* * *
My insomnia that night is worse than usual. Despite my decision to keep things pure business between Theo and me, my mind runs on a hamster wheel, going over and over every look, text, and email that has passed between us, furiously trying to read between the lines of all that he doesn’t say.
Considering he’s mute, that’s a lot.
At midnight, I give up and rise from bed. I go stand at the patio windows and stare out at the ocean, which is as black as the sky. Neither has any answers for the questions swirling in my head. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cold glass.
Cass. I wish you were here. I miss you. I love you. I still love you so goddamn much.
When I open my eyes, a figure has appeared out on the beach, standing in the darkness.
My heart hammering, I jerk back a step from the window. I can barely see the person because it’s so dark, but moonlight sifts between the clouds overhead, casting a ghostly glow on him, crowning his dark head in a halo of white. Whoever it is stands unmoving, hands by his sides, legs spread apart, staring up at the house. I move back to the window and flatten my hand against the glass.
I whisper, “Theo?”
The figure takes a single step forward.
All the tiny hairs on my body stand on end. My hands tremble, and I start to panic.
There’s no way on earth he could’ve heard me speak, yet, irrationally, I’m convinced he somehow knew his name left my lips, the way you sometimes feel a tug of recognition when you pass someone you’ve never met on the street. You know you’ve never seen them before, yet something tells you they’re not a total stranger. Something in their eyes sparks a sense of déjà vu.
Like maybe you met in another life.
“You don’t believe in kismet, Megan. You don’t believe in ghosts or fate or the tarot or any of that other nonsense. You’re a rational, intelligent person. You know he didn’t feel you call his name.”
Really? Try it again and see what happens.
I mutter, “Keep pestering me, you idiotic little voice, and I’ll take a drill to my skull to shut you up.”
Sounds like something a crazy person would do. Might as well test my theory if you’re already nuts anyway.
I curse and turn away from the window. Groaning in exasperation, I start to pace the length of the room, my hands clasped together on top of my head so they don’t pick up the nearest object and throw it at the wall.
“I won’t say his name again. I won’t.”
Chicken.
“Fuck you, voice. Just fuck you. I’ve had enough of your bullshit. This is real life, not fantasyland.”
So prove it and say his name again. Prove he took a step at the exact moment you said his name due purely to chance. Let’s see how that theory tests out for you.
“I’m talking to myself!” I shout at nothing in particular. “It’s finally happened! I’ve lost my mind! Might as well go adopt a few dozen cats and start wearing my underwear over my clothes!”
Or you could just go to the window, say his name, and deal with whatever happens next.
“No.”
Maybe he was being literal when he wrote “I’ll always be here?” Maybe he’s done with wandering all through the town at night and has decided to camp out on the beach in front of the Buttercup? And by the way, wasn’t it interesting how when you called Craters and Freighters to find out why Cass’s paintings were delivered so early, they claimed their paperwork had yesterday’s delivery date on it all along? That YOU gave them that date when you signed the contract?
Are you seriously telling me you think THAT was another random coinkydink?
I grab fistfuls of my hair and make a noise like I’ve been punched in the stomach. “Coincidences don’t mean anything! They’re just coincidental!”
Go to the window and prove it.
I let loose a string of expletives that would have my mother’s hair curling. Then I stalk over to the window and glare out the glass.
He’s still standing right where he was.
“Theo,” I say flatly.
He takes another step forward.
I scream like I’ve seen a ghost and stumble back, almost falling in my haste.
Rationalize that, Megan. No amount of logic in the world can explain your connection with Theo Valentine.
“We don’t have a connection,” I whisper, hyperventilating and starting to sweat. “We’re complete strangers. He’s just a guy I hired to work on my house.”
Who’s standing outside at midnight, taking one step toward you every time you say his name. Denial isn’t a good color on you. Stop being such a coward and deal with it.
Racked with tremors, I walk slowly back to the glass. He waits, motionless, staring up at the window, his features obscured in the shadows. I open the glass door, step out onto the patio, and grip the wood railing. The night wind catches my hair and swirls it all around my face. With my heart throbbing and my legs shaking, I stare right at him, focusing all my attention on the word I form in my mind.