Page 125 of Faking the Goal

"Okay," he says quietly. "Tell me everything. Start from the beginning."

I hesitate.

Of all the people I could tell this to, Kentaro is probably the last person I should trust with another fucked-up corner of my life right now. A week ago, I thought I knew where we stood, and look how spectacularly wrong I was about that.

The last thing I want is to hand him something else vulnerable and hope he handles it carefully.

But I'm scared.

Really fucking scared.

And for once, that outweighs my pride.

I pull my knees onto the couch and wrap my arms around them.

So I tell him.

I tell him about the black dahlias that started showing up outside my old apartment more than a month ago, always accompanied by messages filled with weird little declarations about how beautiful I am or how much he thinks about me. At first, I assumed it was some stupid prank or maybe one of the guys I'd hooked up with before trying to be funny.

Then the flowers became gifts. Stuffed animals. Lingerie. Other things I never asked for and immediately threw away. And somewhere along the way, the sweet messages stopped feeling remotely sweet. He started getting angry whenever I ignored him or got rid of what he sent, like I was somehow hurting his feelings by refusing to participate in whatever relationship he'd invented between us.

Eventually, I couldn't stand coming home every day wondering what I'd find outside my door, so I moved.

I thought moving would finally make the flowers and gifts stop. That without him knowing my new address, he'd leave me the fuck alone.

But that's when the creepy texts and calls started. And lately, I've had this constant feeling that I'm being watched.

I glance toward the bouquet on the coffee table.

"Then tonight he sent me this."

I unlock my phone, find the messages, and hand it to Kentaro.

"That picture was taken tonight. Like... minutes before you found me. I was walking back from the convenience store wearing exactly what I'm wearing now." I grimace. "He was there. Watching me."

Kentaro's eyes stay fixed on the screen.

"He also calls me 'Kitten.'" Just saying it makes my stomach turn. "I hate it. I don't even know why, but every time I read that word, I get this horrible feeling." I rub my hands over my arms. "It makes my fucking skin crawl."

He scrolls through the messages without interrupting. The only indication that he's reacting at all is the way his jaw gradually hardens with every one he reads. By the time he reaches the picture from tonight, his expression has gone completely stern.

His eyes drift toward the unopened box.

"Can I?"

I follow his gaze, my palms starting to sweat again.

"Go ahead."

He reaches for the box and removes the wrapping before lifting the lid. The second he does, that same overpowering men's cologne hits us.

We both wrinkle our noses.

Kentaro pushes aside the tissue paper, and I brace myself for another stuffed kitten or something equally disturbing.

Instead, there are clothes.

A tiny black dress with a plunging neckline. A fitted red top. A short leather skirt. Everything looks disturbingly similar to something I might actually pick out for myself. There's also a small designer purse tucked against one side of the box and a pair of strappy black heels underneath it.