I type back, “I’m on my way,” hoping he isn’t paying attention to the name on the screen.
I scoop up the car keys he left on the counter and hurry outside to his car.
I’m driving down the road when my phone beeps.
Drew: Violet?
Me: Don’t worry. I’ll be there soon.
I press harder on the gas, racing toward him.
Drew: How do you know where I am?
Me: Because you texted me.
I can practically feel the realization hit him through the screen.
Drew: Dammit. I texted you instead of my brother.
I don’t respond.
Drew: Don’t come after me.
Me: Too late.
Another message.
Drew: I’m calling the police.
I laugh softly, coming to a stop at the stop sign before turning.
He’s not far from here.
I wait a few minutes before responding.
Me: They won’t help you.
Drew: Why not?
My smile sharpens.
Me: Because I’m already here.
I turn the corner.
And there he is, standing on the sidewalk with his phone in hand.
At the sound of an engine, his head snaps up.
His shoulders tense.
Recognition washes over his face as he spots his car... and me.
I roll down his window and lean out slightly.
“Not only are you a terrible stalker,” I say lightly, “but you’re even worse at running from one.”
He just stares at me like I’m something he doesn’t fully understand yet.
