6. Stalker

SIX

Stalker

By Saturday morning, I was back in the library. I checked out a laptop, sat at the little plastic table, and logged into my email account. I wasn't expecting to see anything, so the bold notification of a reply from [email protected] shocked me into a paralysed state. I sat there, staring at the words for several minutes before working up the courage to click open the message.

Yes .

That was all. A single word. No ‘hello' or ‘goodbye' or even a standard email signature. I scrolled down to the email I had written to him almost a month ago.

Were you a teenage deviant?

Why had he decided to reply after so much time? I sat back in the little plastic seat, the pad of my thumb pushed between my teeth as I considered what to do. Eventually, I snapped the laptop shut and took it back to the counter, dragging myself out of the library. I didn't want to do something that I would regret. With him , it mattered. It didn't matter with anyone else … but they weren't Nicholai. Everyone else was flawed, with demons in their eyes and the weight of a society on their backs.

Nicholai was something else.

I set off toward the beach again, picking up the pace until I was jogging. The fall wind was cold, cutting through the barrier of my clothing. It pushed me to move faster and faster just so I could feel the whip of cold against my skin, the prickling of perspiration along my forehead. I was wearing shoes this time, and I felt that I could go further. I could pass by all the restaurants, leave the scattering of people behind and continue down the highway toward Pescadero. I could run alongside the trucks and pickups, pretending that I had somewhere to be as well. Something important to do. I could visit the Pigeon Point Lighthouse like I used to do with my parents.

Or …

Or I could just stop.

Stop running.

Stop trying .

Stop pretending.

The sudden decision loomed over me, forcing my feet to slow and my eyes to blur. I knew it was coming; I was powerless to stop it.

I collapsed against the side of one of the buildings, my chest heaving with sobs, my hands flattening against the brick. I was somewhere in the centre of town, in the middle of the day, but I was more alone than I ever had been before. A woman paused behind me, her soft exclamation of shock reaching my ears before her hand was on my shoulder. I thought I recognised her, but it wasn't until she gave up trying to ask if I was okay that I realised who she was.

She had pulled out her phone and turned to face the other pedestrians passing by us—unlike her, they were pretending not to notice my breakdown. As she turned, her coat flapped out.

It was her. The woman Nicholai had been with.

"Nic?" She whispered. "Are you busy? It's that girl—your patient—the one—yeah, that one. No … I don't know. Right outside of Sloan's coffee house. Okay, sure."

She hung up, turning to face me again. "Sweetheart? I've called Doctor Fell; he'll be here soon, okay? Why don't we go inside?"

She was turning this into something bigger than it was, and I wanted to say as much, but the rush of emotion was already fading away, leaving me numb and full of fear. I had been so close. So close to cracking open, to remembering, to feeling . I wanted to pull away from the woman—Nicholai's woman—and start running again. I wanted to go faster, further, until the physical pain took over the mental pain. It was a form of destructive self-soothing: a trade-off. Real pain for imagined pain. It was worth it, because imagined pain had no bounds. It never ended, and there was every possibility that it would never heal or diminish. Physical pain, however, could reach an end. It had the potential of driving itself into numbness, or nothingness.

"That's a good girl," the woman muttered, taking my arm and leading me into the café. Half of the patrons were staring.

She sat me down at one of the small tables. A waitress appeared a moment later, pushing a glass of water at me. She had a sympathetic expression, but she didn't linger.

"Drink," Nicholai's woman coaxed, nodding toward the glass. "It'll make you feel better."

I picked up the glass but didn't drink from it, setting it down a second later. Eventually, the woman sighed, shifting on her seat uncomfortably, turning her legs to face the other patrons. She wanted them to know that she was one of them . Separate to me. It made me wonder why she had bothered to stop in the first place. She couldn't have been older than twenty-four or five, but she was acting as though she had decades on me. Or maybe she was acting as though I was a mentally unstable teenage deviant.

"What's your name?" I asked, trying to stop her from shifting around.

"Jennifer," she quickly replied, her eyes widening a little at the calm tone of my voice. "Ah … what's your name?"

