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outside on the porch. All in all he would have made the perfect roommate if it weren’t for his sullen silence.
    With nothing to do, Mi decided to take a shower. She didn’t own a TV because she couldn’t afford cable, so what was the point? She’d read all the books she’d checked out from the library. She thought about calling Jason or her mom, but she didn’t really want to talk to either of them. Ethan’s birthday was next month. Her mom would want to talk about that, make plans to celebrate. She’d want money for a cake and presents, expecting Mi to have a gift for him too. Mi didn’t have the energy for it, any of it.
    The water was a hot and welcome escape, pounding down her back. She braced a hand on the wall and held back the tears that threatened to fall. For the stalker that was scaring the hell out her, for Ethan, for her mother, for wanting the man forced to guard her, and for the mess that was her life. She whacked her palm against the tile, wishing she could indulge in a good, long cry. But it would only leave her eyes puffy and wouldn’t solve one damn thing.
    She switched the water off and just stood there a moment, dripping. The thoughts crept in on her in moments like this. Wispy things, like cobwebs in the breeze. Snippets of another life, the life she could have had if only…
    If only what?
    If only she could chuck her life, leave everything behind, and live without the responsibilities that had been forced upon her? Wishing and dreaming wouldn’t change a damn thing. She yanked a towel off the rack and dried herself without a care, hating her weakness. She was weak for thinking those thoughts and weak for not following though with them.
    She swiped a hand across the mirror, revealing a patch where she could see herself. Her eyes were overly bright from unshed tears.
    Pulling on a robe, she wondered what it was like to have choices. She’d have to ask Jason. Old resentments against him rose up. He’d left her to deal with their mother, then complained about how she handled things. Screw him. She didn’t care what he thought. She was doing what was right. For all of them.
    She ran a comb through her hair and rubbed lotion on her face and body, going through the motions of an ordinary life. When she came out of the bathroom, Lucas was nowhere to be found. Probably still out on the porch. She thought she’d heard him talking on the phone earlier and wondered if he had a girlfriend or a wife. He didn’t wear a ring, but that didn’t mean anything. She’d come across her share of ringless husbands and wayward boyfriends.
    She cracked open another beer and sat down at the table with the stack of mail Crosby had given her. Her fans. It still gave her a thrill to know that people not only watched her show, but took the time to write her. In this day of email and social networking, a hand written letter was a rare treat. She spread them out and selected one at random.
    Recognizing the return address, she put a hand to her mouth, covering a smile. Mrs. Yancy wrote at least once a month. A middle-aged single mother of three, Mrs. Yancy had started watching Pleasure at Home after her husband had left her for his secretary. To spite him, she’d bought her first vibrator. She’d gone through a sexual reawakening and wrote a letter thanking Mi for making her feel comfortable enough to give it a try. It was letters like these that made the job Mi loved even more worthwhile.
    She was chuckling over Mrs. Yancy’s story of her five-year-old son finding her vibrator by accident when Lucas walked in. He stopped and stared hard at her.
    “Sit down,” Mi told him. “You have to hear this.”
    “You weren’t supposed to go through the mail without me.” His voice was low, but the admonition was clear.
    Startled, she looked up. His mouth was set in severe lines, his body still and hard as stone, muscles tight with suppressed energy. She’d gone against him and had the feeling this would be her only