Page 1 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

Chapter 1

Millie Grant

I flinch as light fills the room and shocks me into awareness. My pencil scrapes over the paper, and a dark line appears across my drawing. Fresh tears roll down my face and drop off my chin to join the wet splotches on my shirt.

Isaac James, my on-again-off-again roommate of about ten years, sighs and plods across the living room in his house slippers and robe before plopping down on the other side of the couch.

A woman stares up at me from my notebook. Smiling and dancing, she’s the reason tears stream down my face. She’ll never get the chance to exist in this world. My heart gives a painful squeeze as I recall holding her younger self’s hand as she passed a few weeks ago. Lying in a hospital bed with her parents on one side and me on the other, Shannon fought with all her might to become the woman in my dreams, but her body failed her. Each labored breath, the weakening of her grip, her quiet whimpers; every moment she struggled stays with me. She was so brave even when hope faded.

The happiness in her eyes as she stares up at me from my drawing is a more mature—but no less chaotic—version of the sweet, mischievous little girl I fell in love with over the seven months I had the privilege of caring for her.

I swallow the lump in my throat, yank a few tissues out of the box on the side table, and wipe the tears from my face.

“I know you’re going through a rough time, but if you’re going to be here so often and disturb my sleep, I’m going to have to charge you full rent,” Isaac sighs.

My gut clenches and sourness coats my tongue. I force air into my lungs and loosen my grip so I don’t snap my pencil. Isaac’s heavy cologne clogs my sinuses and worsens the taste in my mouth.

Between my heartbreak, the shock of having drawn in my sleep again, and Isaac’s threat, panic creeps into my veins.

I can’t afford a higher rent. My mother and brother rely on me and my gambling father sucks my bank account dry every chance he gets.

Even though I spend most of my time with my clients—for the more complex children, I move in with the family for weeks or months at a time—I need a place to decompress when I’m not working. Isaac may not be the most welcoming roommate, but his strict privacy expectations are why I’ve lived with him ever since I graduated high school and moved out of my mother’s house.

I sleep in the smaller room that doesn’t have a closet, use the hall bathroom, and am absent for long stretches of time, yet I pay for almost half the rent. If anything, I should negotiate for a lower rate, but the thought of confrontation tightens my chest and curdles my stomach.

“I’m just teasing you, Millie.” Isaac sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Now I feel like I kicked a puppy. Sorry, hun. I forget how to treat a lady after spending so much time with the riffraff.”

The self-disgust in his tone pulls my eyes away from my drawing and to his face. My mind struggles with the shift, both faces so detailed I can’t believe one is only two dimensional.

The fact he calls high schoolers riffraff pulls my lips into a small smile, but the effort is too much to maintain, so I drop my expression.

“I’m sorry I woke you. It won’t happen again,” I say, but the promise is hollow. I’ve never been able to control my sleepwalking and it’s always worse after fresh heartache. Unlike most sleepwalkers, my nightly adventures subside during high-stress situations, which keeps me from sleepwalking around clients’ homes, so I’ve never questioned it. It’s during the quiet stretches of life that my body wanders during slumber. Probably because that’s when the past has the most time to resurface and mingle with the constant ache in my chest and the phantom current in my extremities.

“How are you going to stop?” Isaac demands. “I heard you lock your door when you went to bed, and we both know you can’t control it. My students begin testing next week. I need my sleep.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll find a new client and move in with them as soon as possible.”

My soul screeches and stomach twists at the declaration, but the words pop from my mouth before I can stop them.

He sighs and slaps his leg before standing.

“Alright, I’ll take your word for it and stop grilling you at two a.m. You always seem so much more content when you’re helping someone else, so finding a new client is probably best. I need some shut eye, so I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight,” he says.

Without a backward glance, he hoists himself off the couch, shuffles to his room, and shuts the door. I flinch at the sound of his lock clicking into place.

Isaac likes men, but I can’t be trusted at night. He may not know about my sordid past, but he did have to kick me out of his room once because of my sleepwalking. Nausea, self-disgust, and shame pulse through me at the memory.

With careful control, I write the date on the bottom corner of my drawing, close my notebook, and rise. My feet ache from the extra practice walking in heels I put in over the last few days—the last thing I want is to trip in the high heels I’m wearing to Karey’s wedding—but I’m finally confident I won’t embarrass myself. I don’t know what madness drove me to buy such a tall pair, but I don’t regret it. The pain overrides the phantom sensations I usually battle in the morning.

My hands no longer tremor. For the first few weeks after the accident in high school, they shook so badly I could barely hold a pen long enough to write my name. The painful jolt of electricity and fiery agony of forcing my body to move afterward infected every atom in me.

In one fell swoop, I almost killed the four most important people in my life. My mother, my brother still growing in her womb, my best friend, and the only boy who ever made my heart skip a beat.

Since my obsession with art caused the catastrophe, I swore to never draw again even if my hands stopped shaking, but my body betrayed me. Mere months later, I woke with a sketchpad in my lap and a pencil clutched between my fingers.

I can’t even keep a vow to myself, so why should I expect anyone to trust me?

The children I care for are too naive. It’s wrong of me to let them put so much faith in me, but their eyes always pull me in and give me the strength to carry on. The constant pain in my heart drags me toward a dark, unending depression, but I’m too much of a coward to end my life.