Page 62 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“That’s it?” I ask, knowing it’s not.

Her mouth twists. “I dunno. I read a lot. I go to the gym. I like watching really good poker players so much that I subscribe to the GPA streaming service.” After a pause, she adds, “Oh, and garbage reality TV. There you go. All my guilty pleasures.”

I almost ask when on earth she watches the Global Poker Association live streams because I’ve never once heard them through our wall, but she looks so flustered by her hobby disclosures that Dr. Mohr leaps unbidden to the surface.

“You know, Rue, I always tell my clients that if something brings them joy, they shouldn’t apologize,” I say, managing a fussy nasal tone even without the sweater and glasses. “There are some things worth feeling guilty about in the world, but watching Love Marooned isn’t one of them. You should be honest about what you love.”

“Be honest, huh?” She tilts her head in a challenge. “Like the way you’re being honest about why you mentioned Love Marooned specifically?”

Alarm ripples over my skin even though I know she’s referring to our thin walls, not the camera in her living room. Hell, maybe she’ll bring up the subject of rechargeable batteries again. Why not melt the last remaining healthy cells in my brain?

She’s waiting for my response, so I chuckle weakly

“You got me. Listening to your TV through the wall is one of the great joys in my life.”

I chuckle. It’s awkward as fuck.

“I genuinely don’t know if you’re being serious,” she says after a pause, that assessing gaze running over me again, although it’s more curious than cataloging this time.

“Okay, let’s keep doing the honesty thing.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Here are a few things about me, Rue, your neighbor, that you can’t pick up through our questionable duplex acoustics.” She ticks the items off with her fingers. “I’m a little too obsessed with my work. I’m a little too closed off about my feelings. I’m a little too loose about things that need firm plans. I’m way too protective of my—” She slams her mouth shut. “Of certain people in my life who don’t need protecting.” Her voice goes harder on that last part. “Like protective to a stifling degree.”

I’m getting as confused as I was on Friday. Maybe those hours shifted our relationship in small, important ways that have her acting differently around me. Maybe she’s the one with the head injury, not me. And maybe I’m imagining sci-fi body swaps despite being a man of evidence and reason.

“Sounds frustrating for you and the people in your life. Is that overprotectiveness something you’d like to talk through sometime?”

“Something I’d like to…” Her laugh is light, amused, and not one I’ve heard from her before. “God, yes. Fix me, Dr. Mohr.” Then she takes a step toward me, her eyes glittering. “Would you like to unpack the way you slip into professional mode when something deeper than surface level comes up?”

“No, thanks.” I point to her necklace. “What animal is that?”

“A capybara.” She doesn’t even glance down at it. “Why do you always wear that cardigan?”

“Routines are important.” I narrow my eyes. “How come I’ve never heard you watching any GPA tournaments?”

“Guess you’re not listening hard enough.” She narrows her eyes right back. “How do you always know when I’m pulling into my driveway?”

“I don’t.” Shit. “What makes you think I do?”

We’re standing close enough now that I can smell her hair, the same as Friday night, and I wait for her to accuse me of taking up too much space. Instead, she stares at me with such intensity that I wonder if she’s trying to see through the dark lenses of my sunglasses.

Then her expression brightens, and she beams up at me.

“You know what? This was fun.” She stretches to pat my noninjured cheek. “Thanks for the good time, Dr. Mohr.”

She grabs the broom she was using to half-heartedly sweep her porch and saunters back inside, tossing a breezy “Ciao!” over her shoulder.

“Ciao?” I say to myself as I stand alone on her porch following the most baffling conversation of my life.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rue

“Are you sure?” Felicity asks.

“I’m sure that if you ask me that one more time, I’m going to lose my mind,” I reply.

Every second of her exasperated exhale is audible over the phone. “I know. But Howard Marshall, Marcus Navarro, Greg… plus you’re starting work on Les Timms this week. That’s more than you did over the past two years combined.”

“And?”