I’m not delusional. I knew it would take time and work and, again,grovelingto earn a spot back in his life. But maybe time is not the all-powerful healer I assumed it to be.
A slithery feeling coils through my chest. It reminds me that there must be a darkness that’s grown inside me over the past seven years that I’m unaware of. I wish I could cut it out before I have to confront it.
My thumbs can’t move fast enough, and still, I end up disappointed by the results. Drew isn’t anywhere to be found in my phone. Relationship erased from the server. I shouldn’t be surprised or devastated, but of course I am.
Out of curiosity, I launch a search for Drew Techler, independent bookstore. Sure enough, there he is. My heart twitters at the sight of him, even on a screen.
Bearded and bespectacled now, Drew smiles in front of a bookstore in Queens, holding a stack of books before an exquisite window display. Zooming in, however, I notice none of those books are romance novels with illustrated characters on the covers or soft, bright colors. His comfort reads. His favorites.
The books in the window display are thrillers, mysteries, and horror novels with titles likeKill or Be KilledandCan’t Keep a Secret. Spyglasses and monocles and houndstooth hats are arranged in a way that make it look as if the books are investigating a crime. A slightly raised tape outline of a body can be seen down below.
The store’s signage reads: Bound by Mayhem Bookshop.
It’s a far cry from Eight, Three, One Books, the silly, lovey-dovey name Drew had doodled on card stock and stuck up on the dream board in his room in our Astoria apartment.
Seven years can change so much.
Knowing I have nowhere else to turn, I decide I need to see Drew. Even if it’s from afar. Even if it’s just for one second. I need to know he’s okay, even if we aren’t.
His confession of love rocks me fresh and anew each time I think of it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to pretend it happened seven years ago when it happened yesterday, but I’ll have to try, at least at first, so I don’t freak him out.
As if he knew the perfect cover, Milkshake waddles over with a red leash dangling from his tiny, cute mouth. Eyes hopeful, he wiggles his butt, and I can almost hear him say,Let’s go, slowpoke!
Wait,did Ihear him say that? Maybe we’re microchipped and can read each other’s minds.
That thought is how I know I’m still drunk. Too drunk topresently confront Drew. I pour myself a glass of water and give myself a little bit of time to cool off and sober up. Sitting in a nearby chair, I realize that I don’t know what my limits are in this body because this body is on loan for the time being. It’s like high-stakes Rent the Runway, except I’m wearing a model and not just an outfit.
Thirty minutes later, feeling clear-headed, I stuff Milkshake into a harness, latch on his leash, and head out with directions to Bound by Mayhem Bookshop chirping from my phone.
Chapter Sixteen
The window display at Bound by Mayhem Bookshop is even more garish in person. A gruesome hodgepodge of corn syrup blood and yarn tied to various pushpins tacked to author photos, all edited to look like mug shots. It’s a messy feast for the eyes, if said eyes were hungry for gore, gore, and, uh, more gore.
Judging by the lack of patrons going inside, I’m not the only one worried my life would be at risk if I stepped across the threshold. Luckily, I’m across the street while Milkshake does his business on a nearby fire hydrant. With a baseball cap sitting firmly on my head and sunglasses perched on my nose, I’m incognito.
Not even five steps from my apartment building, I was monsooned by people asking for photos and autographs. The first wave was manageable. The second, larger wave, however, was all-encompassing. Fighting for air as people flung their phones in my face was not as fun as I imagined it would be in my teens, dreaming of celebrity for myself.
When I spotted a clear opening, I sprinted away, ducked into the first souvenir shop I could find, and decked myself out in I HEART NYC apparel. Seven years may have passed, but tourists—thank God—are still as tacky as ever.
Milkshake and I shuffle through the crosswalk when the signal lights up. I coach myself into a reasonable breathing pattern.This isDrew, I remind myself.He’ll believe you. He’ll know what to do. Don’t panic. More than you already are…
“What thehellare you doing here?” My heart spiders up into my throat when I look up and place the source of the voice. Drew hulks over me with broader shoulders, a rounder face, a scraggly full beard, and tortoiseshell glasses. He’s hot. A downright well-read hunk, which is an unproductive thought to be having since, just like the last time I saw him, he’s pissed. “You didn’t think I’d miss you stalking me across from my shop?”
In fairness, he was probably leering in the window, hoping to catch an unsuspecting passerby to assault with scary books. I wish I’d concocted a good cover story on my trek over here. My head is empty aside from the incessant refrain of:What in the living hell is happening?
“Well,” Drew huffs, crossing his newly muscular arms over his chest, “what do you have to say for yourself?”
“Very little at the moment,” I utter. The pictures I saw online did not do him justice. Drew’s amped-up hotness has thrown me for a loop. Also, his stern, gruff tone. The night of CeeCee’s wedding, he spoke to me with a soft upset that lapped over me and tugged me under, ultimately drowning me. This, what I’m being met with, is a hardened aggression that can only come from years of strife.
Milkshake takes this as his moment to introduce himself, lunging toward Drew’s closest leg and making it his own personal pony. As if this weren’t already going poorly. “Down, Milkshake. No. Bad dog.” Helplessly, I glance up at Drew. “He’s got good gaydar, huh?”
Drew clicks his tongue, carefully shaking Milkshake away, not even faking a smile. I really thought Milkshake’s cute face would sweeten this encounter. He had to go and ruin it by being a horny menace who then promptly plops over seeking belly rubs. He really must be my dog—desperate for attention. “This is ridiculous, and you look ridiculous too,” Drew says.
I peer down at the hot-pink tank top hastily tugged over my electric-green T-shirt, and he’s right. I look like a Disney Channel star at best or a watermelon at worst. “I didn’t realize I was going to get mobbed when I left my apartment to come here, so I had to throw on the quickest disguise I could find.”
His eyebrows furrow. “You, Nolan Baker, world-famous comedian, didn’t think you’d be mobbed by fans if you left your apartment alone?”
“Yes,” I reply, knowing how ridiculous that must sound.
