Page 12 of Midnight Valentine
Moody Theo has a sense of humor.
“That was interesting. Are you having fun?”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Maybe.
I burst out laughing, because this is total insanity. “Can I just take a moment to say that this is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my entire life? This even beats the time I walked in on my dad wearing my mother’s underwear. I don’t expect an answer to that, by the way, I’m just thinking out loud here.”
We breathe at each other for what feels like a long time. “Okay. Starting over. When you say you don’t have time to come out this week, does that mean you won’t come out, period?”
Beep. Beep.
Why that should make me feel relieved, I have no idea. I clear my throat and try to proceed in an orderly fashion. “So would it be correct for me to infer that you might have time…the week after next?”
Beep. Beep.
“So like, what? Next month?”
Beep. Beep.
Not next week, not the week after that, and not next month. Before I give my temper free rein and decide he’s screwing with me, I try a last resort. “This weekend?”
Beep.
Oh. Okay. “Tomorrow?”
Beep.
“Morning or afternoon?” When I don’t hear a beep, I realize my mistake. “One beep for morning—say between nine and noon—two beeps for afternoon between twelve and fiveish.”
Beep.
“Okay, then. Morning it is. Uh…thanks, I guess?”
When he exhales, hard, I wonder what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s looking out at the ocean, or lying on his back on his bed staring at the ceiling, or sitting in a chair with the phone held to his ear, his eyes closed and his heart thumping the way mine is.
“Theo?”
Beep.
I don’t know what moves me to say it. I don’t know why I fe
el the strange skittering over my skin that raises goose bumps on my arms, or why my stomach is in knots, or why it’s become so imperative to have an understanding with this odd, mysterious man. All I know is that the words rise from my throat and leave my mouth unbidden and unrehearsed, in a voice that’s undeniably raw.
“I know what it’s like to have life pull the rug out from under you.”
I hang up before he can respond. Then I stand in my empty kitchen, the relentless boom of waves crashing against the shore the only sound besides my labored breath.
* * *
I don’t sleep that night, because I never do. Chronic insomnia is one of those things I’ve learned to live with, like soul-crushing grief and people who talk too loudly on their cell phones in public. When a knock comes on the front door in the morning, I’m ready. I’ve psyched myself up for another weird encounter with the Hulk Who Does Not Speak, but when I open the door, I’m surprised to find a stranger with cornflower-blue eyes, a huge grin, and a square jaw garnished by an unruly blond beard. He’s carrying a manila envelope.
“Hi!” he booms, sticking out his hand. “Preston Cooper, Ms. Dunn, but everyone calls me Coop. Pleasure to meet you!”
When I stand there looking at him askance, wondering what he’s selling, he adds, “I’m the foreman at Hillrise Construction.”
“Oh! Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.” Though I suppose his flannel shirt and work boots should’ve been a clue. “Please, call me Megan.”
