Page 96 of Stalkers Anonymous

“People get struck by lightning twice all the time. There’s a park ranger who got struck seven times.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I’m just saying, weird shit happens.” Rachel leans closer. “Look, I’m not saying Cole is as dangerous as Lars Winters. But if something doesn’t feel right, you need to trust your gut.”

I want to argue, to defend Cole, to insist that we’re both reading too much into innocent coincidences. But the discomfort I felt during dinner won’t go away, and Rachel’s words are giving voice to fears I don’t want to acknowledge.

“So what do I do? Say, ‘Hey Cole, great sex last night, also are you stalking me?’”

“Test it,” Rachel suggests immediately. “Change your routine without telling him. See if he shows up in places where he shouldn’t know you’ll be.”

“You want me to run a sting operation on my boyfriend?”

“I want you to trust your instincts. And right now, your instincts are telling you something’s weird.”

She’s not wrong. Damn her.

“And if he does show up?”

“Then you have your answer.” She squeezes my arm. “And we figure out what to do next. Together.”

We’re interrupted by an incoming trauma—a construction worker with a deep laceration—and the conversation is tabled in favor of actual medical emergencies. But Rachel’s words echo in my mind throughout the shift.

Test it. Change your routine. See what happens.

Running “Operation: Is My Boyfriend A Stalker?” wasn’t on my bingo card for this month, but neither was being threatened and harassed by a drug-seeking patient.

By the time my shift ends at six a.m., I’ve made my decision.

Instead of going to Hot For Here for my usual post-shift caffeine fix, I drive to The Bean Counter, a smaller shop across town that I’ve only visited once before. It has exposed brick and succulents on every table, and baristas who take latte art way too seriously.

If Cole somehow appears here, I’ll know my suspicions are justified.

But to my great relief, he doesn’t show up that morning. Or the next. Or the third day, when I continue the same pattern. The knot of tension in my gut starts to unravel.

Our text conversations remain typical—good morning messages, updates about our days, debates about whether cereal is soup (it’s not, but he makes a compelling argument). All totally average stuff that doesn’t scream “I’m secretly tracking your movements.”

Maybe Rachel was wrong. Maybe I was being paranoid.

On the fourth day, after an overtime shift I picked up at the last minute—a shift I mentioned to absolutely no one—I’m sitting in The Bean Counter with my vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin, scrolling through medical journals on my tablet, when the bell above the door chimes.

I don’t look up immediately. There’s no reason to. People come into coffee shops all the time. That’s how coffee shops work.

But something makes me glance toward the entrance anyway.

Cole walks in.

My heart stops. Then starts beating so hard I can hear it in my ears.

No.

No, no, no.

He orders at the counter—black coffee, nothing else—and turns to survey the seating area. When his eyes find mine, his face shows perfect surprise.

It’s a good performance. Oscar-worthy, really.

“Hailey? What are you doing here?”