They were feminine and yet masculine at the same time.
They went above and beyond for the heroine in ways no real man could.
The time alone that it took for a man to be that perfect would negate their ability to maintain the eight-pack abs required for such characters.
Given that was the only romance I’d ever experienced, I was going to be let down. I would live and die in this spinster life, and that was a choice I’d long accepted. Sharing a life with someone else wasn’t something I could see myself doing. Everything I did was singular. Finding someone willing to be patient with me in the way I needed would not be possible.
Nash would, I was certain, run away the minute he stepped a toe into the swamp of baggage I carried. My home was myentire world, and I didn’t like leaving it, and I didn’t like changing it.
I could not put that kind of pressure on anyone. My breakdowns, dark days and inability to walk out the front door in daylight like a vampire—I could not allow myself to be someone else’s burden in the way I was already a burden on myself.
Inviting a man into this darkness was cruel.
Case in point: Last night when I got home, I had indeed crawled in the back door of my house like a criminal. I’d army-crawled to the front door, cracked it open, and reached an arm out to grab our pizza from the stoop as though Nash would be standing there—waiting to pounce at the slightest movement from any townhouse on the street.
It was close to four AM by this time—no one was out there; even the rats were sleeping. I doubted he would be so dedicated. But because it was me, I didn’t want to take chances, and that’s just it.
If I couldn’t risk him seeing me reach for a slice, how was I ever going to get to know him? He’d seemed eager enough to know me, but I couldn’t just let that happen—people like me didn’t justletanything happen. Control was key.
Unequivocally, it was a terrible idea.
The effort required to understand my situation was too great. Then what? I’d be stuck with an awkward neighbor who would—with much joy—tell everyone he knew how weird I was. I no longer needed judgment, and he would ruin my safe space.
So, no.
I’d decided, and rewarded myself with too many glasses ofsparkling wine and too many slices of pizza, which Bill shared a few bites of before I forced him back to his overpriced dog food.
I managed two restless hours of couch sleeping, sweating, face unwashed and bra on—which never made for good sleep—and here I was in all my glory, face melting with a film of dried sweat, trying to plan an art show.
Sunlight sliced through my kitchen behind the iPad screen, a harsh spotlight on the remnants of my celebratory feast that Mr. Beans, my very food-motivated yet somehow skinny calico cat, was now also partaking in. I didn’t have the energy to stop him. There was no parting Mr. Beans from a feast of greasy cheese, especially when I’d failed to trim his nails.
I’d be clawed to death.
A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes, mirroring the sluggishness in my limbs. The image of last night’s ravaged pizza box would haunt me, a tangible symbol of my yet fragile social and emotional state.
A shrill shriek sounded from the other end of the FaceTime call, Cat having been quiet for sometime as I assumed she was reviewing the contractor plan.
She shrieked again.
I winced at the sound, my sore muscles jerking as I turned back to the screen. Her office ceiling displayed a swirl of moving shadows. She was flailing offscreen—maybe there was a bug?
“Cat?” I ventured, “What—are…”
“Stolen!”she screamed, and it echoed in her space. I heard chair wheels whizzing across a floor. The screen shifted, Catpicking up the iPad on her end and spinning before her forehead reappeared.“Stolen,Sybil!”
A vein in my temple throbbed. “Stolenwhat?Cat, Jesus.” My fingers were between my eyes, squeezing, trying not to feel nauseated with the erratic movement on her end.
“Blue, Sybil! Someone stole yourBlue!”
“What the fuck?” I murmured, struggling to process. “You mean my painting,Blue? What do you meanstolen?”
I was hearing this wrong. My artwork lacked merit for robbery. My life wasn’t a Nancy Drew novel.
Cat drew in a dramatic breath, her face filling the frame. Her brows were impossibly high, her hand clasped over her mouth. It looked as if she were typing something.
“Sybil!Do you know what this means?” She shrieked again.
“I still don’t even know what you’re talking about, Cat.” I was shaking my head. “Can youpleasestop shrieking? You’re killing me here.”
