Page 69 of Midnight Valentine
He never takes a single sip of that wine. It’s a classy move, one I wish I was worthy of.
But by then, Craig had ceased to exist. For every moment that passes, my desire to see Theo again spreads throughout my body like wildfire until I’m sitting at the table, utterly consumed. By the time the check comes, I’m almost scratching my skin off in impatience.
When we leave, I look for Theo at the bar, but he’s gone.
Craig drives me home, keeping up a steady stream of chatter above the hideous beat of the polka braying from his stereo. He leaves me at the front door with a peck on the cheek and a promise to call me.
The first thing I do is kick off the heels and change out of the dress and into sweats. Then I go into the kitchen, barefoot, and open a bottle of wine. Fortified with a glass of liquid courage, I send Theo a text.
Earth to the Twilight Zone.
Come in, Stranger Things.
Not even thirty seconds pass before I get a response.
He didn’t bring you flowers, did he.
There’s no question mark at the end. It’s a statement, not a question, like he already knows the answer.
That has nothing to do with anything.
Can we talk about what’s going on?
He didn’t bring you flowers. He looks at you
like you’re a piece of meat. He kissed you
because he knew I was watching.
He’ll never care about your heart.
Is that his way of saying he does? I gulp some wine, my hands shaking, and read what he’s written several times, trying to decide how to respond.
But I’ve already said my piece. He knows I’m confused and upset but refuses to give me an inch in the way of explanation. “I can’t do it, Theo,” I whisper, reading his text one last time. “Here’s where I get off this merry-go-round.”
I gave my heart away a long time ago.
Since then, I’ve realized that some doors,
once opened, can never be shut. And the doors
that won’t open aren’t meant for me to walk through.
Like I knew he would, he remains silent. In his silence is my answer.
Theo Valentine is a door that’s going to stay forever closed.
* * *
I spend the evening in the kind of mean funk that can only be cured by pints of ice cream and old movies watched in bed. Several times during the night, I feel a pull calling me toward the windows, but I drag the pillow over my face and breathe until the urge to see if he’s out on the beach passes.
The same thing happens on Saturday. I sleep very little both nights, but what sleep I do get is filled with strange, unsettling dreams.
I dream of my wedding day. Of walking down the aisle toward Cass, the bouquet of purple sweet peas trembling in my hands. Of meeting his gaze when he lifts the veil from my face, but his eyes aren’t their normal, open sky blue. They’re dark as midnight at the bottom of a well, swimming with secrets and pain.
I dream of running through a maze of tall green shrubs in the moonlight, following someone ahead who I hear but never see. His steps on the dewy grass are sure and swift, and I lag farther behind with every corner I turn. My breath steams white in the cold night air; my heart pounds painfully hard. I try to call out his name, but it’s a plaintive howl that leaves my throat instead, the melancholy cry of a wolf seeking her lost mate.
I dream of babies. A hospital nursery full of newborns wrapped in pink and blue blankets. I st
