Chapter Twenty-One Hailey #2
“I don’t know. I could be overthinking it.
Seeing red flags where there aren’t any.
” I rub my temples, suddenly exhausted. “It just left me feeling like something was off between us.” I’ve never been one to second-guess myself, but the facts feel slippery, like I can’t quite grasp the truth no matter how hard I try to hold on.
“What exactly did he say?”
I recount the conversation, and as I speak, Rachel’s frown deepens.
“That’s actually really concerning,” she says quietly. “Do you think he’s following you?”
“But why would he? He helped set up my security system. He’s been nothing but supportive and protective—”
“Hailey.” Rachel’s voice is gentle but firm.
“Stalkers often present themselves as protectors. It’s literally one of the most common patterns.
Like, Stalking 101: Introduction to Obsessive Behavior.
But it’s also entirely possible you’re just super tired and not thinking clearly because of your other, way less low-key stalker.
Maybe you did tell him and you just don’t remember? ”
The word “stalker” hits me like a freight train. “Cole’s not a stalker. We’ve gone on multiple dates. We’ve had sex, Rachel. Good sex. Really good sex. There’s no reason for him to stalk me when he has all the access to me he wants. It doesn’t add up.”
“I’m happy for your orgasms, but that doesn’t mean something isn’t off.”
“I can’t have two stalkers. That’s like getting struck by lightning twice. It’s statistically improbable.”
“People get struck by lightning twice all the time. There’s a park ranger who got struck seven times.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I’m just saying, weird shit happens.” Rachel leans closer. “Look, I’m not saying Cole is as dangerous as Lars Winters. But if something doesn’t feel right, you need to trust your gut.”
I want to argue, to defend Cole, to insist that we’re both reading too much into innocent coincidences. But the discomfort I felt during dinner won’t go away, and Rachel’s words are giving voice to fears I don’t want to acknowledge.
“So what do I do? Say, ‘Hey Cole, great sex last night, also are you stalking me?’”
“Test it,” Rachel suggests immediately. “Change your routine without telling him. See if he shows up in places where he shouldn’t know you’ll be.”
“You want me to run a sting operation on my boyfriend?”
“I want you to trust your instincts. And right now, your instincts are telling you something’s weird.”
She’s not wrong. Damn her.
“And if he does show up?”
“Then you have your answer.” She squeezes my arm. “And we figure out what to do next. Together.”
We’re interrupted by an incoming trauma—a construction worker with a deep laceration—and the conversation is tabled in favor of actual medical emergencies. But Rachel’s words echo in my mind throughout the shift.
Test it. Change your routine. See what happens.
Running “Operation: Is My Boyfriend A Stalker?” wasn’t on my bingo card for this month, but neither was being threatened and harassed by a drug-seeking patient.
By the time my shift ends at six a.m., I’ve made my decision.
Instead of going to Hot For Here for my usual post-shift caffeine fix, I drive to The Bean Counter, a smaller shop across town that I’ve only visited once before. It has exposed brick and succulents on every table, and baristas who take latte art way too seriously.
If Cole somehow appears here, I’ll know my suspicions are justified.
But to my great relief, he doesn’t show up that morning. Or the next. Or the third day, when I continue the same pattern. The knot of tension in my gut starts to unravel.
Our text conversations remain typical—good morning messages, updates about our days, debates about whether cereal is soup (it’s not, but he makes a compelling argument). All totally average stuff that doesn’t scream “I’m secretly tracking your movements.”
Maybe Rachel was wrong. Maybe I was being paranoid.
On the fourth day, after an overtime shift I picked up at the last minute—a shift I mentioned to absolutely no one—I’m sitting in The Bean Counter with my vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin, scrolling through medical journals on my tablet, when the bell above the door chimes.
I don’t look up immediately. There’s no reason to. People come into coffee shops all the time. That’s how coffee shops work.
But something makes me glance toward the entrance anyway.
Cole walks in.
My heart stops. Then starts beating so hard I can hear it in my ears.
No.
No, no, no.
He orders at the counter—black coffee, nothing else—and turns to survey the seating area. When his eyes find mine, his face shows perfect surprise.
