Page 2 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

All I can do is trudge onward.

I stand, toss the wad of tissues into the bathroom trash, and shut myself in my room. For a few sleepless hours, I lie there looking up at my ceiling, seeing my most recent drawing staring down at me from the blank surface.

Silent tears flow down my temples. Shannon would have been such a lovely, vibrant woman. Fate is cruel.

Other faces creep into my thoughts.

Always present, Artur O’Brian, my one and only crush, lingers in my periphery. Our time spent flirting and showing interest in each other may have been brief, but the impact it had on my life is monumental.

Romance will never be for me. I’m cursed. Anyone who tries to get close to me will find a horrible end.

He didn’t die. Artur is still alive. Last I heard through the grapevine, he and Regina, my high school best friend, were having a baby together.

I flinch as my phone vibrates next to my head. Even without sound, the sudden shock of movement brings back the accident in vivid detail.

Rain beating on the roof of the bus stop behind the school. Regina’s perfect hair. Artur’s teasing smile. My mom’s car pulling up to the curb. All the hairs on my body standing on end. The horrible, deafening sound like a magnified whip snapping above us. Blinding light.

Artur rigid and ghastly as a black snake—the power line—dropping into the puddle at his feet. My instinctual lunge.

Horrible pain ripping through every cell in my body as I throw myself at him. The crack of his head against the concrete and crunch of bones as I land on top. Static blaring in my ears. The stench of burning. Panic as crimson swirls into the puddles around us. Artur’s still chest.

More crunching of bones under my palms and fresh blood—from my knees and elbows—as I frantically pumped his chest.

His gasping breath. Relief.

Terror as my mother’s scream cuts through the ringing in my ears.

Blood pouring down her legs as she braced against the hood of her car.

I dismiss my phone alarm and drag myself off the bed. After a quick shower to wash the fear sweat away, I dress and trudge through my morning routine—which is woefully dull without someone to care for—before lifting my notebook off my bedside table. Knowing I should shut it in the drawer but still too raw to hide Shannon away to be alone all day, I open my bag and slip her inside.

After starting a pot of coffee for Isaac and turning on the kettle, I pull the tin of tea bags down from the cabinet. Choosing a caffeine-free herbal blend for wellness and energy, I steep the tea for only half the recommended time before removing the bag and adding a tiny bit of honey.

Caffeine has never agreed with me, and fully brewed teas often smell too strong on my breath for my clients’ sensitive senses even hours after I consume them, so I learned to enjoy the weak flavors.

After two mugs of different teas and a quick trip to the restroom, I slip my bag over my shoulder and head out into the hall. The early morning foot traffic holds an edge of expectancy as the city prepares for rush hour. I turn into an internet café and update my resumé even though I know the agency already has, just to avoid the initial flood of people.

By the time I slip into the lobby of the most renowned pediatric home-health agency in the entire northeast region of the United States, the receptionist sits at her desk and most of the coordinators are in their offices with their doors closed. With my professional mask in place, my emotions numb enough for me to sit through the agonizing process of speaking with a coordinator.

A few hours later, I return to the empty apartment, take a long shower to shave and prep for Karey’s wedding, and change into the bridesmaid dress. Even as I style my hair and dab on a bit of makeup, I avoid looking at myself in the mirror. The dress Karey chose for her bridesmaids is stunning—and she made sure each of us could choose the bodice style we wanted—but I must have been out of my mind when I agreed to show so much skin. While the spaghetti straps accentuate my shoulders and the neckline is modest overall, the dress clings to my curves and leaves little to the imagination.

I throw a coat over my shoulders and don my sneakers for the walk. With my high heels dangling from my fingers and my bag tucked against my side, I exit the apartment and hop onto the bus. After transferring a few times, I greet my friends and enter the church.

An odd humming vibrates through my nerves, and it isn’t until I stand in front of a full-length mirror with my high heels on my feet and my shoulders exposed to the cool air that I recognize the signs of a panic attack.

I refuse to fall apart and ruin my friend’s special day, so I close my eyes and take a few measured breaths before forcing my gaze onto my reflection.

I am awake. I am alert. I am surrounded by friends. I am safe.

With the mantra repeating in my head, I follow the bridal party out into the atrium.

A young girl squeals in excitement and runs toward the open front door. My heart leaps into my throat as I imagine her running out into traffic, so I intercept her and ease the transition with a fun, careful little toss before settling her on my hip.

She’s too cute, even with her lopsided pigtails and messy face.

“Hello, beautiful. I’ve never met you before. Who do you belong to?” I ask in the calm, measured tone most children crave.

She studies my face before offering me a toothy grin and laying her head on my shoulder.