“So you love her, and you want to make sure she’s taken care of. Those are noble reasons to propose, Theo.”
“But—”
“But are they the right ones? Are they coming from the right place?”
His hand spasmed, splattering ink over part of the paper where he hadn’t intended for it to go. But it didn’t matter. He was done anyway, and he dropped the pen when electricity jolted again through his fingers, jerking him partially out of his reverie. He grabbed it before it could roll onto the expensive Persian rug beneath his feet and scrambled to cap it before he made a bigger mess. And then he actually looked at his drawing.
It was horrifying. A black, twisting specter vaguely in the shape of a gigantic, ephemeral shadow-man burst forth from Theo’s stomach. It was wrapped around him and bent over his shoulders, its large, bulbous head tilted forward and down while it crouched over him threateningly. Something about it was almost spiderlike in the movement he’d evoked.
But that wasn’t the most disturbing part. The shadow-thing’s hands were wrapped around Theo’s neck, tenderly caressing his skin like a lover might all while long, distended fingers choked the life out of him.
Whenever he panicked, he couldn’t breathe.
“Is it male or female? Does it have a gender?”
“It’s male,” he muttered. Theo blinked and recoiled in disgust.He hadn’t been expecting to draw anything at all, much less something like that, and so fast. What the fuck was this? He finally glanced back up at Amelia. Her notepad was covered in writing. Had she hypnotized him or something? He turned the sketchbook around and showed her the drawing. She took it and analyzed it silently.
But she didn’t seem bothered by what he’d drawn—in fact, she seemed exceedingly pleased. She finished her notes with a satisfied nod and handed him back the sketchbook.
“How do you feel aboutnotproposing, given what you just drew?”
As much as he didn’t want to look at it again, he made himself. That seed of panic in his stomach grew all over again, and he rubbed a hand across his torso, trying to quell it. “I felt like it was too soon. And I was right.” He shook his head. “We’ve only been together a few months. I mean, I don’t want to rush it anyway, I was going to wait no matter what, but…I thought I was ready. I actually thought I wasready, but if this is what was looming over me? I’m not. I’m definitely not.”
He held up the drawing again, brandishing it frantically in front of her. “I-I don’t want this to be the foundation of my marriage, Amelia. I don’t want this looming over me, overus. I don’t want to build a life or a family based on fear. I want it—him—gone.”
A tiny, knowing smile tugged at the therapist’s lips. “Well done, Theo. Great work today.” She pointed at the drawing with her pen. “There’s your demon. Now that we know what he looks like, we can fight him—together. You’re not alone. I’ll help you.”
When he went home that day, he couldn’t say he felt great. But he did feel more prepared, somehow.
He wasn’t ready, but that was okay. Now he knew why.
He still had a demon to exorcise.
He’d promised Audrey that he’d keep her safe from monsters—including his own.
And he wasn’t letting it anywhere near her.
The art oftiming was everything.
It was something both he and Audrey had in common.
When working with glass, you have to know when it’s ready, when it’s tempered, when it’s the perfect time to pull, to bend and shape, to manipulate and form it into what you envision it to be before it cools and hardens.
Coffee was the exact same.
If you pull an espresso shot too early, it isn’t developed yet. The flavor is too weak, too unsteady, not robust enough to serve as the foundation of a drink. Wait too long, pull too late, and it becomes bitter.
The art of timing a proposal was everything.
Of course Theo thought about asking her at the gala. He had the ring tucked in his inside jacket pocket, just in case he changed his mind. And they looked sogoodtogether, it would have been so easy. He could have proposed, had Wesley drive them to the airport, thrown down his credit card at the ticket counter, and caught a first-class flight straight to Vegas. They had twenty-four-hour chapels there. They were dressed and ready. The pictures would be perfect.
He thought about it.
It was possible.
But he didn’t act on it. The moment didn’t feel right yet. Their foundation wasn’t ready. It was new, and the materials were strong, but their mortar hadn’t yet set. Their glass wasn’t tempered. Their espresso wasn’t developed.
That, and the impulse was still tinged with too much desperationfor his liking. A little too much panic, a little too much fear of loss rather than the thrill of the future. He felt his demon wrapping its fingers around his throat again.
