Page 68 of Texting Dr. Stalker

Cheeky?

Sweet?

I’d replied something corny, and somehow, we’d traded equally oddball messages ever since.

Scrolling through the thread from yesterday, I smiled.

X:Are you cooking your poor flowers again? All I can smell is floral perfume.

Me:You’re close enough to smell my concoctions, huh?

X:I’m close enough that I can see you. Don’t freak out, but…you look absolutely ravishing in that tee and shorts.

Me:Are men still using the word ravishing these days?

X:This one does. But I have been called a nerd before.

Me:A nerd with a stalker personality. Could be kinky.

X:Careful, Lori. I know where you keep your spare key.

Me:And you have my permission to use it.

X:Don’t encourage me.

Me:By the way, do you have a Sailor Moon fetish?

X:Eh, should I have?

Me:You like what I’m wearing. It’s a fifteen-year-old faded tee of Sailor Moon. And my shorts are part of a Sailor Moon set I had when I was fourteen. She was my idol growing up.

X:I remember her. A friend of mine had sisters who ate that show up. And you know what? You kinda look like her.

Me:And that’s not fair because I have no idea what you look like. Care to show me?

X:I’m grotesque, and you’d run away screaming. This is the first time I’ve been able to get close to a girl without scaring them off with my hideous face. Don’t ruin it for me.

Me:I thought we were always meant to be honest?

X:I am. I’m a troll. Best just enjoy my glittering personality and forget all about the boils I’m hiding under my mask.

Me:One of these days, I’m going to count those boils.

X:As much as I’m enjoying this very un-arousing conversation, I have to go. Something just came up. Will you be okay on your own, or do I need to hire another stalker to keep you safe?

Me:I don’t want anyone else stalking me but you.

He hadn’t replied.

Not long after, I’d heard Alexander’s Chrysler leaving his garage, his tyres squealing a little as he sped off—most likely heading toward the hospital and an emergency.

For the quickest second, I had a crazy notion that X was Alexander. That the reason he stayed in the dark and covered his face was because he didn’t want me to know it was him.

But then another message had pinged and eradicated that stupid idea.

OPEN PHOTO.

I’d clicked on what X had sent, grinning at an image of myself. I stood exactly where I was with a soft smile on my lips and a wooden spoon in one hand, diligently mixing by the kitchen window as I combined jojoba, vanilla, and lemongrass into lip balm. My t-shirt print of Sailor Moon was faded, baggy, and hanging off one bruised shoulder, while my crescent moon shorts were a little too short.

---