Page 13 of Stalkers Anonymous

“And then what? Just…do nothing?” I can’t keep the skepticism from my voice.

“Sometimes, yeah. But it’s also about finding other ways to channel that energy.” He gestures with his fork. “For me, I redirect into brewing. Creating something instead of obsessing over someone. When I brew, my attention to detail is appreciated, not invasive. An asset instead of a liability.”

It sounds simplistic, but I find myself considering his words more seriously than I thought I would. The idea of redirection rather than suppression is at least more practical than the “just stop” approach I’d anticipated.

“What’s your trigger?” Tyler asks. His directness is startling but not aggressive. The sense that he can see inside my head makes me want to squirm, but I force myself not to fidget. “You mentioned ‘perceived threats’ in the meeting. What makes someone register as a threat to you? Or what makes you want to look someone up and learn everything about them?”

“That’s pretty personal for a first meeting.”

“Fair enough.” Tyler doesn’t push, which surprises me again. “We can come back to that one.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes, the ambient noise of the diner filling the space between us. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s not as tense as it could be. Tyler seems content to let the conversation breathe, which I grudgingly appreciate.

The way he eats without a care in the world, shoveling forkfuls of piping-hot eggs and ham into his mouth before giving them time to cool… It reminds me of my Army days. How we scarfed down anything and everything in the few minutes we had to eat. Our urgency to get fed was more extreme than what Tyler’s doing now, but it’s still a reminder of my past. And in an unexpected way, I find comfort in it.

“So…” I say after the silence has stretched thin, “how do you do it? Turn it off, I mean. The need to know, to check, to make sure?”

“I don’t turn it off completely,” Tyler admits. “I doubt anyone in our group does. But I’ve learned to recognize when it’s getting excessive or when I’m crossing the line.” He sets down his fork. “And I have people who hold me accountable. Like I’m doing for you right now.”

The idea of being held accountable by this relative stranger is uncomfortable, but marginally less so than when I walked in. There’s something to be said for talking to someone who actually understands the impulses rather than judges them.

“The homework,” I begin. “Just write down the triggers?”

“Triggers, thoughts, what you did instead of pushing it too far. Or if you did, what happened after.” Tyler reaches for the notebook still untouched between us. “It’s not about becoming perfect overnight. It’s about awareness first, then gradual change. I know I joke around at the meetings, but the reality is, this shit works.”

I sit back, crossing my arms over my chest when I realize I’m feeling somewhat convinced. “Fine. I’ll try it.”

“That’s all anyone’s asking.” Tyler waves to Doris for the check. “Same time next week? Or we could meet at my brewery if you’d prefer.”

The offer seems genuine, but I’m not ready to walk into Tyler’s home turf just yet. “Let’s stick with this for now.”

“Works for me.” Tyler pulls out his wallet as Doris arrives with the bill. When I reach for mine, he waves me off. “I got this one. You can get the next one.”

The assumption of continued meetings, of a next time, hangs in the air. I should probably object, maintain some distance and set boundaries, but instead I find myself nodding. “Thanks.”

As we stand to leave, Tyler hesitates, then says, “One more thing. The tracking app on your phone—the one disguised as a weather service? You might want to delete it before the next group meeting. Tracey’s pretty observant about those things.”

I freeze, shock rippling through me. “How did you—”

“I had a similar app on my phone. Same icon design.” He shrugs. “Like I said, I’ve been where you are.”

The recognition—being seen like this—leaves me momentarily speechless. Tyler claps me on the shoulder, a gesture that carries the weight of unexpected understanding.

“See you at the meeting, if not before,” he says, pausing mid-step. “Not before, like I’ll be watching you. Just before, like if we have a completely coincidental run-in. In case that wasn’t clear.” He pulls at the back of his neck, then drops his hand to his side. “So yeah, text me if you need anything.”

I watch him leave, unable to shake the feeling that I’ve just been expertly maneuvered and cracked wide open by someone I underestimated. Tyler isn’t the laid-back brewery owner he appears to be—or at least, he’s not only that. He’s observant, strategic, and disarmingly direct.

In another context, we might have been friends.

As I walk to my car, I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the disguised tracking app. The urge to check Shitbag Steve’s location is almost painful, a tightness in my chest that won’t ease until I know he’s still in Denver, far from Emma.

Instead, I open my messages and text her.

Cole: How’s the dissertation coming?

Her reply comes almost immediately.

Emma: Slowly. But Matt brought me coffee and pastries, so the suffering is at least well-fueled. How are YOU doing? For real.