2. A Phantom at the Edge
A Phantom at the Edge
Ari
The letter sits on my kitchen counter, exactly where I left it last night.
I tell myself I’m not avoiding it.
But I haven’t thrown it away, either.
Instead, I drink my coffee with deliberate, practiced normalcy. I check my emails on my phone, skim my calendar, pretend my morning is like any other. But every few minutes, my eyes flick toward the envelope.
I’ll see you soon, angel.
The words keep looping in my head, even though they shouldn’t. It’s just a letter. Just a misunderstanding. Maybe even a prank of some kind.
But something about it sticks.
It shouldn’t.
It should unnerve me. It does unnerve me.
And yet…
My thighs press together as I take another slow sip of coffee. Heat licks low in my belly, sharp and unwelcome. There’s something about the idea of being watched, of someone lurking just outside my awareness, tracking my every move. Wanting me. Waiting for me.
My pulse jumps, a slow, traitorous throb.
I could tell Asher. I should. But then I’d have to explain why it unsettles me. And why, in some dark, shameful part of me, it doesn’t.
So I don’t.
Instead, I slide the letter into a drawer, out of sight but not out of mind. My fingers linger on the edges of the paper, as if it might reveal something more if I just hold on long enough.
I’m a couple of hours into my workday when my phone buzzes.
Asher
Hello. I feel really bad about last night. May I take you to dinner tonight?
Perking up instantly, I’m smiling as I respond.
Ooh, dinner? Sounds fancy, and like something a real couple does.
Asher
Ha. Ha. I’ll make a reservation. Italian okay?
I guess I’ll allow it. As long as you don’t say ‘rain check’ again.
Asher
Noted. 7pm?
See you then, old man.
I set my phone down, still smiling.
A real date.
Lately it feels like Asher and I are in some kind of half-relationship limbo, with neither of us fully in or fully out. But maybe this is him trying. Maybe this is him making an effort. It’s been months since we’ve gone on a real date.
The rest of the day zips by, and by the time I arrive at the restaurant in the rideshare I ordered, Asher is already waiting at the table, checking his phone.
Always be a few minutes late. Make him sweat. Remind him I’m not a sure thing.
At first glance, he looks like his usual self—button-up rolled at the sleeves, hair slicked back, looking every inch the clean-cut businessman with the important job. He’s a man who knows his place in the world and has never had to fight for it. My heart even does a little somersault, and I think back to when we met almost two years ago on a dating app.
I almost didn’t meet him for coffee that day.
Sixteen years older. Closer in age to my parents than to me.
I remember staring at his profile, fingers hovering over the swipe left button, thinking, Do I really want to be someone’s midlife crisis?
But he didn’t feel old when we talked. He didn’t look old, either, thanks to spectacular genes and an annoyingly good skincare routine. More than that, he was stable. Solid. The kind of man my father would call a good investment. No games, no chaos, no late-night fights that left me sobbing in my car. After years of men who burned hot and left scars, Asher felt like safety.
And for a while, that was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Lately, I catch myself staring at him, watching the way he smiles at all the right moments. I know exactly what he’ll say before he says it. At one time, I enjoyed the gentle predictability of it.
I’m just not sure when the stability started to feel like stagnation.
And of course there’s the letter .
I know how light must fall on your skin, how the world must hush when you walk through it. I know you the way a man knows the thing he was never meant to have—too well, too deep, too much.
The words branded into my skin long after I shoved it into the back of a drawer, the raw, hungry want tangled in every line. It’s terrifying, that level of obsession. And yet, beneath the fear, there’s something else. A spark. A reminder of what it felt like to be wanted—not just chosen, not just loved, but craved.
But Asher isn’t that. And maybe that’s a good thing. After all, I am a goddamn adult.
I slide into the seat across from him, watching his reaction carefully. The way he puts his phone down, like he wasn’t just checking it for the third time in a row.
“Miss me?” I tease, arching a brow.
His lips twitch in what should be amusement. But there’s a fraction of a second, so quick I almost miss it, where something flickers in his expression.
