I’m sorry, but—what the fuck just happened?
One thing about my detached personality issue is that I’ve had it since birth, so I’ve never truly felt the difference. I’ve never had an example for comparison or a reference to look back on. A part of me was happy about that—that I didn’t truly know what I was missing.
It’s like the difference between someone who is blind since birth versus someone who loses their sight as a teenager. The latter is going to mourn that loss of sense more than the former.
But now… I’m pretty sure I now have a basis for comparison. Every part of my body is pulsing. My throat feels like it’s closing. Something in my chest is hot and tight, as if my heart is collapsing in on itself slowly.
I want to cry; I want to scream; I want to punch. Until today, I had never understood the meaning of the worddevastation. Butlooking into those cold, vivid green eyes… I feel as if I will never be able to properly breathe under the weight of this pain.
I want him to open the door. I want to study the lines of his broad shoulders and the defined muscles of his chest. The sharp curve of his jaw and the way his full bottom lip pouts just slightly. Curly black hair, just long enough to poke out from the back of his neck—I don’t think I have ever noticed another human being in such startling detail before.
And I want to notice him again. To bathe myself in this horrifying, nauseating sadness and breathtaking lust. I believe this man—this domineering, intensely beautiful man—I believe he would swallow me whole.
If I stripped him naked and forced him to his knees, I just know he’d devour me in a single bite. How I know, I’m not sure. But I’m certain with everything in me, the same way I am certain that he is the kind of man who’d protect you as well as he’d fuck you.
I’ve never been great at reading people; perhaps I am just great at reading him.
But alas, it doesn’t matter how great I am at reading him when he is slamming doors in my face—blocking me out at just the sound of my name. Did someone tell him I was coming as a representative for theFort Myers Post?Who else knew, aside from John and me?
Well, he can slam as many doors as he wants. I’m not giving up.
Plus, I’ve had my first taste of genuine emotion—no matter how upsetting it was. Iwillfeel it again. I just have to see him. And when it fades, and I return to my normal, detached self, Ican wrap up this article and forget he exists. Hot guy or not, he clearly isn’t fuck-buddy material, being as much of a hermit as he is.
But I’ll chase this onslaught of emotion for as long as it’s given to me. And with that in mind, I bang my fist on the door again.
“Hello!” I call, keeping my tone light and friendly. “I’m here from theFort Myers Post.”
Nothing. Silence. Not even the sound of his footsteps against the floorboards.
This man, Rowan Alexander, doesn’t seem even the slightest bit interested in talking to me. But I swear—I swear I saw the same resemblance of shock flash through those calculating eyes before he shut me out.
“I’ll come back tomorrow!” I yell once again, turning on my heel and descending the front steps of his large porch.
The house is nice; a cottage-style home with a wraparound porch and plenty of acres to work with. I find it incredible that he can afford such property on a photographer’s salary, but he is winning national competitions. I guess he’s just that good.
On my walk back to the car, I try to calm my racing heart. I don’t think I’ve been this worked up in my entire life—and that includes the time I lost my virginity. If this is what attraction feels like for the masses, if this is how an average crush is supposed to feel, I pity the poor souls around me. Because fuck, it kind of feels like I’m dying.
Like if I don’t get the chance to see him again soon, if I don’t manage to get my hands on him, I’ll simply keel over and perish.
I look at the house again as I open the driver’s side door. It looks as inviting as it looks to be haunting me.
I plan to figure out who thisRowan Alexanderis. The not-so-old local outsider, the man whose eyes provoke a sadness even the most emotionally removed of men can feel. And then I plan to defile him.
By the time I’m back home after work, those intense feelings of sorrow and desire have faded into nothing but a distant memory. A part of me wonders if I made it all up—if I’m lonely or horny and just desperately crave connection.
I guess only time will tell—and by time, I mean tomorrow morning when I drag my ass back outside of town to his little slice of Fort Myers to bang aimlessly at his front door.
What an adrenaline rush this day has proven to be.
On the same hand that I hope I’m bombarded with these same overwhelming emotions tomorrow, I also hope they never break through my walls again.
After all, I could very well be reading all of this wrong. This devastating sorrow? This incredible desire? I’ve never felt it before; what if I’m completely off the mark? What if it’s actually my body sending me warning signs, telling me to run?
And yet I am mildly excited to return. To see how this will play out. As if being Elijah Oliver Camry wasn’t already confusing enough.
Tabitha’s Place does take-out coffees and a very voluptuous homemade blueberry muffin. I see this firsthand this morning asJohn calls me on the way into the office and asks me to stop—we’re out of coffee grounds.
As I walk into the diner, there are only two other patrons seated among the tables: one old man in a booth along the left side wall, and a younger woman at a four-person table in the center of the room.
