Page 48 of To Obsess

Games. Puzzles. Books. Cleaning.

I spend the entire evening doing anything and everything I can imagine to keep my hands off my phone.

Alex texted me about our date four hours ago, to which I replied, letting him know I also had a fantastic time. Since then? Total silence.

I’m fully aware I shouldn’t be so hung up on a guy I literally just met and had two dates with, but I swear there was something there between us. Something deeper than the surface level connections I’ve had with everyone I’ve taken a chance on recently.

An exasperated huff claws its way out of my chest as I swipe the cloth across the counter for the fourth time, cleaning away any invisible specks of dust that might have escaped my wrath the last three times I cleaned this spot.

Did I say something wrong? Did I not say enough? Unhelpful thoughts swirl as I read back through the short exchange, wondering if he might have replied had I seemed more interested or bubbly or excited about the date. In reality, I was honest. It truly was the best date I’ve ever had. I thought that went without saying, but I wanted him to know I felt the same without seeming too eager.

This dating shit is for the birds, I think, tossing the cloth at the washing machine. No amount of scrubbing is going to fix my mood tonight. Instead, I turn the handle of the back door and step out onto the porch. The sound of bugs and frogs assault my ears, but it also sounds like peace.

When I was a little girl, with big emotions threatening to boil over and make a mess everywhere, I used to sit outside my parents’ house at night, listening to the forest and dreaming of being somewhere else. More than once, Abby would come stalking out of the woods just when the weight of the world felt a bit too heavy to shoulder on my own.

She always knew when I needed her growing up, and that hasn’t changed as we grew into adulthood. I think of calling her now, but she has enough on her own plate without having my added nonsense.

The pressure on my chest eases the longer I sit in silence, listening to the world go on around me, ignorant of my perils. Somehow, that’s comforting—knowing the world will continue on, regardless of what stressors I’m facing or how great life is. It makes me feel a bit smaller, a bit more manageable.

Chill bumps are growing on the backs of my arms by the time I decide to head back into the house, slip on my shoes, and make my way out the front door and down the steps to the driveway. I glance up to the night sky, noting how gorgeous the stars are tonight as I focus on the sound of gravel crunching beneath my feet.

It doesn’t take long to reach the end of the drive, slip through the gate I still haven’t bothered to fix but have also stopped closing out of pure laziness, and gently pull open the lid of the mailbox. To my delight, a letter lies inside with something sitting on top, weighing it down like it might float away.

With a crinkled brow, I pull out a cup of vanilla and chocolate pudding. My favorite. Tears burn the backs of my eyes as I pull the letter out, close the box, and slip back through the gates again.

I take my time on the walk back to the house, running my thumb over the top of the pudding cup. Back inside, I place it on the table beside Pudding the turtle and swipe my thumb under my left eye, collecting the rogue tear that escaped.

I scan over his words, taking them in like they’re the oxygen my lungs need to keep me alive. The relief I felt from finding the letter there doesn’t begin to compare to what I’m feeling now. I’ve always heard that to be loved is to be seen. Even if this isn’t some type of romantic love, I’m being seen for possibly the first time in my life.

As I fold the letter and place it next to the pudding cup, I find my thoughts returning to Alex and my unanswered text. I wonder what he would think about this situation. Would it be a deal breaker for him? Would he think it’s weird and creepy that I get letters from a random stalker I’ve never met? Would he demand that I put an end to it if I want to keep seeing him?

I can’t see how he could possibly understand. It is weird that I get these letters, but I’ve grown so attached to their sender over the years. I can’t imagine giving that up at this point. I’ve become addicted to the feeling I get when I open the box and find a new letter or write one of my own and place it there for him to retrieve. I’ve grown to enjoy the anxiety that builds up when he goes a little longer than normal between the letters, just for one to show up when I think my nervous system might short circuit.

Sitting down with paper and pen, I contemplate the next note and what small piece of me to reveal to him this time. There are so many things I want him to know that it’s hard to choose just one, but I want to drag these letters out as long as humanly possible. With only a moment of hesitation, I choose.

It takes all of five minutes to write out my thoughts. One fact per letter. A little bit more information given away to the faceless man behind the late-night notes and gifts.

Normally, I would wait until morning and slip the new note in the box on my way to the bookstore. Tonight, there’s a nagging little voice in my brain that I can’t seem to ignore, no matter how many times I toss and turn in the bed.

Thirty minutes go by, I toss. Another twenty, I turn. Feeling no closer to sleep, I slip from bed and pad downstairs, grab the note off the table, and stomp my way to the mailbox, hoping this is the ticket to relaxing my mind enough to drift off to sleep.

The quiet hum of the forest accompanies me to the box and back, assuring me I’m not entirely alone out here. I’m not sure if it’s comforting or a little intimidating this late into the night.

I keep my head on a swivel but make it back to the relative safety of my house without any sort of boogeyman jumping out to slice my throat or take me hostage, so I’m chalking that up to a win.

The soft click of the door closing grates against my eardrums in the silence of the house. Still on edge, I get ready for bed, making sure to double-check the doors and windows downstairs before shutting my bedroom door tight and slipping underneath the sheets. Regardless of how thoroughly I checked the house, I can’t help but feel like I’m not alone here tonight.

The uneasy feeling refuses to subside, causing my eyelids to fly open every few minutes until pure exhaustion finally drags me under and into a restless sleep.

When I wake in the middle of the night, my bedroom door stands ever so slightly ajar.

Chapter 44

KILLIAN

By 4:00 a.m., it’s pretty obvious I’m not getting any decent sleep tonight. Instead of spending the next two hours tossing and turning much the same as the last six, I force my body up out of the bed with a groan. As much as my body wants the rest, my mind is protesting it.

Thoughts of Violet swirl around my head against my will. Don’t get me wrong—I love that she’s invaded my brain and refuses to leave, but a small break in the thoughts would be ever so helpful with getting some sleep.