Why have I heard this man say those words before?
“Sir, pleaselet go,” I repeat.
“Making you happy is my favorite thing in the world.”
What’s bigger than goosebumps? Ostrich bumps?
That’s what I have now.
I’ve heard that sentence before too.
Am I losing my mind?
Am I actually awake?
Is this a bad dream?
Okay, yes, it’s a bad dream. This whole last week hasallbeen a bad dream. Except it’s currently my reality, and I’m nearly certain I’m awake.
Panic has me finding strength I shouldn’t have after being unable to stomach hardly anything the past few days.
And that’s another thing pissing me off.
I’m having gourmet meals delivered when I call for room service,in Fiji, and the thought of eating them makes me feel ill.
Worse?
The person I’m most pissed at is myself.
Idid this by insisting for the pastseven yearsthat Chandler Sullivan was the man of my dreams, even whileknowinghe wasn’t Theo’s favorite person and vice versa. Despite the occasional hint that my friends thought he was annoying. Including Sabrina, one of my two besties, who’s hiscousin. And despite the way his own aunts, uncles, and parents would look at him and sigh over some of his more ridiculous opinions.
The things I knew he did that I told myself he’d stop doing if I could just convince him I loved him enough.
Fuck him.
Fuck me too for doing this to me.
I manage to shove the man’s arm off me, dash back inside the house, and peer through the sliding glass door that I’ve just locked.
I flip on the outside light, and dizziness has me leaning against the glass.
But not because of hunger.
More because my brain is trying to convince me that I know the man who’s curling into a ball and wincing against the light.
“Love isn’t rational, but it’s not pathetic either,” he moans, his voice drifting through an open window with yetone more linethat I’ve heard before.
I flip the light off, plunging everything back into pre-dawn darkness.
Then I pinch myself.
Yep. That hurt.
I flip the light on again.
And he’s still there.
Jonas Rutherford.
