Page 46 of Guarding the Star

“To check the bench. Don't move.”

“What if it's him?”

“I hope it is,” she says, and locks the door behind her.

I wait twenty minutes, and I think they're the longest twenty minutes of my life. I sit on the kitchen floor with my back against the wall, sneakers still on, heart in my throat, holding a knife. I don't know why. The door is locked. But I do it anyway.

“The bench was empty. I checked the street. Nothing,” she tells me when she comes back.

“Do you think it was him, or did I imagine it?” I ask. The last thing I need is to start seeing threats that aren't there.

Paula crouches down to my level.

“What matters is you reacted right. You told me. You didn't stop. You didn't approach him. You did exactly what you were supposed to.”

“Shit,” I sigh. “Eight blocks.”

“Eight blocks,” she repeats. “But I'm with you. I'm not leaving you alone.”

***

That night I cook.

I don't plan it. I just do it. And it's weird, not something I usually do, but it's better than thinking about a man with thick-framed glasses sitting on a bench a few blocks from my house.

Pasta with tomato sauce. Lucía's recipe. Fresh basil I bought at the grocery store yesterday. I've lit candles. I've pulled my sneakers out from under the couch. I've put the dirty clothes in the hamper. I've basically turned my apartment into a livable space. Almost a home.

Paula walks out of her room and stares.

“You cooked?”

“Sit down. Trust me, I'm not going to poison you,” I joke, pointing at the dining table.

Over dinner, we talk about everything and nothing. Small things. Trying not to mention the stalker with the thick-framed glasses who's taking up too much space in my head. We talk like a normal couple eating dinner at home.

“What happens when the contract ends?” I say, because it's something I've wanted to ask for a while and haven't had the guts.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, one day this is over. The threat or whatever, the protection, the contract. You know. You won't have to spend every hour with me anymore. What happens then?”

“I like Seattle,” she says.

“Seattle is big. That doesn't answer my question.”

“I don't know. Something near a park with a lake. Like this apartment, for example. If you want…”

“And Mama Celo?”

“My grandma is healthy and has a house in El Paso. She'd visit,” she explains, like it's obvious.

“Oh man, I love your grandma. Any woman who sends you thirty-second voice notes of just laughing at two in the morning is my kind of person.”

“And you? Is this the part where you tell me you're not ready to live with someone?” she asks, half joking, half serious.

“I wouldn't live with someone like me, but if you're willing to try, go for it. I won't be the one to stop you,” I joke. “Seriously though, it's hard for me to say this, but yeah, I'd like you to stay. Live with me,” I admit, taking her hand. “I'd really like that.”

Later, while we're doing the dishes, the question comes out before I can think.