Chapter Three Cole
Perfect. Totally anonymous. Zero chance of running into anyone from work.
When I finally walk in, Tyler is already there, seated in a booth near the back.
I watched him walk in seven minutes ago, almost as aware of his surroundings as I am.
Probably the same instinct—control the environment, choose the vantage point.
I recognize the tactical mindset because it mirrors my own, and the realization makes me immediately uncomfortable.
“Cole,” he calls, raising a hand. “Over here!”
I nod my acknowledgment, then thread my way between tables. There isn’t a dinner rush, but there’s a steady hum of conversation, the clatter of plates and silverware providing a blanket of ambient noise. This place is good for privacy, at least.
“You found it,” Tyler says as I slide into the booth across from him. He looks different outside the community center basement—more relaxed.
“It wasn’t exactly hidden,” I reply, shrugging off my jacket. “Been here before?”
“At least once a week. They make the best Denver omelet in town.” He gestures to a mug of coffee in front of him. “Food’s solid, coffee’s decent. I figured neutral territory would be better for our first meeting.”
Tracey failed to mention that I’d actually have to meet Tyler in person. She also failed to mention that our “check-ins” would be scheduled on his time, whenever he wants.
A waitress appears. White and middle-aged, with honey-blond hair piled in a messy bun, her name tag announcing her as Doris. She sets a menu in front of me with a practiced flick of her wrist.
“Coffee to start, hon?” she asks, staring at me with raised eyebrows.
“Please.”
“Coming right up. Give a holler when you’re ready to order.” She’s gone as quickly as she came, disappearing to the kitchen.
“So,” Tyler says once she’s out of earshot, “how’s the beginning of your recovery going?”
The question catches me off guard. I’d expected some version of small talk before diving into the actual reason for our meeting.
“It’s going fine,” I say after a moment, studying the laminated menu without really reading it. “Just taking it day by day.”
Tyler makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “Sure it is. That’s why you walked in here looking like you were entering hostile territory.”
I glance up, visibly annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You cased the entire restaurant in about three seconds. Checked all the exits. Assessed every person in here. Chose the seat that gives you the best view of the door.” He shrugs. “Standard stuff. I did the same thing when I got here.”
I set the menu down, suddenly less interested in maintaining the facade of normalcy. “Is this how all our ‘check-ins’ are going to go? You pointing out my behaviors and berating me like I’m a child?”
“Nope.” Tyler leans back, seemingly unaffected by my irritation. “Just establishing a baseline. We can’t talk about recovery if we can’t acknowledge the behaviors we’re recovering from.”
Doris returns with my coffee, momentarily pausing our conversation. I order the first thing I see on the menu—a club sandwich—more to get rid of her quickly than out of any real hunger. Tyler asks for his Denver omelet, earning a warm smile from Doris that suggests he really is a regular here.
Once she’s gone, Tyler pulls a small notebook from his pocket and slides it across the table. The cover is plain black with nothing remarkable about it.
“What’s this?” I ask, eyeing but not touching it.
“Your first recovery journal. Tracey suggested I keep one at the beginning.” He taps the cover. “Tracking triggers, thoughts, urges. Journaling helped me, and I think it’ll help you.”
I make no move to take the book. “I’m not much of a diary guy.”
“Neither was I.” He pushes it closer to me. “But this is private. No one reads it, not even Tracey. It’s just for you, to see patterns you might not notice otherwise.”
I leave the notebook where it sits. “How long have you been going to these meetings?”
“Seven months. My partners at the brewery kind of forced me into it, like you. But now I go voluntarily.”
“Why?” The question comes out before I can stop it, genuine curiosity overriding my defenses.
Tyler takes a long sip of his coffee, mulling over the question. “Because it works. And I don’t want to be the guy who’s known for stalking the customers. Also, because I like who I am when I’m not obsessing over someone else’s life.”
His honesty is disarming. I expected platitudes about recovery and healing, not a straightforward acknowledgment of what the group is really about.
Stalking. Tracey can argue semantics all she wants, but if it walks like a stalker and talks like a stalker…
“What did you do?” I ask, realizing I know everyone’s general offense but not the specifics. “With the…customer?”
“Adjusted my brewing schedule to match when she came in. Started making special batches based on offhand comments she’d made about flavors she liked.” His expression is rueful. “Convinced myself I was just being an attentive business owner trying to keep a valued customer happy.”
