Page 169 of Letters From A Stalker

“Next month.”

“You going?” Her eyebrow shoots up.

“I have to.”

She shakes her head. “No, you don’t.”

I look back at her.

Mara folds her arms against the evening chill. “You founded the damn thing, but you’ve spent years making sure it doesn’t depend on your face being in every photograph. Renee can handle an anniversary event.”

“She can.” I agree but that doesn’t change the fact that I want to be there.

“But?”

I think about the number she gave me. Two hundred women. More than three hundred if we count the children. Henry’s house filled with people who were given somewhere safe to land because one man once gave my mother and me something similar without expecting either of us to repay him.

“I want to go.”

Mara nods. “Then go.”

I pull on my helmet.

She waits until I swing onto the Kawasaki before adding, “And, Kai?”

I lift the visor.

“You are allowed to have something in your life that isn’t punishment.”

I stare at her for a second. “Chanelling Bennett?”

“No.” She smiles. “Some of us are naturally gifted.”

I close the visor before she can see me roll my eyes. The engine catches beneath me, filling the quiet street with its familiar growl. I ride home through Minneapolis without taking a single road that leads toward Julia. I don’t know where she is tonight, whether she found another therapist she likes, whether she still keeps the lamp next to her couch on, or whether the sound of a motorcycle makes her look toward the window before she remembers Ghost isn’t coming back. I don’t know because she told me I was no longer entitled to know. For once, I let that be enough.

A month from now, I will stand in Henry’s old house and celebrate the women who were given the chance to build something after a man convinced them that their choices no longer belonged to them. I understand the irony. Maybe that is another consequence I deserve.

31

Julia

The trip itself has been easier than I expected. Our flight out of Minneapolis to Rapid City left obscenely early this morning, which meant meeting Daniel at the airport before sunrise while he carried a coffee the size of his head and complained that no civilized legal matter should require functioning before eight. Michael arrived ten minutes later looking irritatingly put together for a man who had also been awake since sometime around four, followed by two senior partners and one of the firm’s nonprofit attorneys. We checked into the hotel just before noon, grabbed something small to eat and separated with enough time to get ready before the event.

An hour later, I’m standing in front of a mirror and suspiciously eyeing the outfit I’ve been forced to choose. The dress is Tessa’s fault. This is the conclusion I reach staring at myself and wondering whether dark wine-red knit wrapped around every curve I own technically qualifies as appropriate attire for a nonprofit event. According to Tessa, yes. Also according to Tessa, last night, while lying diagonally across my bed with half my closet spread around her like the aftermath of a small retail explosion, it was actually my only appropriate option because apparently “professional but still visibly in possession of breasts” is a recognized dress code. I had argued for black. She told me I wear black when I want to disappear. I pointed out that half of her wardrobe is black to which she informed me we were not discussing her unresolved issues.

Somehow, that ended with the burgundy dress folded into my suitcase. Now, several hundred miles from Minneapolis, I have to admit she was right. I hate when that happens. The dress has long sleeves and a soft high neckline, warm enough that I won’t immediately freeze the moment I step outside. The heavy knit follows my waist and hips closely before falling to mid-calf. I pair it with black knee-high boots, small gold hoops and the wool coat hanging over the desk chair because the weather app currently claims it is thirty-four degrees outside and feels like twenty-eight. The sunshine streaming through the hotel window is therefore a liar.

I turn sideways toward the mirror and smooth one hand over my hip. My hair is loose today, auburn waves falling over my shoulders because pinning them up made the entire thing feel too corporate. My makeup is deliberately simple except for the darker lipstick Tessa shoved into my bag while informing me that if a room full of attorneys and wealthy donors were going to look at me, I should at least give them something worth looking at.

My phone buzzes on the dresser as if summoned by the thought.

Tessa:

Are you hot?

I stare at the message.

Me: