As I hang up, I consider his advice. Having someone stay over would be easy—if I actually had friends. The only person I've ever really opened up to is Renard, and, as it turns out, he was the wrong person to trust with my deepest thoughts.
When we got married, I poured all my energy into turning myself into the wife he wanted. I never wore my hair up, because he commented that my ears were on the bigger side. I let him answer questions when we had company, because he said I tended to ramble. I felt like a human-shaped shell, hollowing myself out for my husband so he could fill me with his own likes and desires.
I make a mental note to myself—find some real friends.
Emily calls as I'm eating a carb-heavy lunch of ramen noodles and Ritz crackers.
"I'm sorry I didn't respond to your text earlier," she says. "I'm working a shift today, and it's been crazy in the maternity wing. The full moon always does that. Anyway, I've talked with Jeff, and we're coming over to keep you company tonight, okay? I'll bring my poppyseed chicken casserole, so you don't have to cook."
I'm touched that Emily is willing to come over without my having to ask. Maybe that's what family is for, when family's working properly.
"I'd appreciate that." My voice wavers, so I hurry to cover it up. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do in the long haul. I have a security system, but clearly that's not enough." I'm getting more choked up with each word.
Emily adopts a soothing tone, probably similar to the one she uses with expectant mothers. She's the kind of person who was born to be a nurse. "We'll figure things out when we get there. But just sit tight and don't go anywhere until then, okay?"
"Sure. I hadn't planned to go out."
Although it's tempting, I know hermiting myself in the house won't be a good long-term solution. While agoraphobics certainly find ways to do it, getting groceries and supplies delivered directly to their doorways, it's not healthy for me to operate that way. I need to observe people, to see how they react to things—not only to develop rich characters for my books, but to give myself the best knowledge base to work from. Since autism demands that I mimic others to camouflage the ways I don't fit in, I require in-person interactions. I can only pick up so much from TV shows.
"Good. We'll be there by eight. See you then, honey," she says.
Every time Emily calls me honey, I feel completely disarmed. I know it's simply a term of endearment, but coming from her, I also know it means that she sees me. Maybe she doesn't know everything about what makes me tick, but she does seem to like me, and that goes a long way in my book.
After talking with Emily, I decide to bake something to thank her and Jeff for coming over. I scrounge through my cabinets, finally landing on a box of red velvet cake mix and a container of cream cheese frosting. I crank up calming songs on my kitchen speaker and get to work making cupcakes.
But defeatist thoughts creep in as I work. I should've gotten the first chapter of my book written by now. Now that my stalker has robbed me of my sense of security in my own home, my focus will be shot.
On top of that, I've wasted precious years on a narcissist husband who's managed to completely destroy my view of myself. Sure, he has a new girlfriend, but I can still hear his simpering voice in my head, telling me I'm not fit enough, or smart enough, or just enough.
And why does he have to be so hateful? It makes no sense. During our six years of marriage, I bought him everything he needed so he could piddle around with go-nowhere jobs and take trips to all the exotic locales he dreamed of—all on my dime.
As I take the cupcakes out of the oven, I try to steer my thoughts in a more helpful direction, coming up with tangible things to be thankful for. My cottage (even though its security is now blown to smithereens), my income (even though my upcoming revenue relies heavily on the success of a book I haven't written yet), and my health (even though I haven't prioritized exercise because I hate going to the gym, and now my heart's taken to pounding out of my chest thanks to my stalker situation).
When my thankfulness therapy session falls flat, I scoop out a glop of icing, spread it on a warm cupcake, and take a bite. If nothing else, I'll always be thankful there are red velvet cupcakes in the world.
FOUR
Emily, Jeff, and I stuff ourselves on poppyseed chicken, salad, and cupcakes before settling onto my couch. I insist that they pick the show we'll watch, so we start in on a TV series they've been bingeing.
The show is humorous, although it's nerve-wracking for me to watch the main characters argue. I'm not a casual debater, so constant strife of any kind gets under my skin.
An almost tangible exhaustion falls over me, and I slouch deeper into the couch. I can feel my eyelids drooping.
Emily throws a glance toward me and her gaze sharpens. "It's nearly ten-thirty, Alex. You must be exhausted after last night. You should hit the sack."
I give her a reluctant nod. "I guess so. Did you two get all set up in the guest room? Do you have everything you need?"
"We're great." Jeff leans in, giving my arms a reassuring squeeze. "Now listen, I plan on staying up late here on the couch, but don't mind me. I'll turn the TV down. I'll feel better being in a central area where I can keep an eye out."
I shoot him an appreciative smile.
"Your security system is on?" Emily asks.
I stretch my feet and stand. "Yes. We're all locked up. If anyone gets close, the alarm will go off and it'll notify the police."
"Have the cops found anything on your security footage?" Emily asks. "I know you said they were reviewing it."
I shake my head. "Officer Lester called me back today, and he said the intruder wore a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. His eyes were hidden by his hooded jacket." I don't want to elaborate on it, but that means that either the man came dressed to do harm, or he guessed I had outdoor cameras. Either option is disturbing.
Emily grabs my hand and pats it. "They'll get him," she says firmly. "I know it. Now please get some sleep. Your Muse must be toast."
After plodding into my room, I drop onto the bed and pull my blanket up to my chin. Even as I drift off to sleep, I'm acutely aware that tonight's situation is just a temporary fix. The vast majority of celebrity stalkers are mentally unhinged.
These human hunters do the unexpected, the unthought-of, because they have no incentive to feign sanity. They're classic lone wolves who don't get close to anyone, since their attention is laser-focused on making contact with their celebrity obsession.
I shudder to think what kind of contact my stalker will attempt next.
Emily shakes my shoulders, and I blink up at her. "What time is it?"
"It's eight in the morning." She looks apologetic. "I wouldn't have woken you, but something came up."
I jolt into a sitting position, my adrenaline pumping. "What happened? Are you both okay?"
She joins me on the bed. "We're fine. It's just that around seven-thirty, Jeff woke to a clunking noise at the kitchen door. He grabbed a knife and checked out the kitchen window, but he couldn't see anyone, so he called the police. They're on their way." She takes a breath. "When he finally decided to step outside, he saw multiple dents along the window board, like someone was trying to pull the nails out and get in."
