Page 84 of Letters From A Stalker

“I know. Believe me, I know.” I lift one hand before she can launch into the speech she has given me in different versions over the years. “I didn’t think it was my fault. Not consciously. If you’d asked me yesterday whether I blamed myself, I would have said absolutely not and meant it. But Kai pointed out how many times I explained why I didn’t fight before he ever asked.”

Tessa becomes very quiet.

“He told me there was nothing to forgive.”

Her eyes meet mine.

I shrug slightly, suddenly uncomfortable with how exposed such a simple sentence makes me feel. “And apparently that was the thing I needed somebody to say in exactly those words, because I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

Tessa reaches across the space between us and lays her hand over mine. “You know I would have told you that.”

“I know.”

“I probably have told you that.”

“You have.” I nod and squeeze her hand back.

“Repeatedly.”

“I know that too.”

She narrows her eyes at me, but there is affection underneath it. “Then I’m offended that Hot Doctor gets credit.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “He doesn’t get all the credit.”

“He gets, like, twelve percent.”

“Maybe fifteen.”

“Absolutely not. I have seniority.”

Her thumb moves once across my knuckles before she lets go, and the humor has done exactly what it always does between us. It’s taken something heavy enough to require care and made room around it so neither of us has to suffocate beneath it.

“He didn’t fix me,” I said after a moment. “That’s not what I mean. I did most of that a long time ago. I think he just showed me one last place where I was still being unfair to myself.”

Tessa nods slowly. “That I can live with. Twelve percent.”

I smile into my wine.

For a while we move on. We argue about the movie, abandon the one Tessa chooses after twenty minutes because both of us hate every character and eventually settle on something neither of us has seen. Halfway through it, she steals my blanket despite having brought her own, and at some point our conversation drifts back toward dating because apparently two women cannot consume wine on a sofa without eventually discussing men. I blame biology. And hormones. Definitely blame hormones more.

Tessa is lying sideways against the opposite end of the couch, one foot tucked beneath my thigh for warmth, when she gives me a long look.

“What?”

“I’m thinking.”

“That has historically been dangerous.”

She ignores me. “When was the last time you got your cooch stuffed?”

I nearly choke on my wine. There is enough silence afterward for Tessa’s expression to become increasingly delighted.

“Why are we discussing this?” I squinted at her, not for the way she said it. That I am used to.

“Because I asked a question and you reacted like I requested your tax returns.”

“I don’t know. It’s been a while.” And that’s exactly the reason. It’s been longer than a while and I don’t want the math to start mathing. It’s depressing.