Page 136 of Perfect
I know what Ishoulddo, and I know what Iwantto do, but I don’t know what I’m going to do until I take the first step down the dead-end road that leads to him.
I twist the knob on his weird, vintage doorbell, but he doesn’t answer the door. His cars are all here, so I doubt he’s in Yachats. Maybe he’s out, but he knows what time I run on Sundays, and I don’t think he’d risk it.
I turn the handle and find the door is unlocked, which is unusual because healwayslocks his doors. I slip off my running shoes and look around, seeing that his house is spotless. Theo’s a neat freak anyway, but it had begun to look like someone might live here. Right now, it’s basically a showpiece. I head upstairs to his bedroom, and it’s spotless except for a bag of my things set neatly in the corner with a thick envelope on top.
I stare at the bag and letter with apprehension, but I don’t touch either.
His office has a large, organized pile of brand-new therapy and self-help books on his desk, as well as a notebook and some highlighters. There are some unmarked sealed manila envelopes and a few stacks of paper on his desk, and everything is tidy. I resist the strong urge to go through his things, but I don’t like the look of the envelopes, which look exactly like the ones we put documents in at work. I notice he’s got the Polaroid of us in front of the tree taped to one of his monitors, and I pick it up and look at it for a long time.
We look so happy.
I check the guest rooms he never uses, and they’re all perfectly tidy and recently cleaned, but he’s not there. I open a small door that leads to a narrow staircase, which must be the entrance to the attic, and I get a little nervous as I climb the stairs slowly. I keep my eyes on the rafters, but it’s just a cramped attic full of boxes and no Theo, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
I’m probably being ridiculous.
I check the rooms downstairs that he never uses, but he’s not in any of them. When I head into the kitchen and see that his fridge is empty, I start to panic.
I hurry towards the detached garage, but when I pass the basement door, I hear something, so I open it and head down the stairs.
His basement is a huge home gym, and Theo’s facing away from me with headphones on, shirtless and in workout shorts, jumping rope rapidly. I know that he works out when he’s wound up, which is why he’s in such great shape despite the absurd amount of food he eats, but I just thought he ran a lot and had some dumbbells. I’m pretty sure he’s got a nicer gym down here than the rec center. He’s got a weird, curved treadmill, a weight rack, a cable machine, and a wide variety of other equipment, including a Pilates machine that looks untouched.
This issoexcessive for one person, but I shouldn’t be surprised.
He’s not usually one for restraint.
He still hasn’t noticed me, so I sit on the steps and watch him over the low wooden railing. On further inspection, the gym looks like the most used room in the house right now. It’s almost messy, which is probably a bad sign. I wait, watching the clock, and he only starts to slow down after about ten minutes.
God, he must be really stressed.
It’s a few more minutes before he finally stops, hanging the rope on a hook on the wall and breathing hard. He puts his face in his hands and tilts his head back, his chest heaving, and I can see rivulets of sweat rolling down the lean, defined muscles of his body. As I look at him, I become extremely aware of an ache between my legs that wasn’t there when I walked into the basement.
We need to get out of this house.
Theo turns around and startles when he sees me, swearing loudly as he whips off his headphones. The music filtering out is so loud and aggressive that it’s no wonder he didn’t hear me. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and he’s very pale with dark circles under his eyes, and he looks a little leaner than the last time I saw him. His face morphs from shock to elation and he jolts forward as if to get closer to me, but seems to stop himself.
“Sorry, honey, you scared the shit out of me. I’ve been leaving the door open for you, but I didnotthink you’d be here. Holy shit, I’ve missed you. How long have you been here?Fuck, you lookgorgeous.” He takes a deep breath, running his hands back through his hair. “You didn’t tell me you were coming, or I wouldn’t have been down here. I would have made you something to eat after your run. Do you want something to eat? Actually, I don’t even have any food, I’m so sorry. How was your run? How have you been? Are you okay?Why are you here?”
He doesn’t let me answer any questions before he asks the next one, and I stare at him, concern and affection warring for my attention. He seems wound so much tighter than normal, but he looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes are wide and searching my face rapidly, and I can tell it’s bothering him that I haven’t said anything yet.
“Theo, come here.” He walks towards me quickly and leans against the stair railing, close enough to touch me, but he doesn’t.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispers. He’s looking at me in the intense way he did in Yachats, like he’s trying to memorize my face, and it makes me more nervous. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to keep my expression neutral.
“I think it’s time we talked.” His face goes blank instantly, and he looks away from me, nodding to himself.
“I’ll leave you alone, I promise,” he says quietly, and his resigned, hollow tone makes me feel like I was right to be nervous. I reach over the railing and stroke his cheek softly, and he looks back at me, shock and a slight flush creeping across his face as he leans into my touch.
“I don’t want that.” His eyes go wide, and he stares at me, confused. I smile at him, trying to hide how deeply concerned I am about him. “Let’s go get lunch, okay? It’ll be our first date.”
***
Theo doesn’t seem to know how to act around me. He’s nervous, his leg bouncing constantly, and he's so distracted that he lets me pay for lunch, which I know he doesn’t like. He doesn’t order anything but coffee, but he drinks alotof coffee.
He looks at me in that weird, intense way, and starts asking me a litany of inane questions about the last three weeks – what did I eat, where did I go, did I read anything, etc. I indulge him, but I don’t know if I trust that he doesn’t know the answers.
When I ask him how he’s been, he gets cagey and doesn’t make eye contact.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, and I force myself not to roll my eyes.
