Page 62 of Meet Me In The Dark
“You remember the picnic club I told you about, baby? The one Nathan mentioned,” Wes says, watching her.
Her mouth falls open. “Oh. Yeah, Julian, you did the picnic wrong.”
“How?”
“You’re supposed to eat and leave everything behind, not get attached to the cutlery.”
Wes chokes on his water.
I laugh. “But the picnic was really good.”
“Have you tried taking her out to dinner?” she asks.
I give her a look. “That’s not a metaphor?”
“No, Julian. A real dinner. With napkins. Try a steak instead of whatever salad you two shared on a blanket.”
“What?”
“Julian,” she says, resting her chin on her hand. “You have two speeds: emotional lockdown or complete obsession. Find a third gear, for the love of God.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple. Call her. Take her out. You’re not some haunted widower. This isn’tWuthering Heights. You’re not Heathcliff.”
Rosie toddles back over just in time to save me, handing me a half-chewed daisy.
I accept it with a smile. “Thanks, Princess.”
“You stinky,” she reminds me.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Seems to be the consensus today.”
Nineteen
Celeste
Smells Like Teen Spiritby Nirvana blasts through my alarm and jolts me awake. Groaning, I roll onto my side and rub my eyes as Kurt Cobain screams at me to get my ass out of bed.
Bare feet hit the cool hardwood as I swing my legs over the side. Routine has always been my religion. It’s safe. It’s predictable. Running every morning is my pilgrimage, and lately, I haven’t missed a day because I’ve been feeling good. No cramps. No feeling like I’m going to bleed out on the bathroom floor.
Running clears my head, keeps anxiety at bay, and quiets the restless voices that never seem to shut up.
I pull on black leggings, a sports bra, and a soft gray hoodie before tying my hair into a ponytail.
The memory of yesterday morning surges forward, unbidden.
The audacity of that man, following me like I was some damsel in distress. As if I hadn’t run that same route countless mornings before he decided to grace me with his domineering presence.
It was sweet, Celeste. He was making sure you didn’t get murdered.
Shut up, brain.
I stalk into the kitchen, grab a banana, and peel it aggressively before stuffing it in my mouth.
Headphones in, I flick my playlist to shuffle. Fleetwood Mac’sGo Your Own Wayfills my ears.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
