4

FOR TWO DAYS, I check in religiously on WritersWrite, but there’s nothing from Stranger. I try to tell myself I don’t care, that I wasn’t looking forward to hearing from him, but it’s a lie. Maybe I offended him.

On the other hand, my sales are going great. Just passed fifteen hundred. I’m in heaven, and I want to celebrate with someone.

Mia: Can I bring over some Chinese and hang out?

Annie: YES! I’ve got bubbly, but only if you swear to watch the babies so I can nap in the shower for an hour.

Mia: Uhhh... NAP in the shower? Whatever you need, crazypants. I’m yours for the night.

Annie: It’s warm in there and no one bugs me. Greg will probably do the same.

Mia: Lol. Fine by me. Can’t wait to see you all! Be there in an hour.

Annie and Greg bought her parent’s house a couple years ago when they decided to retire to Florida. It’s thirty minutes out into the country, with few neighbors, rolling green hills, and a massive, winding up-hill drive that Greg hates whenever it snows, but loves whenever they have big parties because it’s so impressive and there’s so much parking.

The house is an estate. Tons of land, empty acreage, a big pond, and a massive three-story home built about a century ago.

I love coming out here. It feels like the start of some wonderful and mysterious story to me. I can so easily picture I’m the narrator of Rebecca coming to Manderley for the first time, or going to meet some mysterious recluse, or a weekend party complete with a whodunnit.

But when I arrive, it’s just the pair of them. Greg’s wearing a wrinkled shirt that’s way too small for his bulky muscled form, and a pair of plaid flannel pants. He’s a good-looking guy—in a sort of testosterone-fueled, jock, meathead kind of way. Normally. Right now, he looks haggard. And so does Annie, in a stained nightgown, with greasy hair, and I’m not sure, but I think the sour, garbagy smell might be coming from one or both of them.

“You came!” they say at the same time, looking way too happy about my arrival, as if I’m an exotic and exciting dignitary come to visit.

“Seriously. But how?” Annie grabs me and hugs me—the smell is her—and drags me into the living room. “Here you go. You sure about this? They’re both up.”

Hart and Hadley, the babies, are lying on their backs on little pink and blue blankets, side by side on the oriental carpet, kicking their feet. It’s not the first time I’ve seen them, but as always, I’m amazed by just how insanely tiny they are.

I set the bag of food on the coffee table and sit down on the floor next to my godchildren. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. They’re angels.” I gesture at them. “Tiny little angel babies.”

Annie blinks a few times. “They are now. In the middle of the night sometimes...” Her voice does a little waiver. “I want to tear my hair out. But for the moment, you’re right, they’re perfect.”

Greg rubs her back, glancing at me a little hesitantly. “She’s emotional. I think it’s the lack of sleep.”

Annie elbows him in his gut. “I’m right here, Greg. Don’t talk about me like that.”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Her brows snap together as she turns back to me. “Did you hear about Amy Jekinsky?”

Oh! “Her!” I do remember. She was a few doors down from me freshman year. “Yes. What about her?”

The corner of Annie’s mouth tucks in like it does when she’s sad. “Her husband died of brain cancer. She took over his business or something. He was thirty-seven.”

Greg shoves out his lower lip. “She’s got a net worth approaching a bil. So... you know. I’ll save my tears.”

“It’s true.” He makes a placid face. “Talk to someone with a sick kid. They’ll tell you how bad they feel for the woman who married a filthy-rich guy who died.”

I can’t even begin to figure out how to respond to that, so I say, “Go sleep in the shower or whatever it is you want to do. I’ll be good for an hour.”

They hesitate, staring at me all shifty-eyed, like they’ve been caught stealing.

“Come get me if they start screaming.” Annie’s already tugging her lank, brown hair out of its messy bun. It’s the same exact shade of auburn brown as Jer’s when it’s clean, and with that look on her face, all furtive and doubtful, she looks just like him.

“You guys aren’t so bad.” I lie down in front of the old stone fireplace next to the babies and wonder if this is my future. Crazed to the point of tears for a few minutes of peace in a dark shower.

