Page 119 of Stalkers Anonymous

“Did they say anything about recovery time?”

“Sounds like a few months in different casts, then physical therapy. I’m worried about my classes and work.”

The old Cole would have immediately started solving these problems for her. I would have called her professors myself. Arranged meal delivery. Maybe hired someone to take notes in her classes, because why not? She’s my sister, and she shouldn’t have to worry about anything.

Instead, I ask, “What feels like the most urgent thing to figure out?”

“Probably my job. I can’t lift boxes with one arm.”

“Okay. What do you want to do about it? Do you want to draft an email to your manager together? Call her? Or we can just practice what you’re going to say, and you can give her a call when you’re feeling better?”

Emma’s eyes fill. I almost panic, thinking I’ve done something wrong. Then she laughs, which makes her wince, which makes her laugh harder, which makes her wince again.

“You’re being so weird right now,” she says. “In a good way. Weird in the best way possible.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“I can handle it myself. But will you sit with me while I do?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

We spend the next hour talking through how she’s going to get through the next few months, and how I can be a functional part of her larger support system without being the whole thing. She drafts an email to her manager. I read it over her shoulder. I don’t rewrite it. I just tell her it’s good, because it is.

When Matt arrives, I update him, hug Emma carefully, then step back and let him take over.

“Cole?” Emma says as I’m getting ready to leave. “Thank you for being here.”

“Thank you for telling me what you needed.”

She studies me. She’s my baby sister, but sometimes she looks at me like she’s thirty years older. “You’re different.”

“I’m trying to be.”

“I can tell. Just—don’t beat yourself up about who you used to be, okay? You’re allowed to have been someone else once. You don’t have to hate him.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“Good. Go home. Eat something. Call me tomorrow.”

“Love you, Em.”

“Love you back.”

I don’t go straight home. I sit in the hospital parking lot for a few minutes first, letting myself come down from what’s still running through my system. Triggers don’t vanish just because you don’t act on them. They hang around, looking for a back door.

I don’t look up Shitbag Steve.

I haven’t in months. Sometimes, deleting that tracking app feels like the biggest thing I’ve done with my recovery. Most nights I don’t think about him at all, which I guess is the actual point.

I sit there long enough for my hands to stop shaking. Then I drive home.

My apartment feels the same as it has for three months. Quiet. Too quiet. I’ve cleaned it so many times, I’m starting to run out of things to clean.

After I’ve eaten leftover chili and showered, I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and open the folder titled Recovery Work.

Letter number eighteen.

Hailey,