Page 29 of Texting Dr. Stalker

It matched mine in every way.

Unlike the overhaul I’d done to my place, I’d left the letterbox alone. Our two properties shared a mirroring gingerbread house mailbox that our two grandmothers had made the first week they’d moved in.

I’d heard my gran tell the story a hundred times. How they’d sanded wood and hammered nails and took turns to paint rows of pretty flowers on the sloping roof. The pink-and-purple numbers had faded enough to require fresh paint multiple times over the years, and in the end, Rory had lacquered both of them so the sun and rain didn’t destroy the legacy of two friends.

The back of my neck prickled as I placed the phone without the box or paperwork inside. It sat there like a black brick, sinister and judging me.

Glancing into her windows, I didn’t spot Sailor watching, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t seen. I just hoped like hell my unethical attempt at helping didn’t backfire colossally in my face.

* 11 *

Sailor

Random Gifts

I BARELY WAITED TILL DAWN TO CLIMB back up the ladder and continue painting Nana’s—now my—bedroom.

The entire house smelt like paint, and I wore almost as much as I’d put on the walls. The moment the homeware store delivered my online order, I’d shifted all the furniture out into my old bedroom, packed away Nana’s things for Goodwill, and covered the gold and silver swirly carpet with old sheets. Once I’d finished painting upstairs, I’d decide on what flooring to install, but for now, I focused on the bits I could do on my own.

I’d watched a few YouTube videos on how to prep the walls and applied plaster to the holes where old paintings and pictures once hung, sanded down areas that needed smoothing, and washed high-traffic areas with sugar soap. I’d applied the primer yesterday and now needed sunglasses indoors because the walls were so blindingly white.

Today, I planned on putting the first layer of the topcoat on. Thanks to a Pinterest post, I’d chosen a soft dove grey for the walls. I’d even managed to track down the wallpaper they’d used of a misty lake with white herons standing on long legs in a steamy new day.

The entire vibe was calm and tranquil, and I couldn’t wait to get the feature wall done so I could spray-paint Nana’s rattan bed frame a glossy silver to complement the cool tones, then scroll online for a bedspread to match.

By the time lunchtime rolled around and my hunger made itself known, I padded downstairs in my old high school sneakers that were now splattered with grey and headed outside to grab a carrot, cucumber, and salad leaves. The sound of a van accelerating had me changing direction and going through the hobbit gate to the street.

Thanks to my new project, I’d been able to ignore my itchy discomfort and memories of Milton for most of the day. However, I had a moment in the back garden last night while holding a photo of Nana and Pops. It’d been taken on their fiftieth wedding anniversary when they renewed their vows at a local garden centre, and Mary—Alexander’s grandmother and my nana’s best friend—had arranged for blossoms to be blown in a never-ending dance of pink and white as Pops sashayed Nana in a dance.

The sheer romance and affection suffocated me in happiness and sadness, and I’d stumbled outside, needing some fresh air.

If Lily had turned up while I cried my heart out at the thought of never getting to experience a lifelong partnership and marriage like they had, I would’ve choked back my tears and pretended I was fine. I would’ve tossed the picture I hugged into the closest veggie patch and hidden just how much Milton had broken me.

I would never be able to explain why I felt so sad.

Nothing had changed.

Not really.

Sure, I had a few bruises, but I was still alive. No one had taken my home away or left me destitute. I was still financially stable and young. Still had time to find ‘the one’. Still had my health and happiness.

Yet in that moment of grief when I gave in to that sticky darkness inside me, I sobbed into the grass and was grateful no one saw me.

You weren’t going to think about anything other than the renovation, remember?

The sooner I could get back to work, the better.

Scanning the street for neighbours I didn’t want to talk to, I headed to my gingerbread letterbox to check today’s mail. At the end of my drive, I glanced at Alexander’s home. His garage door was down; the house looked hushed. He was either sleeping from a long shift or wasn’t home.

I didn’t care to analyse why a coil of disappointment worked through me, followed by the tightest knot of anxiety.

Urgency to get back inside where no one could see my cracks had me flipping open my letterbox, grabbing the two letters inside, and hightailing back to safety.

Stepping into the kitchen, I tossed the letters onto the kitchen bench and scowled as something heavy clunked instead.

“What the…?” Plucking the top envelope off the bench, I sucked in a breath at the cell phone tucked beneath it. Sleek and small, it looked utterly lost and out of place.

Did someone mistakenly put it in my mail? Was someone looking for it? Freaking out to have lost all their photos and data?

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