I considered her for a moment, taking in the brightness of her hair and the blue reflected in her eyes. Her lips were painted a pretty shade of pink, and her nails were polished to a navy blue, darker than her eyes. She was every shade imaginable: cool and sweet, bright and deep. She was perfect for him.

"Grey," I muttered. "I'm Grey."

We sat in silence while Jennifer pitied me, and I stared out of the window. I could see the lighthouse again, smaller than the one I used to visit with my parents, more beaten, with wind-ravaged paint and a coat of salty sea spray. A small group of people my own age stood beneath it, drinking bubble tea and laughing at their phones. I wanted to run over there and toss their phones into the ocean, to force them to notice the harsh beauty that surrounded them at every turn, the churning of the ocean, the flecked paint marking the base of the lighthouse, and the weather-beaten shops that lined the strip. They were beautiful because they were temporary, and they were harsh because they were beautiful. The fewer witnesses, the more temporary those things became: gone in a blink, wasted on a backdrop. But there was no use in thinking about change. I knew that because I had been one of those kids not so long ago. I knew what it was like to be blind to the world around you, to the beauty and to the danger.

I squinted, sure I was hallucinating when I saw a mangy little cat-shaped shadow darting around the side of the lighthouse, but it didn't appear again.

Jennifer checked her watch after five minutes, her forehead lined with anxiety. Nicholai must have been in the area because she seemed impatient, and he walked through the door only a minute later. Washed-out jeans rode low on his hips, making his legs appear more muscular than they did in the business suits I usually saw him in. His casual, white button-down was half hidden behind a black sports jacket. His hair was mussed, his intense eyes blank. Now that I paid attention, everything about him in that moment was blank. His posture was guarded, his expression free of warmth or familiarity, the emotion in his eyes hiding behind a neutrality that seemed carefully constructed. It dribbled trepidation down my spine .

"Thanks, Jen," he muttered as she jumped up to greet him. He turned his eyes from her almost immediately, sitting down in the seat she had vacated.

It only occurred to me in that moment that Jennifer had called me a patient . She didn't realise that I was one of the students at the high school.

She stood there for a moment, wringing her hands, and he glanced at her once more. He didn't dismiss her out loud, but she seemed to get the hint, moving her head in a semblance of a nod as she cast a half-hearted smile my way and hurried to the door of the coffee shop. Some of the patrons watched her go before subtly turning their attention my way again, their conversation stalling. They seemed even more intrigued in me now, with the appearance of Nicholai. I couldn't blame them. He looked as out of place as ever. He looked like one of the Palo Alto tech brats that sometimes migrated to the coast in the fall months with a group of trust fund bros, channelling their parents' money into a holiday wasted on the beach, where the changing weather was mild and the locals were hot. But that wasn't quite right. He was too precise to be wasteful.

And he was staring at me.

Waiting for me to speak.

I tipped the glass of water to my lips, draining half of it in a bid to buy myself some more time. I turned to the window, watching as Jennifer slipped into a cherry-red hatchback, pulling onto the road and driving away faster than was really necessary. I watched a man walk past, a girl who looked like his daughter angrily pleading with him for something. He winced and shook his head, mumbling something that looked like a refusal.

"Mika."

I closed my eyes, sucking in a short breath.

"Mika," Nicholai repeated, softening his tone. I felt the table dip and knew that he was leaning forward. His shoe bumped against mine beneath the table. "Open your eyes," he said.

I shook my head, and his feet nudged against mine again, but this time it seemed purposeful. I could feel the sides of the hard canvas material of his shoes either side of mine, barely touching, but hovering. He was closing in around me, no matter how hard I tried to shut him out.

"It was nothing," I said eventually. "She didn't need to call you."

"You were doing fine this week." He sounded momentarily perplexed.

"That was days ago. Ages ago. Years ago." I finally cracked my eyes open.

His mouth twitched, a semblance of a smile that lacked any real humour .

"For someone who refuses to speak most of the time …" his words were delivered with a sigh as he leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. " You communicate your emotions perfectly, Mika."

