Page 38 of To Obsess

I’ve been dropping by the mailbox each night after she goes to bed, praying to whatever is out there somewhere that she’s left me another note. Each night, I walk away disappointed and a little more disheartened.

The note she left lies on my nightstand, paper already worn and starting to thin from my constant need to handle it. I memorized the words the first night but seeing her handwriting scrawled across the receipt brings me a level of peace I haven’t felt often.

Of course, I’ve seen her handwriting a million times before. We went to school together, so I got glimpses of it there frequently, and I’ve seen it a few times at the bookstore, but this receipt is different. This was written for me. She wrote these words specifically for me. Butterflies somersault in my chest as the thought of her at her kitchen island, pen in hand, races through my mind.

But she hasn’t written me back.

It’s been four nights of complete silence on her end. Four nights of wondering if this was just a one-time thing—a temporary lapse of judgement. Maybe she realized what she had done, tried to get the paper back just to realize it was already gone and the damage had been done. Maybe she decided I’m not even worth the effort of a few words slapped on paper.

For years, I’ve dreamed of the day I would have her attention, but I never thought it would feel like this. I never thought I would have it for a moment, just for it to be ripped away an instant later.

I rub my eyes with the backs of my hands to ease the exhaustion creeping into my head. I need to go to Violet’s house. I need to make sure she’s doing okay, check the mailbox, then head back here and get some decent sleep so I can function tomorrow at work.

Instead, I allow the insecurities to creep into my thoughts, robbing me of the last drops of sanity I have left. As I lean back on the couch, still fully dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve tee, I surrender to the sleep that’s been threatening to pull me under for hours, even if it will only lead to nightmares until sunrise when I have to do this shit all over again.

When I wake and find the clock on the stove, it reads 3:54 in neon green numbers. With a groan, I rub the backs of my eyes and make my way to the bedroom to change. If I can’t sleep, I might as well be productive, I guess.

I slip on some shorts and a tank top, lace up my shoes, and lock the door behind me, double-checking to be sure it latched properly. Can’t be too careful these days.

When I was in high school, maybe my junior year or so, I had a lot of trouble sleeping. Dad took me to all the doctors, who did sleep tests, gave me tons of pills to try, and sent me to a therapist, convinced I was subconsciously struggling with thoughts of Mom and it was manifesting as insomnia. Nothing helped until my God-send of a therapist suggested I pick up some form of exercise as a way to tire my body and mind enough to allow me to get the rest I need. That’s when I tried running for the first time.

Years later, it’s the only thing that really helps get me through these bouts of insomnia, though they seem to happen less and less often as I get older. I still have periods where I struggle to sleep for weeks at a time if I’m overly stressed or some other trigger pops up.

As my feet hit the street outside my apartment, my chest eases. My mind whirls through thoughts of Violet, Mom’s death, my relationship with Dad, and my lack of a promising future. When my insecurities try to steal my focus, I push my legs harder until the burn building in my thighs replaces any lucid thought and all I can focus on is breathing.

I’ve been too busy to do much running lately, and I can tell a major difference. My endurance has waned significantly, making me tire much more quickly than I did last time I was out for a early morning run.

By the time I slow to a walk, hands braced on top of my head, sweat is racing down my back in rivulets, soaking my shorts, but my brain is content – nearly quiet, even. Looking around to get my bearings, I’m shocked to find myself at the entrance to the trail where I killed Gunnar.

When I left the apartment, I hadn’t had any destination in mind. I just knew I needed to get out of the apartment and move for a while. I needed to tire my body to the point it would have no choice but to rest. I certainly hadn’t intended to come here.

Instead of lingering, I quickly turn and jog back in the direction of the apartment, away from my past. My therapist would have a field day with this, I think with a smirk.

I make it halfway home before a thought strikes me. I turn and make my way to Violet’s box, double-checking that she didn’t leave a note for me in the few hours since I was here. Empty.

As the key turns in the lock of my front door, I nearly sag against the frame, bones turning to Jell-O now that I’m so close to being able to crash out for a couple of hours. I manage a quick scrub down in the shower, half-ass dry my body and hair, then crawl under the cover, shivering against the cold satin sheets as sleep beings to drag me under once again.

The blaring of the alarm clock is a horrible way to wake up after such a rough night. I claw my way back to consciousness, slapping at the nightstand to make the obnoxious sound stop. My eyelids feel as if they’re made of sandpaper, scratchy and heavy with a bone-deep exhaustion, but I force my way out of the warmth of the bed and into my work clothes.

In under half an hour, I have a piece of toast slathered in butter and a hot cup of coffee in hand as I leave the apartment. I manage to get all the way to my car before the toast drops from my mouth, plopping into the dirt. “Guess I didn’t need breakfast this morning after all,” I mutter, trying to unlock my car door.

When I pull it open, I take a step back, bumping into the side of my neighbor’s car, which jostles my cup enough to spill the hot coffee down the back of my hand, causing me to curse out loud for anyone within earshot to hear.

I get a nasty look from the mother coming around the corner of the building with her perfectly pristine toddler, dressed in a frilly red dress, complete with matching bows for her hair and shiny shoes. I nod to her, lowering my eyes.

Burnt hand, growling stomach, and bruised ego, I slide into the driver’s seat and push the button to start the engine. “What a freaking morning, I swear,” I say to the empty car, catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. It’s going to be a long day.

The drive to the office is uneventful—a blessing after the way the morning went. As I step from the car, my boss’s voice fills my ears. I can’t see him, but I absolutely sympathize with whoever is on the receiving end of his rage this morning. I’ve barely gotten out of the car, haven’t even made it to the front doors yet, and I can already hear him loud and clear.

The front door opens, revealing my very angry, very red-faced boss in all his glory. “I’m so glad you’re here, Killian. Come inside,” he says, stepping back inside the building to grant me enough room to enter.

Fuck. Me.

Chapter 35

KILLIAN

“Of course, sir. I’ll get right on it.” I’ve spent the better part of the morning doing what I can to appease him, though nothing really seems to be working. He’s in a pissy mood over losing a client to a rival office in the next town over. To be totally honest, that’s entirely his own fault for taking an unplanned mini vacation with his mistress last week to keep her happy, which left him unavailable to answer important client questions. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.