They’re pretty cute with their tiny, wrinkly faces, their itty-bitty fingers, their sweet baby smell. Annie generally acts like all they do is scream and poop, but at least for now, they’re just waving their arms in the air, sticking out their tongues and punching ghosts only they can see.

I make faces at them for a few minutes, dangle my keys, sing badly for them. They don’t seem to care.

So I shrug, let Hart wrap his tiny fingers around my pointer finger and check my phone.

I shake my finger free from his impressively strong grip and make myself busy for a few minutes, tidying up the kitchen.

Hadley fusses. So I change her doll-sized diaper, moving carefully because even though Annie keeps saying they’re stronger than they look, they look as fragile as cotton candy. When she’s changed, I set her in a bouncy swing with a mobile of sleepy lambs and ducks hanging over it. I change Hart too and set him in a second bouncer by his sister’s side.

They’re like a pair of living dolls. For a second, I can feel it, what Annie must feel all day, every day... the oppressive responsibility of having two tiny humans to raise.

Greg comes down, looking much more like himself, dressed in jeans and a tee, his blondish hair combed. He’s a few years old than Annie and me. She met him when she was working as a journalist. She interviewed him for a column she wrote on some senator Greg’s firm represented.

He comes back a few minutes later and hands me a glass full of golden bubbly happiness. “Thanks for watching the babies and for cleaning up. That was nice. How are sales?”

“So good!” I beam. “It feels like it’s working. Finally, after all this time.”

“That’s good. Real good.” He settles into a wingback chair near the babies. “How’s the stalker?”

“I know what Annie says. It’s not a stalker. Just some idiot who sometimes writes stuff on my social media accounts. It’s harmless. I delete the comments and move on. It happens to everyone.”

Hart lets out a chirp, and Greg lifts him gently to his shoulder. The baby looks about the size of a gerbil in his hands. “What do you consider harmless?”

I tap my leg and refuse to tell him just how graphic some of the comments have been. “It’s the internet. I mean... have you seen what people say on YouTube? It’s just anonymous jerks. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yeah... but...” He tilts his head to the side the way people do before they say something I’m not going to like. “You’ve got a pretty face.”

I have to close my eyes and suck in a long cooling breath. This is why I don’t want Jer to know. Every argument anyone makes just makes me mad.

“And what? What has that got to do with anything? If I had an ugly face it would be okay?”

He pats Hart’s back in a steady beat. “That’s not what I meant. I just mean... people online are crazy. They see a pretty girl who writes the kind of stuff you write, they get ideas. Not saying they’re right to get them. Just saying, be careful.”

“It just seems like something I’d want to know.” He chews on his lip. “If Annie were writing the kind of stuff you write, using her face on her website, and had people making sexual comments, I’d want to know.”

Hadley fusses in the bouncer, so I bend down and lift her. Her tiny head rests on the dip where my collar bone meets my neck, her silky hair tickling my skin like the feathers of a baby duck. “So he can do what? Protect me? I don’t need protection.”

“You sure about that? What if one of these people is able to find you? Reverse track your photo or something, figure who you are, where you live. You don’t even have an alarm on your house. You don’t have a gun or know self-defense.”

“Neither does Jer,” I point out irritably, and we sit in silence until Annie comes back.

When she does, she looks happier than I’ve seen in a while. She babbles about my sales, full of questions, and I’m happy to let the stalker conversation go. Greg casts me an uneasy glance, but lets it drop.

I sit down at my desk, and check in on the website, unable to stop a smile from spreading across my face when I see I have three critiques from Stranger Lowe and a message—also from Stranger Lowe.

Stranger: Hello Mia Reed,

I read more of Wrecked. The pacing is solid. I like the female lead. She’s cute. The guy’s a little soft. If he’s such a badass, why does he bother spending an hour explaining to her why he kidnaps her? I think he’d just do it.

Also, the use of the word fisting threw me. I know what you mean. He’s jerking off, but it made me think of real fisting, you know?

I sliced some dialogue. You tend to be long-winded there.

