Page 173 of Sexting the Boss

Still, I get up, stretch, and grab my jacket. I need air. Groceries. And some excuse to leave the apartment before I start talking to the stove like it’s my emotional support boyfriend.

The store smells like fake pine and lemon wipes. I shuffle through the aisles with a basket of necessities—bread, peanut butter, a prenatal vitamin bottle I keep staring at like it might change color and tell me what to do.

I’m almost at the checkout when I feel it.

That prickle at the back of my neck.

I glance behind me casually. There’s a man at the far end of the aisle. Ball cap. Jacket zipped to the chin. Normal. Too normal.

I turn back around. No big deal. It’s New York. Everybody’s in a rush and nobody looks where they’re going.

I get in line. Pay in cash. Walk out.

But halfway home, I feel it again.

That sensation like someone’s eyes are on me. Following the rhythm of my footsteps, matching pace. I whirl around, breath caught in my throat?—

Nothing.

Just a woman pulling a toddler out of a taxi. A guy unloading cases of water into a bodega. Nobody looking at me.

I tell myself it’s stress.

The hormones.

The paranoia of being in over my head.

But I still walk a little faster.

And when I get home, I check the locks twice.

Back in the apartment, Melanie’s working on her laptop. She barely looks up. “That was quick.”

“Didn’t want to buy too much,” I say. “Trying to stretch the savings.”

She eyes the tiny bag in my hand. “That’s not groceries, it’s emotional support carbs.”

“Same thing,” I mutter, tossing the bag onto the counter.

Later, in the quiet of my room, I lie on my bed and let my hand rest over my stomach. It’s still early. Barely showing. But I know the baby’s there.

* * *

The following week,something weird happens.

I get an email.

It shows up in my inbox just after midnight.

No subject. No sender name. Just a string of random numbers for the email address. For a second, I think it’s spam. The kind that wants to sell me fake crypto or Russian brides.

But there’s no link. No attachment. Just one line.

You’re not as hidden as you think.

I blink at it, reread it twice, then slam my laptop shut like that’ll make it disappear.

My skin prickles.

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