Page 26 of Laced in Longing

My head pounds as I move to the kitchen and gulp a glass of water, ignoring the drops that spill down my chin.

When would it be reasonable to really question my sanity? My safety? That seems like the right thing to do in this situation. Instead, I feel something I haven’t felt in years: curiosity. I want to know more…about him, about the flowers. Mostly, I want to understand what’s happening to me.

I glance at my reflection in the bathroom. Dark circles shadow my eyes, and my hair is a tangled mess, but there’s something different in my expression. A spark where there was only emptiness before.

Turning away, I make a decision I know I’ll probably regret. I won’t tell Dr. Voss about any of this. She wouldn’t understand. Would see it only as evidence of deteriorating mental health and call it a psychotic break.

The shower beckons, promising to wash away the dried tears, the lingering sensation of James’ unwanted touch. As I step under the hot spray, I wonder if my mysterious visitor will return tonight. Do I want him to? The answer comes without hesitation—yes. I want him to come back. Need to ask more questions and unlock the mystery of his existence and why he’s chosen me for these visitations. I want to understand the connection between him and my dreams, and why his presence calms the storm that’s raged inside me for twenty-seven years.

I’ll get my answers, eventually.

CHAPTER TEN

MAVEN

Ignaw on my thumbnail, the jagged edge catching between my teeth as I stare at the spreadsheet glowing on my monitor. The numbers blur together, transforming into meaningless patterns that my brain refuses to process. I should be reconciling these accounts—it’s literally what I’m paid to do—but concentrating on anything right now is impossible.

For five days straight, he’s continued to appear in my dreams.

The faceless man has become a fixture in my sleeping hours, waiting for me in landscapes pulled straight from travel magazines I’ve flipped through at one time or another. Last night it was a deserted beach in Bali with water so clear I counted grains of sand beneath the surface.

But the location never matters. Only his presence.

At least he stays confined to my dreams now—that makes me feel marginally more sane, as if there’s a meaningful difference between vivid hallucinations while sleeping versus while awake. But I can’t shake the memory of him sitting on my apartment floor, watching my weak resolve crumple.

The taste of copper fills my mouth as something pinches under a too short nail. I press my thumb against my lips, the metallic tang a sharp reminder that I’m still tethered to reality, however tenuous that tether might be.

Chris walks past my cubicle, coffee mug in hand, and offers a fleeting smile. I attempt to return it, but my facial muscles don’t cooperate. The result must look more like the opposite because he quickens his pace, disappearing around the corner without a backward glance.

Smart man.

I turn back to my screen, forcing myself to focus on the columns of numbers that swim before my eyes. My stomach knots as a traitorous thought slithers through my mind: I miss him.

Which is fucking ridiculous because I don’t even know who he is. Not really…I’ve spent enough time with him to enjoy his company and feel of his voice as it caresses my ears, but I know nothing about him. Whatever the answer, longing for his presence feels like surrender to madness.

Maybe I should have listened when Dr. Voss suggested expanded treatment last year. Perhaps with the right diagnosis, and medication, I wouldn’t be sitting here craving an illusion. I wouldn’t be fighting the urge to close my eyes right here at my desk, hoping to catch a glimpse of him between one heartbeat and the next.

Or maybe I just need a friend. A real one and not some apparition my broken brain conjured up to keep me company. Isn’t that what normal people do? Form connections that sustain them through the darker moments?

But every time I’ve tried, I end up feeling worse than if I’d stayed alone.

I just want to work my meaningless job, go back to my meaningless apartment, and escape this meaningless reality through books or sleep. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently it is, because I can’t focus on anything but him. The mystery of his existence gnaws at me, digging beneath my skin so deep I’m convinced I have a splinter. Each dream peels back another layer of fascination, drawing me further into whatever rabbit hole I’ve stumbled into.

My phone buzzes on the desk, jolting me from my spiral. The screen displays a calendar reminder: CALL WITH DR. VOSS, 6PM.

A wave of anticipation slithers through me, surprising in its intensity. For the first time since I started therapy, I’m actually looking forward to our session. Not because I plan to unburden myself—god, no—but because I need answers. And Helena Voss, with her objective detachment and extensive knowledge of mental disorders, might provide them.

If I’m careful with my questions and don’t reveal too much, that is.

Because the moment she suspects I’m hallucinating men with no faces who leave dead flowers on my nightstand, my limited freedom vanishes. I’ll find myself in a locked ward with medication schedules and group therapy sessions, forced to have people watching me shower to make sure I don’t try something stupid.

No thanks.

I check the time: 4:45 PM. Fifteen minutes until I can leave without raising eyebrows. I force my attention back to the spreadsheet, mechanically entering data that will matter to no one after I submit it.

At precisely five, I shut down my computer and gather my things. The office hums with the usual end-of-day activities as I practically sprint out, muttering no goodbyes and disappearing into the stream of bodies headed for the elevators.