There. Right there.
A tightness around his mouth. A hesitation in his eyes. It’s nothing. But it’s also everything. My stomach clenches, my brain already spinning into worst-case scenarios like a machine that never shuts off. He’s pulling away. He’s bored. He’s going to break up with me over appetizers.
Or worse, he’s staying out of obligation.
The logical part of my brain, the CPA who crunches numbers for a living, tells me I’m being ridiculous. That I can’t possibly analyze every facial expression, every half-second shift in body language, and assume it means something.
And yet, he’s distracted, shoulders tense in a way that isn’t work-related.
“Hey,” I say, nudging his foot under the table. “You look like you’re debating running for office or confessing to murder.”
That earns a huff of laughter, but it’s delayed, like he had to think about it first.
“Long day,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Bad or just boring?”
“Neither. Just… family stuff. I’m a little distracted.”
I pause, twirling my straw in my drink. I’ve met his parents, Otto and Hannah, a couple of times. They’re nice, retired, and live just outside of San Diego in a massive house.
Certainly not a reason to be as anxious as Asher looks.
I should pry. I want to pry. But the way his fingers tighten around his glass makes me hesitate.
Instead, I take a sip, and say lightly, “So, dinner means I forgive you for last night, but only if you make an actual effort in the conversation.”
The outer corners of his blue eyes crinkle, and there’s a touch of amusement twinkling in his irises. But then it disappears. He’s present physically, but he’s somewhere else, too.
A second later, he tells me about work—his morning meeting, as well as a new, difficult client. However, his words feel measured.
Like he’s talking just to talk, because I asked him to, instead of actually engaging with me.
The server takes our orders, and I continue listening to Asher explain the difference between two accounting regulations I stopped caring about thirty seconds ago.
I nod along, absently swirling my wine, but my mind drifts. Normally, I like listening to him talk—there’s something reassuring about how steady he is. Predictable. Reliable.
But tonight?
He’s saying all the right things, but it doesn’t feel right. Whatever family drama has him preoccupied is really messing with him it seems.
I take another sip of wine and decide to test the waters. “You know, I read somewhere that murderers are more likely to work in finance than any other field.”
That gets his attention. His glass stills halfway to his mouth. His eyes flick to mine, lips quirking, but there’s a fraction of a second—so quick I almost miss it—where his expression tenses.
“That’s a weird fact to bring up during dinner,” he says, his voice a little too even.
I shrug. “Just saying. You fit the profile.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Do I?” he asks, but there’s no real challenge in his voice.
He picks up his glass and takes a longer sip than necessary, like he needs the extra second before looking at me again.
My fingers tighten around my stemware.
I was joking. He knows I was joking.
So why does he look like I just hit a nerve?
Smooth it over, Ari.
“Buttoned-up businessman with a secret dark side?” I tap my fingers against my glass. “Definitely.”
He ignores my teasing. A second later, the server brings our food over, and for the next few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence. The risotto I ordered is incredible, and I can’t help but moan out loud as I clean my bowl. Asher grins, his foot tapping mine playfully under the table.
He finishes his chicken, and when he pushes his plate away, I expect him to make eye contact with our server to get the bill.
Instead, he does something unexpected.
“So,” he says, setting his napkin on his plate. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
I pause, caught off guard.
A small, startled laugh escapes me. “What?”
His lips curve slightly, but I don’t miss the way he shifts in his seat. “I mean it. We’ve been together for a while now, but I feel like… I don’t know. Maybe I should ask more questions. Make more of an effort.”
I blink, tilting my head. Asher has never been bad at conversation, but he’s never been one for deep dives into my personal history, either.
“You already know the basics,” I say, playing with my napkin. “I’m a CPA, I have questionable taste in reality TV, I collect vintage Polly Pockets, and I have unresolved daddy issues.”
He lightly chuckles. “Right. But I mean something I wouldn’t already know. And please God don’t tell me you collect something even more weird than the Polly Pockets.”
