I don’t wait for him to get in his car—rather, I hurry through the lobby and up my stairs. The lights along the old hallway of my apartment building have flickered since I moved in, yet only now I’m wishing I paid more attention. A call to the manager is now on my to-do list.

Before my key hits the lock, just the small pressure from my fingers force the door open. I step back and stare with a racing heart. I double checked everything before I left. It is impossible for me to forget something as important as the lock on the door.

I hear Dr. Stella’s voice calming me. “There’s most likely a reasonable explanation.”

“It’s just me,” I whisper. “It can’t be anything more.” With gentle fingers I press the heavy door open.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lying with his hands under his head, watching TV on my couch and blind to the world, is Ian. My body erupts in flames.

“Are you kidding?” An unwieldy yell pops out, surprising Ian. He falls to the floor, losing his bowl of popcorn that’s resting on his chest.

“Hi!” he says, trying to brush the popcorn back in the bowl; he gives up quickly due to the look on my face.

“Do you ever think, Ian? Do me a favor and someday learn how to use your brain.”

“I found out I don’t have to work tomorrow so I thought I’d come over. I didn’t realize you would still be out.”

“Give me back my key.” I try to hold back, but to no avail.

“What?”

“You heard me. Ian, this is not your place anymore. You can’t just walk in whenever you feel like it.”

“Where’s all this coming from?”

“Don’t make yourself at home when I am not here.” For the first time he hustles to my side, then with hesitation lays a hand on my arm.

The sincerity is there, however unskilled, “I just want to be here for you.”

“This is ridiculous. We’re basically doing the same thing we did when we were together, only now I don’t have a ring on my finger.”

“I can put it back on if you want.” I squeeze his hand till he winces. “I’m just kidding. I’ll give you the key back tomorrow. What’s up? What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Why do you do that? You don’t tell anybody anything.”

“I don’t feel like I have to explain everything—all the time.”

“Not everything . . . but some things.”

“You wouldn’t want to know anyway.”

“Try me. I think I would.”

There are so many reasons to keep my mouth shut, yet I have known those who have sunk deep into their introverted shells, never to return. I don’t want to become this.

“Okay fine . . .” I say it like I am picking up the gun in a game of Russian roulette. “I’m being watched.” His stare is blank. “Everywhere I go, there are people watching me, just like my mom said.”

“Human people?” He chuckles.

I growl and stomp away.

“Okay . . . I’ll be good!” He chases me. “Who’s watching you?”

“I don’t know who they are. Some look at me like they’re watching out for me, but this last one was angry.”

“Angry?” He hesitates in sardonic thought. “Hmmm, okay. Have you been drinking?” He dips his tongue into a reservoir of sarcasm. The universal language of fight or flight, something that I speak well, sends me down the hall without so much as an explanation. “Hey, I’m just kidding!” he calls out with a laugh. “Come back, I won’t say anything else stupid.”

“That’s impossible. I need a drink of water.”

In the kitchen, my mother’s healthy face looks at me through the snapshot from a moment several years ago. Her thin lips speak to me from behind the frame and glass. “He’s not right for you,” she sweetly said many times. Only now, in my kitchen, I imagine the miniature version of her saying it again, “There’s someone else for you.”

“I have no one, Mom.” The words tumble out like they had been piling up behind my lips since her passing. Oh God. What am I doing? She isn’t here and she can’t hear me.

The water flows from the faucet into my glass, but instead of taking a sip my head sinks to the cool tile counter. Ian has given up on the conversation and the television turns up louder, but I’m grateful. My forehead chills and the counter tiles dig into my skin. The day is fading into night and the only light in my apartment comes from the streetlamps. They are bright, illuminating everything from the outside in, so my eyes survey the jagged edge of square buildings and the flicker of city lights. After a moment, I picture the quiet street.

My head lifts with curiosity. Is he there? My chest rises with a forced breath. Ian is at my right, and the last thing I need is his attention. I casually walk to the window with a vigilant eye on him as he takes in Jimmy Fallon, but as usual, he pays no attention.

It is a beautifully clear night, which allows me to scan the winding hill in front of my apartment. My heart pounds—even up the pathways on my neck when I notice a man standing in the shadows on the street below. My hand suctions to the icy glass as I lean in, but he is so far away that it is impossible to determine whether it’s him. Yet after a moment, while the city echoes with a tired hustle, he steps into the light—leaving no subtleties that it is him and he is watching. I notice concern trapped by his features. He’s so close that all I need to do is go to him. Who are you?

I am startled when a hand slides around my stomach as Ian presses his face to my hair. “Are you coming?” he asks.

I toss his hand aside with panic and quickly glance at the man with green eyes. He is still standing there, yet something flashes across his face and he returns to his favorite place on the brick wall. That’s when I recognize Ian’s fleck of bravado.

“Is that who’s been watching you?” Ian asks angrily.

“Come on, Ian. I’m tired.” When I lay my hand on his chest, his instability pounds against my hand.

“It is, isn’t it?” Before I can deny anything, he charges across the living room.

“Ian, stop!” I yell, but he is gone. Ian is a big guy, but my watcher is a beast comparatively. “Ian!”

The metal stairs shake, sending reverberations through the halls, and when I reach the door to the street, it is slightly ajar. Just a small push sends it slamming into Ian’s heels, but he doesn’t care—the poorly lit street is more interesting.

“What are you doing?” I ask. He ignores me and runs to the other side of the street.

“Where did he go?” Ian asks heatedly when he can find no one. “You said people have been watching you. You want me to just let that go?”

“Just a minute ago, you made me feel like an absolute idiot for this! So, yeah! I remember the times you told me my mom was crazy, Ian. You’re frickin’ lucky we broke up because I’m going to be just like her.”

There’s truth to what I’m saying so he remains quiet despite his heavy breathing.

“Go home, Ian. Not back to my apartment . . . but home.”

Like an angry football coach, his chest flares as he paces the cement. When I chuckle, it exacerbates his irritation. Before long, he retreats. His boots pound the pavement back to the apartment building and the metal door makes a loud clang behind him.