The story sounds eerily familiar—the justifications, the blurred boundaries.
“What happened?” I ask, suddenly needing to know more.
“She noticed. Filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. My business partner confronted me about it.” Tyler shrugs. “Could have been worse. Could have been a restraining order or charges. Instead, I got an ultimatum to attend group therapy or lose my stake in the brewery.”
Doris arrives with our food. The club sandwich is enormous, with layers of turkey, bacon, lettuce, and tomato between slices of toasted bread. Tyler’s omelet is a golden half-moon, stuffed with peppers, onions, and ham, accompanied by hash browns that gleam with a perfect, buttery crisp.
“Anything else I can get you boys?” Doris asks.
“We’re good for now, thanks,” Tyler replies with an easy smile.
As she walks away, I pick up one half of my sandwich, more to keep my hands busy than anything else. “So how does this work? The buddy system.”
“It’s pretty simple. We check in regularly.
Daily at first, then maybe less often as you get more comfortable with the process.
We talk about triggers, moments when you felt the urge to monitor or gather information.
We help each other recognize when we’re rationalizing behavior that crosses the line. ”
“And if I don’t want to share those things with a complete stranger?” The question comes out sharper than I intended.
Tyler seems unfazed, like he was expecting me to push back.
“Then you’re wasting both our time, and you’re not really participating in the program like you’re supposed to.
” He cuts into his omelet. “But I’m not actually a stranger anymore.
I’m your accountability partner. And believe it or not, I’ve been exactly where you are—thinking this is all bullshit, that my situation was different, that I’m just more observant or protective than other people. ”
I take a bite of my sandwich to avoid giving him an immediate response. It’s surprisingly good, the bacon perfectly crisp, the bread fresh. I make him wait until I’ve swallowed. “You don’t know my situation.”
“True,” Tyler concedes. “So tell me. What makes you different from the rest of us?”
The bluntness of the question hits its mark. No one has put it quite that directly before—not Jack, not the HR department, not even Emma.
Obviously I can’t give Tyler the truth—about Emma, about Shitbag Steve. But I knew this was coming, and I have my story prepared.
“I was protecting my company’s interests,” I say. “A coworker was accessing secure servers outside normal working hours, communicating with unknown external accounts. It looked like data theft.”
All true. Just…not the reason I was sent to IBSG.
“And was it?”
I hesitate, remembering the moment I realized I hadn’t uncovered someone stealing corporate secrets—just some chucklehead conducting an affair using company technology. The flash of triumph at catching someone out was followed immediately by the sinking realization that I’d overstepped.
“No,” I admit finally. “He was having an affair with someone in marketing. Using company resources inappropriately, but not stealing data.”
“So you reported him for the affair?”
“I reported unusual access patterns. IT security is literally my job.” The irritation creeps back into my voice. “I didn’t know it was an affair until after I’d gone too far.”
Tyler nods, absorbing this information. “And how did you get from ‘unusual access patterns’ to ‘affair’?”
I shift uncomfortably in the booth. This isn’t the real reason I joined the group, but it could be.
The situation at work was just one of the many times I’ve done…
more than was strictly required in the surveillance department.
But laying out the facts of that scenario is a necessary sacrifice to keep my bigger secret hidden.
Tyler doesn’t need to know how far I really went to ruin Emma’s ex.
No one needs to know.
“I set up additional monitoring on his accounts. Read his emails. Tracked his badge access to see which floors he was visiting outside his department.”
“Did you have authorization to do any of that?”
“Not…explicitly. But it was a potential security breach. I was being thorough.”
“Thorough,” Tyler repeats, the sarcasm rolling off his tongue. “That’s a good word. I used ‘attentive.’ Grant uses ‘dedicated’ or ‘passionate.’ We all have our preferred terms for justifying what we know is wrong.”
I set down my sandwich, appetite fading. “Look, I get that I went too far. That’s why I’m here. But it was a mistake made in the course of doing my job, not some creepy obsession with a stranger.”
I wash away the bitter taste of the lie with a gulp of coffee. A nervous itch tickles the back of my mind—the realization that I haven’t stopped thinking about Hailey since we crossed paths on the trail. Tyler can’t know about her yet. He’ll turn it into something it’s not.