creative skills. Also, way too hard,” he says with a grin. “I’ll let you do that one on your own.”
“Thaaaaaanks,” I drawl, whapping him on the nose with a pencil.
He pulls my backpack open with one finger and peeks inside. “Don’t you have anything fun in there? Like history?”
“I’m completely finished with my history class for the rest of the semester, as of that paper we researched last Friday. We ate our dessert too quickly.” Since Benson and I are both history buffs, it was just too big of a temptation to work ahead.
“More’s the pity,” Benson says in a faux British accent.
I shake my head at his dramatics. The first time I saw Benson, I thought he was just a run-of-the-mill library nerd. But his comfortable grip when he shook my hand and the way his light green button-up shirt and gray sweater vest had an all-too-purposeful touch of wrinkling told me this was a carefully crafted look—not a persona he stumbled into after a geeky childhood.
In some ways, he keeps me sane better than my shrink. Reminds me of the normalcy life used to have.
He’s an intern from UNH, but even though he’s in college, we’re practically the same age. His birthday’s in August and mine’s in December, so we’re both eighteen, just on opposite sides of the school year cut-off. Not that he doesn’t take every opportunity to bring up the fact that he’s older and wiser.
I’ll give him the older part. But only just.
“I just had to get out of the house.” It’s only a half lie. A few more seconds of procrastination as I try to decide how to start the real conversation.
“Admit it, you missed me.”
“Pined,” I say with an eyebrow raised. But it’s the truth. More than I like to admit.
I rummage through my backpack—not actually trying to find my math book, just avoiding looking him in the face. “Hey, Benson?” I begin. “Is … is stalking ever acceptable? Like, justified and not weird and creepy?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Benson says in a very serious voice.
“Really?” I say, and I feel my heart speed up as hope leaps into my chest.
“Yes. When Dana McCraven is stalking me. That is completely acceptable, rational, and even expected as far as I’m concerned.” He strikes an exaggerated thinking pose, resting his cheek on his fist. “No, other than that it’s pretty much always weird and creepy. Why?”
“No reason,” I grumble, going back to my pointless poking around.
“Oh please,” Benson blurts after nearly a minute of silence.
“What?”
He runs his fingers through his light brown hair, styled in a casual messy look today. “‘What did you have for lunch?’” he says in a high, mocking tone. “That’s a question that people sometimes ask for no reason. ‘What did you do last night?’ is also a random question. I would even accept ‘Did you shower this morning?’ as a question without true motivation since you are aware of the fact that my hygiene habits are beyond reproach. Whether or not stalking is socially acceptable is definitely not a random, casual question.”
I refuse to meet his eyes.
He angles himself toward me and lets his arm rest on the back of my chair again, as if that didn’t make this whole conversation even more awkward. “Tave, seriously. This isn’t funny. Are you the stalker or the stalk-ee?”
“That’s a stupid word.”
“Is someone seriously stalking you?” Though he remains calm, all traces of humor are gone from his voice.
“No! Yes. Sort of.” I groan as I cover my face with my hands. “It’s complicated.”
“Reporters?”
I shake my head.
“Cupcake, spill.” He always refers to me as some kind of confection when he’s trying to worm information out of me. Which, considering my somewhat sordid past, happens on a semi-frequent basis. I caved once to muffin but put my foot down at croissant.
Cupcake is acceptable, though, so I give up and tell him. Once the words start, it gets easier. Then it’s a relief. Then I’m talking so quickly I’m having a hard time enunciating. The guy, the triangles on the houses, everything. By the time I reach the part where the guy tried to get me to come outside, Benson is done joking.
“Tavia, you need to call the police. This is some seriously scary shit.”
“I think that’s a little extreme, don’t you? I’ve only seen him twice.”
“No!” Benson says, leaning closer, his arm tightening around my back. “He tried to lure you out of your house at two in the morning.”
I know it’s true, and I know I should be as freaked out as Benson. But somehow I’m just … not. “He’s not some creepy old man. He’s, like, our age. Or close to it.”
“Oh, good point,” Benson says, but his tone is flat and dry. “Because the rule book says that all dangerous stalkers are ugly and old.”
“That’s not how I meant it. I didn’t feel afraid. Maybe ‘stalker’ isn’t the right word.” I rub my temples and gather my thoughts, trying to figure out what the right word is. “I don’t think he wanted to hurt me. It’s more like he … he wanted to tell me something.”
“Like, ‘Get into my car before I blow your brains out’?”
“Benson!”
Benson senses that he’s pushed me one step too far and stays quiet for a while. Finally he offers an apology. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not stupid, and I don’t mean to treat you that way. I just … I’d hate to see you get really hurt because your instincts might be … off.”
He doesn’t have to tap one finger against the side of his head for me to take his meaning. A lot of my reactions are still a little off-kilter. Maybe that’s all this is. This overwhelming draw to be near a strange guy—to talk to him, to sit in silence, to just be the two of us—it’s a ridiculous feeling, a terrible instinct, and I know it. But telling myself that and turning the feeling off are two vastly different things.
The moment gets a little heavy, and to cover my anxiousness, I lean away from Benson and start digging around in the bottom of my backpack again.
“What are you looking for?”
“My ChapStick,” I grumble. The cold air here is surprisingly hard on my lips. The winters were plenty harsh in Michigan, but Reese says that the salt from the ocean is what’s making my skin dry out. So now I carry ChapStick everywhere.
Except when I misplace it.
Which is frequently.
“Look in your pocket,” Benson says with apologetic warmth in his voice. “It’s always in your pocket when you can’t find it.”
Making a silent wish, I dig into my pocket and breathe a sigh of relief when my hand closes around the familiar tube. “You’re a genius.”
“You’re an addict,” he counters.
“I’m telling you,” I say, pausing to rub my lips together, “in five minutes I’ll just have to do it again. I think I’ve become immune.”
“I think you have a serious problem, Tave. You need to go to therapy.”
“You’re so weird,” I say, turning back to my homework.
“No, seriously,” Benson says. “It’s almost three o’clock. You need to get to physical therapy.”
I hesitate. In the face of everything that