Midnight Valentine

44

I’ll call the company later to find out what the hell happened, but I need a moment to compose my thoughts. I need a moment to reconnect with these relics from my past.

It was a clerical error. Someone made a mistake, that’s all. The schedules were switched, the hotel found other art they wanted to hang on their walls, there’s a reasonable explanation for all of it. These coincidences don’t mean anything, Megan. You’re not thinking straight.

Nothing has anything to do with Theo.

I sense him there before I even open my eyes. He’s a presence in the doorway, silent, but palpable nonetheless.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just having a little nap.”

Footsteps slowly approach. I turn my head and meet Theo’s eyes. He’s a foot above me, his expression bemused. He glances at the words on the side of the crate, then his dark eyes s***h back to mine. His brows lift in inquiry.

I sigh and hide from his penetrating gaze by staring at the exposed wood beams on the ceiling. “It’s stuff from my old house. I wasn’t expecting it yet.” My chuckle is low in my throat, full of dark humor. “The list of things I wasn’t expecting is growing by leaps and bounds lately.”

After a moment, Theo strokes a finger along the edge of the crate. From my peripheral vision, I can see that his expression has turned thoughtful. He wants to know what’s inside.

I’m not going to tell him what’s inside.

I’m being ridiculously superstitious, and I hate myself for it, but I can’t handle any more weird coincidences. If I tell him the crate is full of oil paintings and he sends me a chipper text that reads, “Hey, I’m a painter too!” I’ll have a heart attack and die on the spot.

“It’s…um. Pottery.”

Silence. Without moving my head, I slide my eyes sideways and look at Theo.

With exaggerated slowness, he mouths the word Liar.

I huff out a breath, sit up, cross my legs beneath me, and drag my hands through my hair. Propping my elbows on my knees, I drop my head into my hands and close my eyes again.

“Okay. Here’s the truth: it’s stuff I don’t want to talk about. It’s stuff that hurts me to think about, and it’s gonna hurt even worse to look at.” I swallow. My voice comes out thick. “It’s my husband’s things.”

I hear him softly exhale. Then I hear the scratching noise of pen on paper, then a tearing sound. Then Theo gently nudges my elbow. I c***k open an eye and see a small piece of notebook paper resting on my knee, with the words I’m sorry written on it.

“You don’t have to be sorry. Not your circus. Not your monkeys. Don’t worry about it.”

He takes back the paper, scribbles something else on it, and sets it back on my knee. It reads, Can I get you anything?

When I look at him, he’s visibly worried, his dark brows drawn together, his full lips turned down.

“A lobotomy? A nice case of amnesia? Some brainwashing, perhaps?”

He knows what I mean, but he shakes his head sharply in disagreement. I get a new note, this one scribbled furiously fast.

If the good memories outweigh the bad,

you shouldn’t want to forget the past.

I read it, twice, then crush the piece of paper in my fist. Blinking back tears, I whisper, “I don’t want to forget him. I want to forget who I am without him.”

Then—impossibly, horribly—I’m crying.

Ugly crying, because I’m not one of those lucky women who can weep into a handkerchief and make it look dainty. When I cry, it involves unattractive noises and great gasps of air like I’m drowning. It involves full-body shaking and snot.

A big, warm hand presses against the space between my shoulder blades. A steady, reassuring pressure, it stays until my tears slow and I’m glowing with embarrassment for breaking down in front of him. Then Theo takes his hand back, and I wipe my eyes with my fingertips and my nose with my sleeve.

Avoiding his eyes, I hop off the crate and look at my feet. My voice comes out sounding small and strangled. “Sorry about that. Anyway. I’m gonna go inside now.”

Neither one of us moves. At his sides, Theo’s hands are clenched. When I glance up at his face, it’s strained. I think he’s trying to hold himself back from taking me into his arms to comfort me, and I’m swamped by another wave of sadness.

My loneliness pounds so hard inside me, I’d probably have a total mental breakdown if he did.

A lone tear crests my lower lid and slides down my cheek. Watching it fall, Theo looks like he’s been stabbed in the gut. I lift my hand to dash it away, but Theo reaches out and gently swipes his thumb over my cheekbone.

My entire body goes electric at his touch. I freeze, inhaling sharply. From one breath to the next, I become aware of his heat, how erratically his chest is rising and falling, the faint scent of soap on his skin. We stare at each other in crackling silence, my heart like a wild animal trying to claw its way out of my chest.

His hand trembles against my face. His eyes blaze with emotion. Lips parted, he leans toward me.

Off in the distance, one of the men calls his name, and the spell is broken as abruptly as it was cast.

Theo snatches his hand away, reddens, then spins on his heel, his jaw tight and his brows lowered. He stalks out of the garage, letting the door slam shut behind him.