“Hey. They’re not weird,” I say, my chest lancing briefly with hurt. But I don’t elaborate. For some reason, I’ve never told Asher why I collect them.
I study him for a second, wondering where this line of questioning is coming from. But he’s waiting for my answer. And he’s actually trying. I have to give him some credit for that.
I lean back and tap my fingers against the stem of my glass.
“All right. Let’s see.” I purse my lips, thinking. I could tell him about the fact that every Sunday night since I was in high school, I spend a couple of hours writing and uploading monster erotica to a fan fiction site. Or I could tell him about the way I fall down conspiracy theory rabbit holes until I could probably write a dissertation on the Denver International Airport or the missing Roanoke colony.
But those feel too personal, somehow.
“Oh. I had a goldfish named Titan when I was eight. He committed suicide.”
That earns me a full-blown laugh. “Jesus, Ari.”
“What?” I say innocently. “He jumped out of his tank in the middle of the night. It was a tragedy.”
He shakes his head, still chuckling. “And here I thought you were going to tell me something sweet.”
“Well, you asked.” I take a sip of wine, but my amusement doesn’t fully settle. There’s still a weird energy between us, like he’s here but his mind is somewhere else.
Still, this is better than before. At least he’s trying right now.
He leans back in his chair, watching me for a beat, his expression softer now. “You know… I think I get it.”
I arch a brow. “Get what?”
“You,” he says simply. He swirls the last of his wine in his glass. “You like to be understood without having to explain.”
Something in my chest aches, just a little. “Well, yeah. Most people do.”
He nods, conceding the point. “Yeah. But with you, it’s different. You don’t just want it—you expect it.” He sets the glass down, fingers still resting against the rim. “And maybe I haven’t been great at that.”
I blink, surprised by the admission. “That’s very… introspective of you.”
He gives a small smile, but there’s something searching in his gaze. “I guess I’m saying I’ll try to read you better.” His voice dips just slightly.
The air between us shifts, just for a moment.
Huh. I’m pleasantly surprised.
But also… thrown off. For two years, Asher has been consistent. Not in the way that meant stability, but in the way that meant routine. Predictable. Safe. So why now?
Why, after months of ignoring the way I practically had to map out my pleasure for him, is he suddenly saying this?
I could make a joke, turn it into something teasing and light, like I always do when things get too serious.
But I don’t.
Instead, I just nod and say, “That would be nice.”
“And while we’re on the topic of getting to know each other… I wanted to ask you something. Feel free to say no. My mom would kill me if I didn’t ask.”
I go still. “What is it?”
Running a hand through his hair, he looks at me with dark contemplation. “They invited you to go away with us next week. Every year, they rent a house on the coast up in Malibu…”
I blink. He’s asking me to go this year? He’d gone last year and hadn’t invited me. Not that I ever asked why, but still.
“You want me to go this time?” I say carefully.
He gives a small, almost sheepish smile. “Yeah. I mean, my parents will be there, too, but…”
A slow, cautious excitement stirs in my chest, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral. “And if I asked you if you actually want me to go… what would you say?”
He clenches his glass harder, his knuckles flexing just once before he exhales, his voice careful. “I’d say… it would be really nice to have you there.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll go.”
His shoulders relax slightly, and that same small smile tugs at his lips. “Good.”
He doesn’t push the moment further, just gestures for the check.
A few minutes later, he offers to drive me home in his Honda Civic. The car ride is quiet, but not uncomfortable. It’s late, and the streetlights flicker past in hazy yellow streams, the hum of the engine filling the space between us.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say, watching the Pacific Coast blur outside the window.
“Of course. I meant what I said, you know.”
I glance at him. “About what?”
His jaw shifts, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “About paying attention to what you want.” He exhales, eyes still on the road. “I don’t always get things right the first time, but I can learn. I think getting away for a bit will help.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Or maybe the trip will be a “make it or break it” situation, but I digress.
Asher pulls up to my house a few minutes later and shifts the car into park.