And I think he’d be looking at her eyes while he jerks it. He wants her to feel that penetration. Know she belongs to him.

And, I’d probably want to cum all over her face, not just her tits, and... maybe... push it into her mouth with my cock, feed it to her, make her lick it, watch. She could be on her knees. The angle works better that way.

I’ll finish the rest tomorrow.

My hands come up to cover my mouth. This weird little whimper comes out of the back of my throat. Like a breathy yelp.

It’s still hot outside, muggy high summer heat that lingers. It’s not even 8 p.m. and the sun is only beginning its descent, but my skin raises in goosebumps.

People have made comments on my work before about sex stuff, but I rarely get male critiquers and when I do, I think they feel weird reading sex scenes. Usually they stay quiet.

I have this image of a man, a dark, faceless Stranger, nothing but that hard jaw, that Roman nose, and those vibrant colorful tattoo-covered forearms rippling with every jerk and flex. And it’s not just any face getting covered. It’s my face. I can practically feel it, hot and sticky. It’s like it’s burned into my retinas. I press my hand to my lower belly where everything is hot and tight and so empty.

I’m suddenly luridly curious about his body. How he smells. The sound of his voice. The shape of his thumbs.

Mia: Oh. Wow. Ummm... That’s good stuff. Thank you! Can’t wait to read the crits. I’ll try to hit you back this evening.

I reread the message, jiggling my leg, distracted by my own throbbing body. I’ve never fantasized about a real man though. Not even Jeremy. But now I am, oh man, I am. A little simmer of guilt niggles at the back of my mind. This is going no place good.

I make that noise again, that pathetic breathy moan. Thank god I read it now while I’m alone, not in front of Greg and Annie. I’d never be able to explain that moan.

I make myself wait until I have a big glass of icy Sauvignon Blanc in my hand, push aside my throw pillows and make a nest in the sofa. Then I pull up the site on my phone, click that red circle I’m learning to love and hate at the same time.

Stranger: Anytime. I don’t venture into sex writing often. It was a fun couple hours.

Oh, no. Wait! I wish I could take that back. That sounds like I spend all my time writing sex and masturbating.

Stranger: Writing is best when it’s fun. I finished editing another couple chapters today. Feels good.

Mia: Did you post them?

Stranger: Yeah.

Mia: Fun! Can’t wait to read. What’s it about?

Stranger: The guy leaves Africa. You’ll like it.

Mia: What happens next?

Stranger: He ends up getting hired to work for a senator. Doing security. But the senator’s depraved.

Mia: Depraved how?

Stranger: Weird sex shit. You inspired me.

Mia: LOL. Like what? Bondage?

Stranger: Maybe. The narrator ends up falling for a girl with a thing for getting choked in bed. And then she gets strangled, and everyone thinks he did it.

Mia: But it was really the senator, right?

Stranger: No. But it could have been.

I pull my feet under me, kicking my sandals to the floor. They bounce off the carpet under the sofa. Jeremy would sigh if he were here. He hates when I leave stuff lying around.

I take a long sip. What am I supposed to say to Stranger? Does he like choking people in bed? I imagine big hands closing around my neck, tightening until I can’t breathe.

I glance at my photo at the top of the screen. I hadn’t thought about it this way before, wondered what a man looking at it might think. What does he see?

It’s me by the water in Watch Hill at my grandparents’ beach house. My hair’s out behind me, blowing against the gray sky. I look pretty enough. My neck looks long. It’s a good picture of me but I’m not anything special. There’s no real clue about my body, though I guess he can see I’m not overweight.

I enlarge his picture on my phone’s screen. There’s some stubble along his jaw. Maybe a hint of a dimple.

I go back to my own picture, enlarge my face. Has he done that? Stared at my photo, big thumbs moving over the screen, spreading the pixels apart. What would he think when he saw it? Does he like how I look? My eyes are the same honey color as my hair. Maybe I should change it to a picture where I look prettier? No, I’d look desperate then.

I should be focused on planning my wedding. Not wondering what a total stranger thinks about my photograph.

