“He is not.”
Hannah gives me a look.
“Fine. Objectively speaking, yes, physically he’s hot. But he has a personality disorder.”
“Sounds like he’s just your type.” Hannah cackles.
I look around furtively. “Bethany’s not here, is she? She already thinks I’m trying to sleep with Prism clients.”
My phone goes off, and Hannah and I both jump like we’ve summoned a demon.
“She knows.”
“It’s not her.” I glance at my phone. “Just my stalker.” I’m flippant. It’s a coping mechanism.
Hannah scowls. “I feel like you’re not taking this situation seriously.”
“‘Stalker’ is in quotation marks. If it was an actually dangerous person instead of just Andreas, I’d make more of a stink with the police about not investigating my report. But it’s not that serious.” I blow my nose. “Nathan thinksyou’re overreacting. Also, when I asked him, he said threatening Andreas to make him leave me alone will just escalate things. So he’s not going to.”
“Well, if Nathan thinks so.” Hannah rolls her eyes. “Then sure, just let Andreas go all stalkery-doo-dah over your life. Sounds like the world’s best fiancé.”
“He’s better than Andreas,” I say in protest.
Yes, I have terrible taste in men. But I’m learning from my mistakes! Hence Nathan.
“He’s not still trying to get you to buy into that timeshare with him, is he? I told you giving him that engagement ring back wasn’t going to make him stop. You should have pawned it.”
More messages stream in on my phone.
“He could kidnap you and sell you for parts to pay off, quote, your half of the timeshare.” Hannah grabs my phone. “Block his ass.”
“No! This way I at least know where he is. In case, you know, he does go dangerous. Which he won’t because I know him. He just wants an audience. He’s not violent. I’m not getting anywhere near as many messages as I used to.”
“That doesn’t look like a stalker who’s tapering off,” Hannah remarks pointedly as more incoming DMs and notifications blow up my phone.
“This is…” I frown. “Oh my god.”
“What?” Hannah peers over my shoulder at the Facebook post I’m looking at.
“He’s dead.” I gasp, slumping into my desk chair and suddenly feeling like I’m going to puke.
“Who?”
“My fiancé.”
“Nathan? PraiseJeebus!”
“No.” I can’t breathe. “Brock. Ex-fiancé, sorry. He—he’s dead. I can’t believe it.”
“Woo! Jenna, our prayers have been answered!” Hannah crows. “I told you that voodoo doll I bought when I went home to Harrogate over Christmas was legit. He’s gone! You need to file a claim with his estate. He owes you—what? Like eighty grand? If you get that cash back, you can go tell Bethany and McCarthy to shove it. This is amazing. Drinks! Celebration! Life is good!”
I feel like I’m going to pass out. My vision is blurry with tears as I read the DMs.
“His mom wants me to go to the funeral.”
“The mom that kept hounding you to lose weight so you’d get pregnant easier and would never let you sit at the adults’ table at Thanksgiving because she wanted you to babysit all the family children at the kids’ table? Eff her, and eff her son.”
I’m disassociating.
