Page 18 of Stalk Me

"I promise not to judge," he prompts.

"Fine." I let out a long breath, searching for someplace to start. "My parents sent me here," I say finally. It's not the whole truth, but it's more than I've told anyone else. "They said it was for my own good, but really they just wanted me contained. Controlled."

Erik nods, not pushing for more. "Mine sent me here after I nearly tanked the family business," he offers. "I was dealing with some… substance issues. Made some spectacularly bad decisions that ended up in the papers. As you can see, their solution was to ship me off to reform school for rich fuck-ups until the scandal died down."

The casual admission surprises me. "What kind of substances?"

"Started with pills—Oxy mostly, then whatever I could get my hands on. Ended with cocaine and a very public overdose at a charity gala." He says it matter-of-factly, like he's commenting on the weather. "Not my finest moment."

My stomach knots, a strange sense of protectiveness surging through me. "How bad was the overdose?"

"Bad enough." He gives a rueful smile, his gray eyes dark with past pain. "My heart stopped two times. I was technically dead for a few minutes, so they told me. Hurt like a bitch, too."

His words hit harder than I expected. I reach out and touch his hand without thinking. "Are you still using?"

"Not anymore." He squeezes my hand, reassuring. "I've been sober for fourteen months and six days. Not that I'm counting."

I huff a laugh, though it sounds hollow. Fourteen months and he's struggling? How the hell am I supposed to survive half a year? "That's amazing. I'm proud of you, but?—"

"Don't." His expression hardens, eyes turning glacial. "Don't go there."

The honesty in his voice makes me uncomfortable. I'm used to lies and manipulation, to people using their weaknesses as weapons. This straightforward admission of vulnerability feels dangerous in a way I don't quite understand.

"Okay." I let go of his hand, suddenly needing some space. "We can talk about something else."

"I actually think we're just getting to the good part." He takes another sip of wine, the tension in his body dissipating. "What about you, Luna? Tell me something real."

I pick at a grape, considering what I can safely reveal. "I used to have a cat," I say finally. "A black one named Shadow. He was the only thing in that house that felt real, you know? But then I messed up, stepped out of line, and…" I swallow hard, the memory still raw. "He disappeared. My parents said he must have run away, but I knew better. They're good at making things disappear when they want to teach me a lesson."

Erik's expression darkens. "Jesus, Luna."

"Don't." I hold up a hand, just like he did to me, not wanting his pity. "It was a long time ago. I learned my lesson—don't get attached to anything you can't stand to lose."

"Is that why you push everyone away?" He asks the question gently, but it still feels like a punch to the gut. "Because you're afraid they'll disappear too?"

"I push people away because it's safer than letting them close enough to hurt me," I snap. "And don't pretend you're any different. Mr. I-Don't-Do-One-Night-Stands is just as fucked up as the rest of us. He's just better at hiding it."

"Okay." Erik nods, not arguing the point. Instead, he just looks sad. "I never said I wasn't fucked up. I just decided to stop using it as an excuse to hurt people."

The words hit harder than they should, probably because they're true. I turn away, focusing on the horizon, where the sun is starting to sink into the sea. The sky is painted in shades of pink and gold, beautiful enough to break your heart.

"Why are you really doing this?" I ask quietly. "The hike, the picnic, all of it. What do you want from me?"

Erik is quiet for so long that I start to think he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft but certain. "Maybe I just want to know who you are when you're not trying so hard to be what everyone expects."

His words hit the target they were intended for. Something in my chest cracks open, the cold vise around my heart finally loosening its grip. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I take a deep breath, holding it as the pain of the past few years threatens to overwhelm me.

"Hey," he says softly. "It's okay. You don't have to hide with me."

"Fuck you." I shake my head, tears threatening. "You don't know anything."

He moves closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. "I know more than you think."

"No." I fight the urge to lean into him, to let myself be pulled into the fantasy of safety he's offering. It feels like standing at the edge of the cliff, except there's no rush of adrenaline or thrill of danger—just the plummeting pit of a terrifying truth that maybe, just maybe, I don't have to be alone. "You're full of shit."

He reaches out and wipes away the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. "Tell yourself whatever you need to. But I think you're someone worth knowing. I only wish you'd at least try to let me in."

The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. I want to believe him, and I want to trust that this could be something real. But I've learned the hard way that wanting things only gives people power over you.

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