“This was nice. And thanks for the invitation,” I say, quickly pecking him on the cheek before I shift over and reach for the handle.
“Sleep well, babe.”
“You too.”
I step out of the car, closing the door behind me before walking up the path to my grandma’s Spanish-style, two-bedroom bungalow. It makes me smile every time I walk up to the door. If I listen closely, I swear I can still hear my childish squeals as my sisters and I raced from the car to her front door whenever we visited.
It’s nearly the same as it was growing up, white with terracotta accents. I’d painted the door a light coral color a few months ago, but otherwise it’s untouched and a perfectly preserved part of my childhood.
One of the only good parts, actually.
I turn around and wave goodbye to Asher.
The moment his taillights disappear down the street, the quiet presses in.
My heels click against the floor as I make my way inside, disarming the security system and tossing my purse onto the kitchen counter. I should go to bed—I have work in the morning—but something about the night feels unfinished.
I slip off my shoes and pad toward the bathroom, stretching my arms over my head. Maybe I’ll take a bath, unwind a little?—
My steps slow.
My front door was locked when I came in. I know it was, because I used my key to get in.
But the back door, the one leading to my small back patio, is slightly ajar.
I freeze.
For a second, my brain tries to convince me I’m wrong. That I locked it earlier—I must have locked it earlier. I never forget to lock the door. As a single woman living alone, I am very conscious of staying safe. But the small gap, the sliver of darkness beyond the threshold, says I did forget.
A prickle of unease crawls over my skin.
I swallow, my fingers flexing at my sides. No. Don’t spiral.
It was probably me. I probably forgot.
I cross the room quickly, shoving the door closed and locking it tight, checking the handle twice, three times.
My reflection catches in the dark glass of the patio door—wide eyes, lips pressed together too tightly.
I force myself to exhale.
If someone was here, the sensors I had installed would’ve picked it up. I would’ve gotten an alert on my phone.
I turn away and flick off the kitchen light, but not before grabbing the biggest knife I own and walking around the house checking for anything that might’ve been stolen, just in case. I also check every closet and crevice for axe murderers before resetting the alarm system.
It’s nothing. There was no alert.
Taking the knife into my bedroom, I slide the blade under the pillow on the other side of the bed just in case.
An hour later, I’m tossing and turning and attempting to sleep. It’s taking me longer than usual to drift off, and my usual perusal of my favorite romance book groups used to lull me to sleep isn’t working. Neither are the thirst trap live videos I frequent.
I blame the wine, the overthinking, the way my skin still tingles from the momentary fear of that unlocked door.
But eventually, exhaustion wins.
I’m drifting—half conscious, caught between wakefulness and dreams—when something pulls me back.
Not a sound. Not exactly.
More like a shift. A weight in the air.
My eyes flutter open, and the room is dark. Quiet.
Too quiet.
I strain my ears, listening. Nothing moves. Nothing creaks.
But my pulse is slow and heavy, a deep, instinctual thrum beneath my skin.
The feeling passes—or at least, I tell myself it does.
It’s just my anxiety. I’m on meds now, and I’ve just forgotten what it feels like for that spike of adrenaline to hit.
Used to happen all the time, I tell myself.
I turn onto my side, tucking my hands under my cheek, and will my body to relax.
After a while, I fall asleep.
* * *
The second letter is waiting in my mailbox the next morning. Just my name, scrawled in messy, impatient handwriting. It’s not anonymous to ‘A’ this time. Whoever they are, they know my name. My stomach knots as I tear it open, and a dried forget-me-not flower falls onto my floor. I pick it up and my breath catches as my eyes scan the words inside.
Ari,
You lock your doors at night. That’s good. But doors don’t keep me out, angel.
They only keep you in.
I wonder if you’ve figured it out yet. If you’ve felt it—the space beside you in the dark, the whisper of something just out of reach.
I’m patient.
I can wait.
But when you finally realize who I am, when you say my name for the first time, I want you to remember that I was already here.
I’ve always been here.
Sleep well, little warrior.
M