Page 59 of Midnight Valentine
It. Does. Not. Compute.
When Coop and the guys arrive at 8:00 a.m., Theo isn’t with them.
“Said he wasn’t feelin’ well,” explains Coop with an apologetic shrug.
That makes two of us. I feel spooked, relieved, and disappointed, all at once.
“We should’ve finished up this afternoon, but without Theo, it might take another day.”
“Take your time,” I answer, already turning away.
I grab my laptop and phone and head upstairs to the master bedroom. I shut the door, sit on the floor with my back against the bed so I can see the ocean, and fire up the computer. Then I send Theo an email, because I only have two options to deal with this situation: avoidance and denial, or tackling it head-on.
Though I’m scared to death, tackling it head-on seems like the better choice.
So here goes nothing.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: I’m confused
Here’s a bit of radical honesty for you: I’m confused as fuck.
I know that was you on the beach. Another strange midnight visit from my silent friend. Enemy? Frenemy? What is this? What’s happening?
Am I making things up in my head?
Tell me something true or tell me to go to hell, but communicate with me, Theo. I feel like I might be going crazy.
Please tell me I’m not.
After I hit Send, I wait with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I feel hungover and strung out, as if I’ve spent the last week drinking wine for every meal. When he doesn’t answer right away, I stand and begin to pace.
After thirty minutes, a chime tells me I have an incoming email. I’m so nervous, the muffin I ate for breakfast almost makes a reappearance, but I manage to swallow it down and click open the email with trembling hands.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: I’m confused
I apologize for not being able to come to the job today. I’m not feeling well. I’ll be back tomorrow to finish things up.
Best,
Theo
The job?
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” I mutter, angered by his impersonal response.
This bastard thinks he can prance around outside my house in the middle of the night, kick down my front door, walk out on me in a restaurant, glare bloody murder at me every other time our eyes meet, act like a psychopath one minute and a lost puppy the next, tell me I make all his broken parts bleed, and generally make me feel like I’m starring in a bad soap opera, then brush me off like nothing ever happened?
So not gonna happen.
To: [email protected]