Mia: Hello, fiancé mine. Are you ignoring me? I saw Annie and Greg tonight. They seem stressed. What time are we having dinner tomorrow?

I chew my lip, tell myself not to check for the red circle, but do anyway. There isn’t one.

Mia: So, who did it?

Stranger: You’ll have to read it to find out.

Mia: Ha.

Stranger: What are you doing right now?

Mia: Nothing, you?

Stranger: Not nothing. I’m outside. I live in the middle of nowhere. The trees are just about to change. It will be full dark in twenty minutes, but I’ll be home in ten.

Mia: What are you doing out there?

Stranger: Coming back from a hike with my dog.

Mia: Texting and hiking. Don’t trip.

Stranger: I never trip.

Mia: What kind of dog?

Stranger: Gogo. Answer me. Exactly what are you doing?

Mia: Gogo? Is she a Pomeranian? Sigh. I’m having a glass of wine. Talking to you.

Stranger: A hound dog. Where? Be specific. I want to picture you.

Mia: My house. Sitting on my sofa. I’m wearing a blue sundress. Hound dogs are pretty.

Stranger: She’s beautiful. What position? Leaning against an arm? Feet on the coffee table? Shoes? What color is the couch?

Mia: No shoes. Feet ON the TABLE? Never. Alright, you want details? Sofa is tufted white velvet with magenta and kelly-green accent pillows my mom needlepointed for me. I’ve got my feet tucked under me. Fuzzy throw blanket.

Stranger: Magenta? Kelly-green? Are these friends of yours? What is needlepoint?

Mia: The hottest of pinks. The brightest of greens. Needlepoint... is kinda like embroidery but in a grid.

Stranger: Music? TV?

Mia: No music. No TV. Just you.

Stranger: I like it. Sounds... cozy. PM me in an hour. I’ll pour myself a beer. We’ll have a drink together, I’ll flirt with you in a confusing way, and you can pretend you don’t like it and that it isn’t weird to be talking to a guy you’ve never met about buckets of cum. It’ll be fun.

Mia: Are you always this bossy?

Stranger: I just want to know what makes you tick, Mia Reed. I bet you’re smiling.

I toss my phone to the side. I could write. But I’m tired. I check my sales. Another three hundred. I might pass two thousand.

He didn’t want to sign it, but it’s part of the deal. My parents are insisting. My trust is protected so Jer can’t get the money, not even if I cheat or divorce him, but my parents want it locked down anyway.

Jer spent the entire time biting his thumb and worrying. I think he sees it as a recognition that we might get a divorce, but that’s not it. Far from it.

I change into a pair of comfy lounge pants and a tank top, cuddle into my sofa, put on HGTV, but all the while, I’m trying not to think about a Stranger.

I skim through his work. I know better than anyone that the type of work we produce as writers bears little reflection on who we are.

But his work is dark, heavy, heartless in a way I’ve never come across. And the details in the murder scene. Whatever Stranger Lowe’s life has been like, he knows how to murder someone.

I reread our conversation a few times. He’s funny, but there’s an edge to the humor, an angle almost, like he wants something.

I can practically hear my mother hissing a warning in my ear. Don’t talk to internet strangers. He could be anyone, Mia. ANYONE. And the tattoos!

I edit the scene I wrote earlier, which isn’t as bad as I thought, and watch the clock slide past 9. Then past 10. I keep checking my phone.

Mia: I finished my glass.

Stranger: Nice.

Mia: And now I’m waiting.

Stranger: For?

Mia: You. You set me up to wait for you.

Stranger: I did not. The ball was in your court.

Mia: It was deliberate. You were daring me.

Stranger: Got me.

Mia: Why? What do you want with me?

Stranger: A guy can’t chat with a pretty writer?

Mia: He can. But you’re not just a guy.

Stranger: What am I then?

Mia: I have no idea.

Stranger: You think a lot, huh?

Mia: Don’t you?

Stranger: I try not to overthink. I’ve got my beer. Slide over on the couch, Mia Reed. Tell your secrets to me.

