Midnight Valentine

25

Now if only I could be assured that you have equally good taste in guitarists as you do in singer-songwriters.

To: Theo@hillrise.com

From: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com

Subject: No need to shout, King Crabby Poo

I scoff at your challenge. It’s too easy. Top 5:

1 – BB King

2 – Les Paul

3 – Eddie Van Halen

4 – Jimmy Page

5 – Jimi Hendrix

To: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com

From: Theo@hillrise.com

Subject: Wow

How can you expect me to like someone who puts Jimi Hendrix last? I think we’re done here.

To: Theo@hillrise.com

From: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com

Subject: Re: Wow

I never said the list was ranked in order. Check your assumptions, KCP.

And while we’re on the topic of assumptions, would it be safe for me to assume if I hired you to renovate my house, THIS version of Theo Valentine would appear? Because this guy I can handle. This guy I like.

I wait for the blinding-fast response he’s been giving me, but it doesn’t come. After five minutes, I decide he must’ve taken a bathroom break or something, but at fifteen minutes, I’m afraid I won’t hear from him again until the morning—if at all. Maybe his sense of good humor only lasts for a twenty-minute window starting at 3:00 a.m.

But then an answer comes through and stuns me with its honesty.

To: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com

From: Theo@hillrise.com

Subject: This guy

I want you to like me, but you shouldn’t. I’m not stable. I’m not even sure if I’m sane. You said something in the car about that moment in a romantic comedy where everything could be solved if the people having problems just talked, but what I’d have to say if we talked about the problem wouldn’t be romantic, or funny.

It would be scary as hell.

Let me be clear: that isn’t a threat. I’m not a danger to you, or anyone. I’m just…fucked up. The kind of f****d up that doesn’t have a cure. The kind of f****d up that hears voices and sees ghosts and sometimes can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t. Especially at night, when all the monsters I can usually keep locked up during the day refuse to be contained.

Which is why I don’t sleep. Which is why I’ve tried every available medication from antipsychotics to pot. Which is why I stay away from people, except when I’m working, the only thing that keeps me grounded in reality.

Which is why we can never be friends, Megan. We can never be anything.

I want to work on the Buttercup because I love it. I love it in a way that couldn’t make sense to you, and still doesn’t make complete sense to me, but that house feels like an anchor to me. Like an island in the middle of a huge, black ocean.

Like the needle on a compass pointing true north.

If you decide to hire me, even after this ridiculous confession which I shouldn’t have sent but had to, I’ll kill myself making that house perfect. (Not being literal, but you know what I mean.) If you decide not to hire me, I understand. Craig is a solid guy. He’ll do a good job.

Theo

I sit in bed with my mouth hanging open, reading the email again and again. Finally, I close my laptop and lie back down, my head buzzing and my nerves jumping like I’ve had ten cups of coffee.

We can never be friends, Megan. We can never be anything.

I stare at the ceiling until the sun slips over the horizon and floods the room with light.

Then I compose an email to Craig at Capstone telling him I’m looking forward to getting his contract on Monday and asking how soon he’d need the first payment of cash.

* * *

For the rest of the day, I’m unsettled. I can’t stop thinking about Theo’s email. I read it about a dozen times, trying to understand what he could have meant by the problem is “scary as hell.”

Logic tells me to keep away from him. I’m too old for this kind of drama. But the mystery of Theo Valentine is one my curiosity finds irresistible.

I decide not to call Suzanne. I’m still angry at her, and I know I’ll pester her for more details about Theo, which is the last thing I should do. I’ve got my own problems to deal with. I don’t need to add his to the pile.

I order takeout again and eat it standing up in the kitchen over the sink, then take a bath and go to bed.

During the night, a storm blows in. The rain pounding the roof sounds like gunfire. Thunder booms in the distance, and flashes of lightning illuminate the room in sudden, bright white light.

I fall into a fitful sleep and dream of endless fields of purple sweet peas swaying under the summer sun.

When I get out of bed at 8:00 a.m., the sky is a dull, heavy gray, which perfectly matches my mood. I stumble downstairs in my robe, my head thick and my eyes bleary from hours of tossing. I get the coffeemaker started and stand there yawning as a cup brews. When the phone rings, I answer it absentmindedly.

“Hello?”

“You’re not going to believe this!”

I yank the phone away from my ear, because Suzanne’s excited shout just pierced my eardrum. “A little warning would be nice before you break the sound barrier, Suzanne,” I grumble, reaching for the mug.

“I just saw on the local news that Capstone Construction’s headquarters was destroyed last night!”

I freeze. “Destroyed? What’re you talking about?”

“It was hit by friggin’ lightning! Can you believe that?”

My brain is having trouble processing her words. I squint at the coffeemaker, not entirely sure I’m not still upstairs in bed, dreaming. “Lightning,” I repeat slowly.