It’s a good performance. Oscar-worthy, really.
“Hailey? What are you doing here?”
“Just trying somewhere new,” I manage, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn’t currently having a full-on internal crisis. “What about you?”
“Meeting a client nearby. I figured I’d grab coffee first.” He gestures to the empty chair across from me. “Mind if I join you?”
I should say yes. Smile and welcome him and pretend that seeing him here is a delightful coincidence instead of confirmation of my worst fears.
Instead, I hear myself saying, “Actually, I was just leaving.”
Disappointment flickers across his face—genuine or performed, I can’t tell anymore. “Oh. Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just tired. Long shift.” I’m gathering my things with shaking hands, shoving my tablet into my bag with none of my usual care. “I’ll text you later?”
“Of course. Drive safe.”
Cole steps toward me, but I instinctively take a step back, trying to brush it off like I didn’t notice him move in my direction.
Part of me feels bad, but I need distance.
I can’t allow myself to get lost in the scent of him or the way he holds me when we’re hugging.
I can’t let him distract me when I’m trying to process what’s happening.
I practically flee the coffee shop, my heart pounding as I reach my car. In the rearview mirror, I can see Cole through the window, still sitting at the table I vacated, watching me drive away.
Four days.
I changed my routine for four fucking days. Went to a completely different part of town. Told absolutely no one. And somehow, Cole showed up at the exact coffee shop where I was at the exact time I was there.
Meeting a client nearby.
It could be true. Fort Collins isn’t that big. Coincidences happen. That park ranger got struck by lightning seven times, didn’t he?
But I don’t believe him.
As I drive home, my mind races through a thousand thoughts. If Cole is following me, how long has it been going on? Since we met? Since our first coffee date? Was our entire relationship built on him knowing exactly where I’d be and creating ways to “accidentally” run into me?
The meet-cute on the hiking trail.
The coffee shop.
The way he always seems to text at the perfect moment.
How much of what I thought was fate was actually him pulling strings?
And why? What does he want? He already has me. We’re dating. We’re sleeping together. What’s the point of continuing to track my movements when he could just…ask where I’m going?
My phone dings with a text as I pull up to my apartment.
Cole: Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed upset at the coffee shop.
I stare at the message, torn between the genuine concern in his words and the growing certainty that nothing about our relationship is what I thought it was.
Hailey: Just tired. I’ll call you tomorrow.
His reply is instant.
Cole: Sweet dreams, beautiful. I hope you get some rest.
The message is sweet. Thoughtful. Exactly the kind of thing a caring boyfriend would send.
Also exactly the kind of thing a stalker would send.
How is this my life?
Inside my apartment, I lock the door and lean against it, trying to process what’s happening. Chewy scampers over to greet me, and I scoop him up, grateful for his unwavering love and affection.
“What do I do, buddy?” I whisper into his cinnamon-colored fur. “What the fuck do I do?”
He chirps at me, which I interpret as “This situation is incredibly complicated and there are no easy answers.”
Thanks, Chewy. Very helpful.
The thing is, I already know the answer is complicated. Because despite all of this weird, inexplicable shit, I can’t deny that I feel something for Cole. Something real and terrifying and completely inconvenient, given the circumstances.
He makes me feel safe—ironic, I know. He’s been nothing but kind and protective. He installed security in my apartment, helped me file three police reports about Lars Winters, held me through panic attacks and midnight fears.
How can someone who makes me feel so safe also be violating my trust so completely? How can the same man who protects me from one stalker overstep my boundaries so easily?
This feels like some kind of cosmic joke—the universe’s way of saying “You thought you had problems before? Hold my beer.”
I set Chewy down and pour myself a glass of wine, even though it’s eight a.m. and drinking alone this early is probably a red flag of its own. But I think I’ve earned it. My life has become a psychological thriller, and I didn’t even get a cool soundtrack.
Maybe I should call Rachel.
Maybe I should confront Cole directly.
Maybe I should move to a remote cabin in the mountains where no one can find me.
For now, I just drink my wine and stare at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to fall asleep when my brain won’t stop spinning.
One stalker was bad enough. But two?
Two might actually kill me.