“Are you all right?” she asked, handing me a folder. “Your face is red.”
I touched my cheek. I was, in fact, flushed, and I was pretty damned sure that tickle in the small of my back was nervous beads of sweat.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just a little overworked this week. That’s all.”
“Well, I think you did great—you catch on quickly. Especially for someone so young.”
I wasn’t certain if she meant it. She may have simply been probing for my age.
“Thank you.” I gave her a polite nod and went to pack my things for the day, feigning calmness. Home would be a more suitable place to digest the event. Whoever that man was, something about him was…wrong. So very, very wrong.
No. That makes no sense. Don’t project this onto him. Logic would say that the event was in my head—triggered by something external, something indirectly related to him. For all I knew, an ordinary apple could’ve evoked the same response. An apple or a breeze or something random that my mind inadvertently connected with.
But deep inside my gut, this didn’t feel random at all. And neither did my instant obsession with Mr. Room Twenty-Five.
~~~
That evening I took Bentley for a long powerwalk on the beach, ignoring the fact it was mid-February and unusually cold outside. Normally, I wouldn’t risk lowering my body temperature and getting sick. And normally, I would’ve gotten irritated with the way Bentley stared, as if to say, “Hey, lady, you suck at being a dog owner,” but tonight my mind was filled with other worries. At least, that was what I guessed the knot in my stomach and heaviness in my heart meant.
What happened to me today? I thought while stretching on my wood-framed balcony overlooking a not-so-pacific view of the Pacific, the roaring waves rippling with moonlight. My brain feels like that ocean. Rolling and thundering with an invisible, unstoppable force all its own. A door had been kicked open inside me. But why would flipping on the lights and locking eyes with that man do this?
Once again, an image of those vivid cobalt blue orbs played in my head, but I still couldn’t remember his face.
Whatever this was, I wouldn’t be solving it tonight. Perhaps in the morning I might resort to calling my father. He was a retired psychologist, now living in Scottsdale, Arizona, with my mother to pursue a life of cactus gardening, golf, and sunshine.
No. You don’t require help. You’re still Ted Valentine. You’re in control. Capable. You can deal with this.
Of course, those were all just empty words because I had zero explanation for what was happening.
Thinking that a well-rested mind might help, I went to bed early. That night I dreamed of running down a steep dirt hill, the sun burning my back while I was chased by a man with a gleaming silver sword, his face covered in blood. When I was unable to run any further, I looked down at my muddy burlap dress. I was already bleeding from a deep wound. I then looked up at the approaching man, and all I could see were two stunning blue eyes framed by a face covered in deep crimson.
Then it all faded away.
~~~
The next morning I craved sausage. Sausage and eggs and cheese. I felt ravenous—like a person who hadn’t eaten in weeks.
I shuffled through my freezer, wondering why all of my food was so healthy and bland. Frozen chicken, peas, and some plain spaghetti Lean Cuisines. Inside my refrigerator were bags of prepared salad, bottled water, turkey, and bread. No mayo, dressings, hot sauces, or anything fatty or spicy.
“Who is this person?” I said under my breath, running my hands over the top of my head and catching a glimpse of Bentley sitting there staring at me judgmentally.
“For fuck’s sake! What are you looking at? Haven’t you ever seen a person go crazy?”
He continued staring as if to say, “No. You’re my first, you crazy bitch.”
“Yeah, well…fuck you back, Bentley!”
He practically rolled his eyes at me and headed for the little grassy side yard through his doggy door, seeking better company outside. Tree. Squirrel. Hermit crab. Whatever.
I went back into my depressingly sterile-looking bedroom—white comforter, white armchair, reading lamp, a white dresser, and a clock—slipped on my jeans and a tee and grabbed my car keys, heading straight for the drive-thru. I purchased two breakfast croissanwiches and a mocha with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup. I inhaled everything, noticing how each bite of the salty fat tasted like an orgasm in my mouth, born from some dark delicious world and better than any sex. Yes, I’d had sex. And I’d had orgasms, too. They were pleasant when I was lucky enough to achieve one, but I’d never understood why so many people obsessed over getting off. I much preferred a good jog or a hot bath. Those were beneficial to my health. But this morning, my taste buds felt like they were connected to every part of my body. I’d even caught myself moaning at a stoplight while I chewed a piece of gooey melted cheese.