I was back to my carefree, happy place, the sooner I could move the hell on.

Throwing myself into work all day had been a saving grace, but now I’d done everything that needed to be done. I had a delicious smelling cake ready to be gifted, and the awful knowledge that I had to leave this little sanctuary to deliver it.

My pulse instantly skyrocketed.

Wooziness made me dizzy. I leaned against the kitchen counter, pressing fingertips to my temples and begging the lingering concussion to fade.

His house is literally next door.

You’re safe.

You’re fine.

“You’re a slut, that’s what you are! A motherfucking whore who’s fucking the neighbour. What is it about him, huh? Never took you for a snob who prefers to open her legs for an asshole doctor instead of your devoted boyfriend!” Milton threw me across the living room, laughing as I crashed against the sofa and fell in the gap between the couch and the coffee table. Landing on me, he shoved my legs apart and fumbled at his belt. “How about you spread them right now?”

Gasping, I doubled over and clutched the sink.

Memories I hadn’t dared recall unravelled in a sickening movie.

He hadn’t just beaten me that day, he’d—

I collapsed to my knees.

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