Page 7 of My Bloody Valentine

“It’s a filing system! How else should I track which places make me feel what?” I spread my hands. “Last week, I had pad thai that tasted like pure chaos.”

“Normal people just use Yelp stars.” She taps her chopsticks against the table—one-two-three, one-two-three. “But no, mybest friend has to create spreadsheets with color-coded emotions.”

“Says the person who won’t start painting until her brushes are arranged by size down to the millimeter.”

“That’s different. It’s about flow and energy alignment.”

“Right, and the fact that you count your brush strokes isn’t weird at all.”

“Hey!” She points her chopstick at me. “That one time I lost count at 2,847 and had to start over was justified. The composition was off.”

“And you called me at three a.m. to complain about it.” I arrange my napkin so it’s perfectly square with the table edge. “Which, by the way, I logged in my ‘Amelia’s Art Crises’ journal.”

“You did not.” She pauses. “What color tab did you give it?”

“Midnight blue. For both the time of night and your mood.”

We burst out laughing, drawing looks from nearby tables. Amelia resumes tapping her chopsticks, and I avoid snatching them and aligning them with her placemat.

“We’re a mess, aren’t we?” she sighs, but her smile is fond.

“A perfectly organized mess,” I correct, finally getting the napkin corners just right.

Our food arrives, steaming and fragrant, but my mind keeps drifting back to that truffle. The way it enveloped my tongue, decadent and velvety, with an unmistakable finish that could only be...

“Earth to Maya?” Amelia waves her hand in front of my face. “You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry.” I taste the pad thai, but the noodles taste flat compared to Adrian’s chocolate. “Just thinking about work.”

“About work or about tall, dark, and chocolatey?”

I choke on my noodles. “What?”

“Please. Every time I mention Adrian Vale, you either blush or zone out. Sometimes both.” She stirs her curry. “And right now, you’re doing both.”

“It’s not...” I take a sip of water. “There was something in that last chocolate. Something... personal.”

“Personal how?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “You know how my synesthesia works. How I can taste emotions, intentions...”

“And?”

“And there was definitely something intimate in that final piece. Something that felt like...” I lower my voice. “Like him… his essence.”

Amelia’s eyes go wide. “Wait, are you saying he?—”

“I think so.” I push my pad thai around the plate. “But that’s not even the strangest part. The Valentine’s collection had this other ingredient. Something sinister and empty. Like biting into a void.”

“That’s creepy.” Amelia shudders. “Maybe he’s using some weird experimental ingredients?”

“Maybe.” But I sense it goes beyond that. The taste lingers in my memory, a black hole pulling me in. Part of me wants to run far away from Adrian Vale and his chocolates. But another part, a wicked part I didn’t know existed, craves more.

4

ADRIAN

Itap my phone screen, refreshing Maya’s Instagram feed for the hundredth time this week. Her latest post shows her favorite Vietnamese restaurant, which she visits every Wednesday at precisely twelve forty-five p.m. The pho is garnished with fresh herbs. My little critic has excellent taste.

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