“Anyway”—Kerrigan changes the conversation, clearly over discussing work—“back to the topic at hand. You still owe me for being locked in a bathroom while you got your back blown out.”
A laugh bursts out of me when I hear her phrase it that way. “I know. I know. I owe you my life.” A flashback of that moment warms my core. “Seriously,life-changingkind of experience.”
A beat of silence passes between us.
Kerrigan and I have been best friends since our early twenties. We might not have known one another our entire lives, but we might as well have. There are no boundaries between us, no secrets or unspoken words. She knows me better than anyone else, and I, her, which is exactly how I can tell she’s holding something back right now.
“What are you thinking?” I ask her softly, nervous goose bumps breaking across my arms.
Is she going to tell me that I should end this? That it’s gone too far? Does she think less of me because of what happened?
She twiddles her thumbs in her lap, her eyes glued tothem. “What are you hoping to get out of this whole … secret-admirer thing?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, but I know exactly what she’s asking.
I may be a hopeless romantic, but I’m also realistic. I’ve never entertained situationships or anything less than serious when it comes to dating. I don’t want to waste my time on someone or something that isn’t going anywhere.
But when it comes to Mr. Mystery Man … I don’t know … I think part of me has tried not to overthink it. This entire situation—thisrelationship—is new territory, and I don’t know the rule book. I’m making it up as I go. I think we both are.
“Where do you think this is going?” She takes a breath. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
My heart warms. “I know. Honestly, I want to tell you I know how this’ll end, but I have no idea. I don’t even know his name or his face …” I trail off, realizing how absolutely insane I sound, and Kerrigan’s face reacts with a look of concern. My heart begins to race as I recall all the letters and gifts he’s left and the things he’s done for me. “Ugh, he’s just oddly thoughtful and protective, and heseesme.”
“Clearly,” she jokes, and I can’t help but laugh. “He’s a pro atseeingyou.”
“I get it. I’m a psycho for literally falling for my stalker.”
I couldn’t make this all up if I tried. I’m usually a very careful person. I follow the rules, I keep to myself, I stay in my lane. I’ve been that way my whole life, to a fault occasionally. But I wasn’t prepared for someone veering intomy lane, hijacking my vehicle, and making me a happy little passenger along the way.
“You know I support you, no matter what. As long as he treats you right and doesn’t hurt you. Because then you’re not the only one who’ll be stalked. I’ll become the shadows watchinghim.” She means it wholeheartedly, and I have no doubt that she would avenge me if something bad were to happen.
“I know, and I love you for that.”
“I love you too,” she mutters, pulling me into a quick hug.
But the man has had ample opportunity to hurt me, both emotionally and physically. I genuinely don’t think that’s his motive at all. He’s gone out of his way to prove that to me. Time and time again.
Aside from concealing his identity from you for so long.
He has his reasons, and to be fair, I find it kind of hot that I don’t know who he is. I like beinghis, giving myself to him without knowing everything. It’s a little scary and thrilling, and … I love it. I also like that I’m falling for how he treats me and who he is versus what he looks like.
If anything, I’m scared that if the mask comes off, the magic may fade. Everything feels so damn intense right now. Will the calm be as enjoyable as the storm? I don’t know, but I sure hope so.
Kerrigan stands from the couch and stretches her legs. She’s leaving to head home. But I’ll see her again in the morning at work.
After a quick hug, we walk toward the door for a classic Minnesotan goodbye, where we somehow squishthree more conversations in before she heads out of the door.
Freddie struts on the hardwood behind me as I head into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and let him outside to go potty in the backyard. “Come on, buddy.”
I unlock the back door, and Freddie hops over the divider, braving the snowy terrain—and by that, I mean, the shoveled path and cleared-off grass area. But to a dog that barely stands six inches tall, it’s probably a lot more intimidating.
He pees and poops before racing back to the sliding door that I throw open as he approaches.
After a quick shake, he rushes toward the staircase, knowing that we’re heading to bed next, as we always do after his nighttime potty break. I follow after him, up the stairs and into my bedroom.
My phone is burning a hole in my pocket.
He’sbeen quiet tonight. I wonder what he’s busy doing. Is it his job? A few of his early letters mentioned being out of town while missing me. He must travel for work a lot. Maybe he’s a businessman or a pilot.
