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I shiver. My heels click against the concrete, and I want to take them off because they’re pinching my feet. Stopping at a crosswalk to wait for a green light, an inexplicable urge to turn around overcomes me, like the feeling of eyes watching me to the power of ten. It’s like my heart and soul will fly from my body if I don’t turn around.
For a second, I think I shouldn’t.
You know how when you’re a kid, you want to run up the basement stairs, because you justfeelsomething down there? You definitely don’t want to know what it is, but you also know that if you can just get away fast enough, everything will be okay?
I feel like if I just keep moving, if I don’t turn, everything will be okay.
But there’s also that pressure. Like the universe is demanding that I turn and look. Turn and see what’s there.
Succumbing to the obligation, I turn around. The only other person around me is a hulking beast of a man. Tall and dark-haired, he stands a few paces behind me, looking like a deer in headlights.
In an instant, my blurred vision sharpens. My mind clears, as if his intense gaze is strong enough to clear the fog from my head as I stare back at him. My heart thunders in my chest as his brown-eyed gaze bores through me. For a moment, nothing around us exists. The wind stills. Cars stop rolling. The world pauses as if it’s holding its breath. Just him and me, alone on an empty street.
His face is searching, frantic as if trying to understand my existence in a mere glance. I open my mouth to speak, but it goes dry. What would I even say? We’re magnets. Pulling, yearning. His gravitational force is amplified yet applies only to me.
He’s beautiful. That’s clear. I’ve seen plenty of pretty men in my life, but not anything as arresting as him. This is something else. It’s tracking the lazy leaf drifting in the wind or the way a baby’s smile fills your heart.
His black leather jacket looks expensive and warm over his neat jeans and boots. From the neck down he looks clean-cut and uptight, poised with tension. But that long hair and intense gaze beckons something else. Something wilder beneath.
I blink again, breaking our staring contest. My stomach lurches as my vision blurs again, the haze of booze returning. The man’s still staring at me when I clamp my eyes shut, trying to clear my head again unsuccessfully.
I furrow my brows at the man and spit out an accusatory, “What?”
He lifts his hands slowly, like a surrender. His voice is deep, like the churning of gravel underfoot. Something about it makes my stomach flutter. “Are you okay? Can I help you?”
“I’m fineeee. Why does everyone keep asking if I’m alright?” I turn and cross the street to my block, happy to find the walk signal flashing. Words are exploding out of me. This guy is too pretty to be real, so I guess it doesn’t matter what I say. He’s a ghost or a hallucination; something my alcohol-addled brain has conjured in order to help me handle whatever is going on with Tim. I have no reason to lie to this beautiful, beastly ghost.
So, I offer him the truth.
“I don’t care about his wedding. It’s stupid anyway. Marriage is stupid. They’ll be divorced in a couple of years, anyway.” I take my keys from my purse, opening the front door to my small apartment building. “I’ll never get married again.”
The door swings open, and I stumble inside. I pop my head back out, blinking.
The handsome hallucination is staring at me from the street.
“Bye bye,” I mutter, my hand flopping awkwardly. “You’re way hotter than he is. Bummer.”
I make it up the stairs with ease, now singing my favorite Britney song from the 90s. After a minor battle with my keys, I finally close the front door to my apartment muttering to myself about divorce rates when my sweet little orange tabby cat runs to me. Bobble Cat’s purrs vibrate in the entryway, as he makes figure eights around my legs. I only trip over him twice when I throw my shoes in the general direction of the shoe rack.
My head swims as the room spins when I plop down on my yellow couch, and logically, I know my judgment is impaired. But my impulses? Nope, those are intact.
Knowing I’ll regret this tomorrow but not caring right now, I call Tim.I’m going to lay into him and tell him exactly what a piece of shit he is.
On the fourth ring, he answers. His voice is gruff and annoyed. “Yeah?”
My courage shrivels away upon hearing his bitterness. Looks like I won’t have to wait until tomorrow to regret this brilliant decision.
“Hey Tim. How’s it going?”
Good. Nice and casual. Just calling an old friend to chat. Smooth.
“It’s 1 am, Mira. What do you want?”
WhatdoI want?
“Look, I’m not really dying to talk to you either, but let’s be real. You were an asshole who did asshole things, and I need to understand why. I just need some closure.”
Oh. I guess I want that.I hear myself saying these words, but I don’t know where they’re coming from. I haven’t exactly processed… well. Any of this. I know I should see a therapist, but therapists are expensive.