"Grey," I found myself correcting. "My name is Grey."

Anger flashed in his eyes, making them dark and shadowed. He shook his head and then turned, signalling the server. She came over, handing him a menu. He glanced at it briefly before arching an eyebrow at me.

"Tea or coffee?"

I fumbled for an answer, my brain scattering in too many different directions. We were staying?

When I didn't reply, he ordered a pot of tea and handed the menu back, his arms re-folding over his chest. I wanted him to take his jacket off and reveal the tattoo on his arm. I wanted him to tell me about how he used to be a deviant.

"So, are you going to tell me about what upset you today, Mika?"

"Grey."

"Mika." His voice had turned gravelly, carrying the hint of a growl. " That's your name ."

"You're off-balance," I muttered, shocked. He had lost his composure. I had known him for months now. Months of seeing him several days a week, and this was the first time that he had ever lost his composure.

"It happens," he eventually replied, setting his forearms against the side of the table, linking his fingers together and regarding me with a tinge of anger still simmering beneath the surface of his eyes. It was the third time he had shifted position, but his shoes were still framing mine.

"Are you angry that you had to come here?" I asked.

"No." That humourless smile was back. "It might not be conventional, but I want to be there when you need me. I'm glad she called me."

"What are you pissed about, then?"

"You won't let yourself need me."

"You want me to need you?"

He became very still, his eyes fixed to mine, his breath halting.

It was happening again. He was weaving his spell over me, suspending time and morals as he stared too far into me. Thankfully, the waitress returned, breaking the intense moment and placing a little teapot on the table, two cups beside it. There was a little container of honey with a plastic spoon—I reached for it, poking at the honey while Nicholai took hold of the teapot.

"That's not what I meant," he said quietly .

He poured me a cup, confiscating the honey from me and adding it to my tea before setting the cup in front of me. I stared at it until he sighed again.

"Drink, Mika."

" You drink, Nicholai," I returned, annoyed at the way my hands reached reflexively for the cup, raising it to my lips.

I blew on it as I watched the shock pass over his features. He hadn't been expecting me to use his name. Or maybe he hadn't been expecting me to reply at all.

"Mr. Fell," he reminded me, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Nicholai," I spoke calmly. " That's your name ."

He laughed, the sound sudden and welcome like hot water wrapping around my skin and filling up my lungs. I wanted to drown in that laugh.

"Talk to me," he demanded.

And just like that, it spilled out. "I was running, and then I was breaking down."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Pigeon Point Lighthouse."

"Why?"

"I don't remember."

He considered me, and I resented him for it because he had somehow regained all of his control and composure.

"It's good to break down," he eventually said, those shadowed eyes examining every inch of my face. "It needs to get out one way or another."

"If you say so." I found myself unable to hold his eyes for long.

"Do you have good memories of the lighthouse?" he asked.

"Is it still a good memory if it isn't real?"

"Why isn't it real?"

"Because they can't have been happy. It's impossible. They must have been pretending."

"Your parents were only human. If they could pretend for so long, so convincingly, they must have believed a part of it."

"You don't even know what I'm talking about." I sighed, sipping the tea. It tasted like lemongrass and honey. It was comforting, just like Nicholai's voice. I hated that he had known what would comfort me. I hated that he always had an answer and that his answers always seemed to make so much sense. "I have to be somewhere."

I slapped the cup down on the table and moved to stand, but Nicholai rose faster. He was already extracting a bill from his wallet. He tucked it under the teapot and spun around, stalking out of the shop. His sudden mood change shocked me. It shocked me enough that I followed him before I even realised what I was doing. He cut across the street, tugging off his jacket as though he couldn't bear the weight of the material a second longer. When he reached the beach, he started walking toward the lighthouse. The group of people my age turned to stare at him. One of the girls smiled. She thought he was young enough to flirt with.

She had no idea.

He vanished behind the lighthouse, and I had to run to catch up with him again. He had disappeared, but his jacket was lying on one of the boulders that marked the beginning of the small, rocky decline stepping down to the water. It was steep enough to have hidden him until I drew to the edge. He was almost at the base now, and I started to climb down after him. He turned then, watching me.