Mia: There’s plenty of room. My couch is long. I don’t know you, so keep to your side. What kind of beer?

Stranger: Heineken. Always. I’m a big guy. Long arms. I could sit close enough to put my arm along the back. Spread my knees out, bump them against your thigh maybe.

Mia: I’d give you some side-eye if you did that.

Stranger: Nah, fifteen minutes, you’d be facing me on the couch, knees up, scooting just a little closer. I can see it perfectly. That perky smile.

Mia: Perky? Your narrator makes me sad.

Stranger: Why?

Mia: He’s not very nice.

Stranger: That’s true.

Mia: He’s cold. Empty. Dead inside.

There’s a pause. So long I start to think I’ve offended him. Some writers are really prickly about their work. I didn’t think he would be. But then after three minutes, he responds. Maybe he was just doing something.

Stranger: You don’t like being called perky? How about prissy?

Mia: I don’t think I’m prissy. I hate cats and I don’t wear heels on the treadmill.

Stranger: Haha. But... I bet your wallet isn’t black or brown.

Mia: It’s the color of watermelon guts.

Stranger: Case and point. He’s not all bad. He has to go dark places for his work. That’s all. Plus of course, the choking.

Mia: Yeah... I can’t get into choking. All that BDSM stuff. I don’t know.

Stranger: Not like the buckets. Prim?

Mia: I’m not into buckets either. I’m maybe a little prim.

Stranger: Okay. Prim, Mia. Fifteen minutes in, you’d be facing me. Ten minutes more and I’d play with your hair.

Mia: You work fast.

Stranger: You say you don’t like them, but you write cum buckets anyway. Why not BDSM? What’s different?

Mia: I’m honestly stumped. I don’t know. But I do know this, I think if we met, you’d scare me, Stranger Lowe.

Stranger: Maybe you kinda want to be scared.

We chat for a long time, about writing, about random stuff. How he used to think writing was for losers, and I always loved it. How he barely graduated high school, joined the military, and I have my masters in Economics. How he started writing as a lark, a hobby and somehow just kept at it. How I started out in my twenties. How he’s never let anyone read his work before. How he can’t stand being around people. How I crave them. How he spends all day hiking in the mountains and writes at night. How I write during the day.

He asks if I’m a nervous sort of person. I never noticed before, but yes, I am. I worry and wonder and doubt every single thing I do. I tell him anything that occurs to me. Somehow, he beat away my filter, through a combination of open acceptance and humor.

The one thing I don’t mention is Jeremy. I don’t know why that is, but this time with Stranger feels like a dream, like an interlude, like a game, like make-believe, like I am the lead character in a book I’m writing.

And when I say it’s too late, and I need to go to bed or I’ll turn into a pumpkin, he types haha and I wonder if he’s really laughing somewhere, in a house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wilderness. I wish I could hear it.

The last thing I notice as I fall asleep, is that Jeremy texted me long ago and I didn’t even see.

He canceled. Tomorrow I’ll be alone on a Friday night. For some reason, I wonder if Stranger will be online, if he’ll want to talk to me again.

WHEN I WAKE the next morning, I refuse to check for messages from Stranger. I reached a decision while unconscious. It’s not appropriate. This... whatever it is. I spent all last night flirting with a man, and even though it was online, it’s not okay. If I found out Jeremy was talking to some other woman... about sex no less... I’d be furious. And so hurt.

Jeremy texted several times, and I just ignored him. Worst of all, he thinks I’m mad because he canceled.

Jeremy: Mia, please don’t be upset. The rep from Beijing is on a plane as I text. He’s coming to see me.

Jeremy: Come on, honey. This is silly. You know I don’t want to cancel. I don’t have a choice. You’ll see me Saturday. I’ll pick up sushi and come to you.

Jeremy: Or we can go out? Anywhere you want.

Jeremy: Mia? Please text me. This is crazy.

Jeremy: I’m going to sleep now. I hope you’re okay.

I’m a bad person. A very very bad person. He deserves so much more. He is sweet and good, honest and dependable. I’m terrible.