Midnight Valentine(101)

Oil painting, though I’d never picked up a brush before and couldn’t draw a straight line to save my life?

Bring it on.

If all that wasn’t bad enough, I developed an obsession with this old, empty Victorian house on the coast. More than an obsession—a compulsion. I had to be near it. I couldn’t stay away from it for more than a day, at most. It was like the thing was a giant fucking magnet, a powerful black hole drawing me helplessly in. I spent hours wandering its rooms, wondering what the hell was happening to me.

The only logical conclusion was that I was going insane.

Oh—I forgot to mention the precognition.

I knew she’d be there, that night at Cal’s Diner. I knew it in my goddamn bones. By that time, I’d spent five years with her voice in my head and her face taking shape over and over on my canvases. Part of me hoped that by painting her, I’d get rid of her, like there was a finite amount of her that would eventually deplete, but the supply was apparently endless.

I loved her long before we met.

If that sounds ridiculous—it is. But it’s also true.

I ached for her the way the desert aches for rain. Longing was something I’d never felt before, but it inhabited me so completely, I almost couldn’t function. Then, one rainy night, she appeared. Boom—she’s at the counter at Cal’s ordering a Denver omelet with extra bacon and key lime pie.

Exactly like I knew she would.

The fear I felt in that moment put the sighting of the yellow balloon to shame.

Because it wasn’t possible. Any of it—all of it.

And what was I supposed to do anyway? Walk up to her and say, “Hi! You don’t know me, but I’ve painted you naked and had sex with you in my dreams and I’m pretty sure we were married before—it’s great to finally meet you!”

I don’t think it would’ve gone over.

So I got mad. I got mad and I tried my damndest to stay away. The more I tried, the more I fell apart, until I was hanging on by a thread so thin, you could see right through it. When Dr. Garner told me I was schizophrenic, it was such a relief.

I mean, I didn’t believe it, but it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative. It was something solid I could hang on to. It made sense. Taking the drugs to set my brain straight made sense. Everything made sense again until Megan brought up that goddamn yellow balloon and I couldn’t pretend anymore.

Cue the sound of squealing tires.

That fight-or-flight response is such a bitch. I chose flight, and ended up in an accident—again.

And Jesus, am I looking rough.

“Honey, stop.”

Her soft voice comes from behind me. I look away from the bathroom mirror as she winds her arms around my waist and rests her chin on my arm.

“Why couldn’t they at least have fixed my nose? I feel kinda bad for it, having to hang out on my face like that, all crooked and sad.”

Megan tightens her arms around me and tries to hide a smile. “Your nose is perfect.”

“My nose is tragic.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. Except it’s not.” I grab her and pull her around to face me so I can kiss her. I can’t get enough of that mouth.

She melts against me with one of those little sighs that makes my dick instantly hard, but pulls away with a playful laugh when I squeeze her ass.

“They’re waiting.”

“Let them wait,” I murmur, then take her mouth again. Kissing her deeply, I wrap my arms around her so she can’t get away.

She’s so sweet. So fucking sweet. I don’t think she has any idea how much I love her. How I can’t breathe when she’s not within eyesight. How I’d gladly die for her, kill for her, do anything big or small that she asked.

All the other bullshit aside, I fell for her the normal way too. Because of who she is. Because of her courage, her strength, her intelligence. Because of her kindness and that gooey soft center she hides underneath her tough outer shell. The fact that she’s a knockout didn’t hurt, I’ll be honest, but she would’ve been my dream woman even if she wasn’t literally my dream woman.

We had a long conversation about it where she told me the same thing. I’m not just a placeholder for her past. It’s hard to explain, but I know that when she looks at me, she sees me.

And when I look at her, I see my entire world.

“Theo,” Megan says breathlessly, looking up at me with those gorgeous eyes. They’re the color of the ocean, blue and green combined, shifting hue with the light. “Theo, if we don’t go down now, it’ll be an hour, and I’ll never hear the end of it from Suzanne.”

“Pfft. You’ll never hear the end of it no matter what. She lives for drama.”