Page 16 of Dying to Meet You
My type, though? Not really. But that was a selling point. He was quieter and nerdier than the kind of guy I used to go for.
I can admit it now—there was no electricity. No desperate cravings, as if I might die if I didn’t see him again soon. But that was fine with me. I’d done heart-pounding desire before, and it hadn’t ended well.
A slightly nerdy journalist in a crisply laundered shirt was more my speed now. Or so I’d imagined.
But then he broke up with me, and I hadn’t seen it coming. That’s what shakes me up the most—having seen something in our relationship that wasn’t real. Trusting Tim required that I trust myself, too.
Look what a huge mistake that turned out to be.
My mind does confusing loops, trying to understand how the Tim-sized hole he’d blown through my life had somehow just gotten exponentially larger. Now he was dead, a giant hole blown into his jaw. I’m afraid to close my eyes.
Every time I do, I see blood.
7
Friday
I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly it’s morning. My phone alarm plays its nameless wake-up tune while I stagger out of bed.
Downstairs, I stand in the kitchen sipping coffee, watching Natalie run back and forth, gathering all her stuff and trying not to be late for school. I feel half alive.
“Are you going to be okay?” my daughter asks, hopping up and down as she tugs on a shoe.
“I’ll be fine,” I say sluggishly.
After one more worried glance, she leaves. I let the dog out to do her business in our little fenced-in backyard, then I drag myself into the bathroom for a shower.
My clothes from last night are on the bathroom floor. There’s blood on my socks. With a shudder, I carry my clothes to the utility closet and heave them into the washer, adding a double pour of detergent. I know to put the water on the cold-water setting for blood stains, but I freeze for a moment when I imagine Tim’s blood swirling down the drain.
Back in the bathroom, I lock the door. I’ve showered alone in this house thousands of times, but this is the first time I feel vulnerable. The shower is loud. Anyone could sneak in, and I’d never hear it. I’ve seenPsycho.
So it’s a quick shower, which is just as well, because I think I remember the police detective saying that she’d come by at eight thirty.If that’s okay with you.
As if I’d been in any shape to protest.
In the kitchen, I start more coffee and call Beatrice.
“Hey, girlie!” she whispers into her phone. “Good morning.”
“Why are you whispering?” I ask, and then I realize there must be a man there with her. “Oh wow. Somebody had a fun night.”
“What can I say? It was a good party. What’s up with you?”
“Well...” I don’t even know how to explain. “Last night I walked past the mansion. I saw Tim’s car.”
“YourTim?”
“Is there another Tim?” I ask tiredly. “But Beatrice. He was...” I swallow. “He was dead. In the car.”
“What?” she gasps. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“No. I think he killed himself.”
There’s silence on the line for a long moment. “Oh God, Rowan. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say reflexively. “I called 911 and the police came and handled it. I have to talk to them again this morning.”
“Yikes,” she says again. “Want me to come over?”