I had no idea what was happening, but I couldn't stop it.

"Come here," he ground out, even though I was moving toward him. "Do you have a cell on you?"

"No."

"Keys?"

"No." I kept my keys beneath the bucket outside the door of my RV. The bucket that his bonsai was planted in.

"Anything that can't get wet?"

"No … "

"Good," he snapped, striding forward and grabbing me.

He was only holding my upper arms, but the sudden movement was too unlike him. Too explosive. Too … possessive.

"You need to know something," he said lowly, raising me until the toes of my sneakers were barely touching the sand and his eyes were looming closer. "I can force you to stop destroying yourself, but it'll get me fired. I've been working toward this career for nine years, but you could end it all in a moment if you let me into your life. You might be the first person I ever really help … and the last. Do you understand all of this?"

I found myself nodding, but his mouth tightened into a scowl. He had wanted me to think about it. To weigh up what he had said and make a decision.

Well …

Fuck him.

"I'm going to break almost every fucking rule with you, except one." He drew me higher, my shoes leaving the sand completely. I could smell him again—that frigid, ocean-breeze scent. I could feel him, too. Barely. His chest was hard beneath the soft material of his shirt, the sleeves falling to his wrists, still covering his tattoos. His thighs brushed against mine, his fingers curling inward where he held me.

"One rule." His eyes were narrowing again, the beautiful indigo deepening to a heavy, shadowed black. "There's one line I won't cross." His eyes landed on my mouth, and he paused, hauling in a breath as he pressed me against his chest, stepping back towards the water. "Me and you. It'll never happen. Not today, not tomorrow, not five years from now. Not when some dickhead breaks your heart, or when you realise what your little sundresses do to everyone. Not when you're thirty, not when you're fifty. I'm going to push your limits, break you down, make you cry, and in the end … I'll save you. I'll save you no matter how many times I have to break you in the process. When you graduate college, and you aren't laying in a ditch somewhere with a fucking needle in your arm, you'll think of me and what I did for you, and you'll still hate me, and I'm okay with that."

The shock was starting to wear off now. I had followed him almost in a trance, but I was starting to come to my senses.

"You treat all your patients this way, Mr. Fell ?" I reared back just in time to catch his mouth twitching.

"You're not my patient anymore. I can't chance the years it'll take to set you straight. I can't watch you fuck it all away like so many others, offering you pills and advice in between the suicide attempts."

"I don't want to play your game," I spat, unable to help the anger that rose in reaction to the spark in his eyes. "Just give me the pills and advice and mind your own god-damned business in between the suicide attempts." The outburst shocked me. What did I care ? What did it matter ? I wanted to go back to the coffee shop, to the guarded man who had mixed honey into my tea.

This man was insane.

"You want to be numb," Nicholai retorted. "And it'll work … until it doesn't."

"And what are you going to do about it?" I realised that our faces were suddenly only inches apart.

I could feel every breath he took in the rise and fall of his chest against mine. Each one came faster than the one before it. It made heat curl in the base of my stomach, and I quickly looked away, not wanting him to be able to read it in my eyes. He might have turned all the rules upside down, but he had made it clear … there was still one line that he was never going to cross.

"I'm going to wake you up," he said.

And then I was flying.

The cold water rushed over my head, pushing me under. The bank rose beneath my knees, sinking sand and shifting rocks a momentary comfort before another wave rolled over me. I pushed to the surface, gasping. He was walking away, wading back to the shore. I hadn't even noticed that he had been pulling us out into the ocean.

Was I really that blind?

I couldn't believe that he had tossed me. He was crazy. Maybe all psychologists were crazy. Maybe that was how they understood us so well. It was because they had already asked themselves all of the dark questions that crept into the backs of our minds. They had already acted on all the horrible impulses that shadowed our steps. They had already spoken all of the damning words that we worked our whole lives to swallow.

What was that saying again ?

Those who can't do … teach.