I dress carefully, taking more time than usual. Check my reflection in the mirror, I look nervous, which feels appropriate. I run a hand through my still-damp hair, wondering if I should have gotten it cut. Too late now. Besides, this is who I am.
The mask sits on my dresser, those green X’s staring up at me. I should leave it here. Show up as myself, no props, no dramatic reveal. But something tells me to bring it. One last time, to close this chapter properly. I slip it into my jacket pocket, the familiar weight oddly comforting.
Before I leave, I need to do one more thing. I grab my phone and pull up Mia’s contact.
Me:Going to meet Lila at the bookstore at 7. She’s ready to see me. Tonight she finds out her stalker is her best friend’s brother.
I hit send before I can overthink it. Mia and I have had several conversations about this moment, about when and how I would reveal myself to Lila. She’s been surprisingly supportive, given how furious she was when she first discovered my identity at the club. I think she understands now that my feelings for Lila are real, not some twisted game.
My phone buzzes with Mia’s response.
Mia:About time. Don’t fuck up... again. She deserves the truth.
I smile at her directness. Mia never sugarcoats anything, which is one of the things I love about her. And she’sright. Lila deserves the complete truth, every uncomfortable, messy detail of it.
Me:I know. I’ll tell her everything. Wish me luck.
Mia:You don’t need luck. You need honesty. But good luck anyway. Call me after.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and grab my motorcycle keys. The ride to the bookstore will give me time to collect my thoughts, to prepare what I’ll say when I’m finally face to face with her, no masks between us.
The winter air hits me like a slap when I step outside, cool and crisp with the promise of spring not far behind. I zip my jacket against the chill and swing my leg over my bike, the familiar leather seat steadying me. The engine roars to life, and I pull away from the curb, heading toward The Dark Chapters Bookstore.
Traffic is light, and I find myself taking the long way, extending the ride to give myself more time to think. What will I say to her? “Sorry I stalked you, but I love you” doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. Yet that’s essentially the truth of it. I’ve watched her, followed her, invaded her privacy. All while telling myself it was to protect her. And somewhere along the way, protection became devotion, obsession became love.
Will she see it that way? Or will she see a man who couldn’t respect her boundaries, who appointed himself her protector without her consent? I wouldn’t blame her if she walked away tonight and never looked back. But God, I hope she doesn’t.
I pull into the bookstore parking lot at 6:45, cutting the engine and sitting for a moment on my bike. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard it almost hurts. I scan the lot for her car but don’t see it. Maybe she’s not here yet. Was she dropped off? Maybe she changed her mind.
I get off the bike and pull the mask from my pocket, turning it over in my hands. One last time. I slip it over my face, feeling the familiar press of it against my skin. It feels different now, like a costume I’ve outgrown.
The door sensor plays a short jingle as I push it open, the smell of books and coffee washing over me. The bookstore is quiet tonight, just a few customers browsing the shelves. I scan the space, looking for her red hair, those distinctive blonde streaks.
She’s not at the front. Not by the registers. Not in the main aisle. I move deeper into the store, past self-help and history, toward the back corner where I know the romance section is. That’s where I found her that first day, browsing dark romances with their dramatic covers and tangled lovers.
And there she is.
She stands with her back to me, one hand tracing the spines of books on a shelf at eye level. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, those blonde streaks catching the light. She’s wearing a simple black dress that hugs her curves and a heavy black sweater, making my mouth go dry. Even after everything,the club, the hospital, the divorce and everything in between. The sight of her still hits me like a physical force.
I approach quietly, not wanting to startle her. When I’m just a few feet away, she turns, as if sensing my presence.Her eyes find mine through the mask, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a small, knowing smile.
“I thought you said no masks,” she says, her voice softer than I remember.
“I thought it would be fitting,” I reply, taking another step closer. “To end this the way it began.”
She nods, understanding in her eyes. “Then let me see you. The real you.”
I stand perfectly still as she closes the distance between us. Her hands rise slowly, hesitating just before they touch the mask. I can smell her perfume. Something light and floral, honeysuckle and jasmine. It makes me think of spring, of new beginnings.
“May I?” she asks, her fingers hovering at the edges of my mask.
“Please,” I whisper, the word catching in my throat.
Her fingers are warm against my skin as she carefully lifts the mask away. I keep my eyes on hers, watching for her reaction, for any sign of disappointment or anger. Instead, I see recognition, then confirmation, then something softer I don’t dare name.
“Anthony,” she says, and hearing my name on her lips for the first time nearly undoes me. “I knew it was you.” The mask dangles from her fingers now, forgotten between us.
“How?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What gave me away?” Hinting a smile.
