Page 31 of Letters From A Stalker

“Fine. Tell him your emotionally intelligent and devastatingly beautiful best friend says hi.” She hangs up before I can say anything else.

I stare at the phone for several seconds, then shake my head and return to chopping vegetables. The truth is considerably less interesting than whatever romantic comedy Tessa has apparently started writing in her head.

The day of my next therapy session arrives faster than I expect. By the time I stand in front of my closet that afternoon, staring at clothes as though one of them might provide instructions for how a person is supposed to dress for a second therapy appointment, I’ve accumulated enough observations to fill several pages.

I’ve also learned two things. The first is that Dr. Blackwood was right about more than I wanted him to be. The second is that I deeply resent him for it. I reach for the blue sweater I wore last week before stopping. Too obvious. I have no idea what would be obvious about wearing the same sweater twice to therapy, but apparently my brain has opinions. I chose a dark green one instead. Then I stare at myself in the mirror.

“Jesus Christ, Julia. It’s therapy, not a date.”

The woman in the mirror looks unconvinced. I point at her.

“Don’t start.”

I grab my purse and leave before she can.

The drive into Minneapolis is uneventful, traffic irritating but manageable, and I arrive seven minutes early because being late makes me feel like my skin is trying to crawl off my body. Another thing I have not written down. I sit in the parked car with the engine off and stare at the clinic entrance.

Last week, I had needed reminding and latent threatening before walking through those doors. Today, there was none of that. Nobody reminded me. Nobody threatened me. I came back because I wanted to. That realization feels more significant than it should. My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to open the notes from the bus. I scroll past the sounds, the memories, the physical sensations, until I reach the last sentence.

I bit myself because screaming felt worse.

The question beneath it is still unanswered.

Why?

I stare at it. Then, slowly, I type: Because people notice screaming.

My thumb hovers over the screen while something uncomfortable moves through my chest. I added another sentence.

And being noticed has never felt particularly safe.

For several seconds, I simply stare at the words, then I lock my phone, drop it into my purse, and look toward the building again. I have absolutely no idea what Dr. Blackwood is going to do with that answer.

For some reason, I’m beginning to want to find out.

7

Julia

For my second appointment with Dr. Blackwood, I have accumulated thirty-seven instances of saying I’m fine, fourteen unnecessary apologies, nine occasions where I caught myself turning something emotional into a task, and enough sarcastic commentary in my notes app to make me seriously reconsider handing my phone to a licensed mental health professional.

Especially because the note is still titled BLACKWOOD’S BULLSHIT.

I considered changing it sometime around Friday, when it became increasingly obvious that the bullshit in question was unfortunately producing results. Deleting the title now would feel suspiciously like admitting he had been right. There are limits to how much personal growth one woman should reasonably be expected to demonstrate after a single therapy session. Also, allowing Dr. Blackwood an imaginary victory he doesn’t even know he won feels comfortably beyond mine.

Mara looks up from behind her desk when I approach, her reading glasses sitting low enough on her nose that she peers at me over the frames instead of through them.

“Well, look who came back.”

The greeting is accompanied by a smile, but something about the way she says it makes me slow down in front of her desk and narrow my eyes.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not surprised,” she says, returning her attention to the computer in front of her. “I just like acknowledging repeat customers.”

“That makes this place sound like a nail salon.”

Mara considers that for a second before nodding thoughtfully. “We should get punch cards. Ten sessions and your eleventh childhood trauma is free.”