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“No idea. Time to find out.” As I walk over to the table to find my folder, Sylvie follows closely behind. She’s basically breathing down my neck. I find the one that says “Vicky” and rip off the envelope that’s glued to the box.

Anticipation and fear intermingle as I begin to read.

“Apartment 2B.” I scan the text quickly to absorb as much information as I can. “You?”

“Apartment 4C,” she replies, her voice oozing disappointment. “I guess we’re not staying in the same room after all.”

She sounds so thwarted I actually feel bad for her. “Doesn’t mean we can’t work together.”

“True.” She lifts her suitcase and exhales a small sigh. “Okay. I’ll see you when I see you.” She hesitates, as though there’s more she’d like to say but then decides otherwise. After another sigh, she walks off.

“See you in a bit,” I call out after her.

Sighing, I press my folder against my chest, clutching at it as though it’s my safety net. But the motion does nothing to take away the tension and the dark thoughts at being on my own in this place.

Under different circumstances, I would have asked Sylvie for her number to make sure we keep in touch. I guess she would have done the same.

But these aren’t ordinary circumstances.

I’m here because my emotions aren’t what people would call “ordinary love” either.

According to the judge, who court-ordered the therapy, I need to be here to learn how to stop my “obsessive compulsive stalking disorder.”

I’m going to prove to her that I don’t need this BS.

My love for Bruce is real.

It really is—even if people don’t understand the depth of my emotions.

Why can’t they just see it? I’m Juliet to Romeo. Elizabeth to Fitzwilliam.

Maybe Bruce and I are star-crossed lovers after all, but I know that what I’m feeling is real. And there is no way that I’m going to let them pierce their invisible daggers into my heart and tell me what I can or cannot feel.

I won’t let some idiot with a medical certificate declare that I’m addicted to love.

4

Vicky

The building boastsa total of twenty apartments and plenty of space.

According to the leaflet, this used to be a popular attraction with visitors before it was remodeled to fit the needs of the acclaimed LAA center.

My new home is situated in the west wing on the second floor. I find the key in my box and unlock the door, silently praying that my new roommate is going to be as easygoing as Sylvie. The last thing I need is someone who’s difficult to live with.

I close the door behind me with my foot and then drop the box onto the table in the hall, next to a beautiful arrangement of flowers.

The apartment is much bigger than advertised in the brochure. It’s clean and the furniture looks fairly new. I kick off my shoes and squeeze out of my jacket, ready to explore the place.

It’s seriously not as bad as I thought.

The living room is dominated by a cream leather couch that’s covered with pillows. There’s no TV, but a bookcase filled to the brim with books adorns one of the walls, and there’s even a leather reading chair strategically placed next to a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the woods outside the window. I plop down to test it and sigh with delight as I realize this is going to be my favorite place. I know I’ll spend hours in this chair, immersed in a book, or maybe even daydreaming about a time when Bruce and I will have overcome all obstacles and finally be together.

Reluctantly, I eventually get up to inspect the rest of the apartment.

According to the brochure, the adjacent room is my bedroom. Walking along the hallway, I enter the kitchen, which is barely larger than a cupboard.

Out of curiosity, I open the fridge and find it stocked up on fruit, flavored water, low-fat yogurt—all fresh produce and other healthy stuff, but nothing microwavable and no ready meals.