Page 9 of Twisted Roses

When she broke things off with me, I tried to do just that. For the first time in many years, I attempted to get Delphine out of my system.

But she was everywhere. I’d come home after a long night at Nirvana and she was inescapable. I smelled her on my sheets and saw her lying in my bed. Every corner of my loft reminded me of her in some way.

All the places we had enjoyed each other. The hot, passionate moments and the slower, tender moments I only ever experienced with Delphine.

Her laughter ringed in the halls and I’d walk into the kitchen and almost hallucinate her standing by the stove, making a cup of tea. In the living room, she’d be by the window, reading. She’d look up and smile at me. One of those small sweet smiles of hers touching her lips. I had to get her out of my fucking head.

It drove me crazy in the first few weeks. I almost had a new loft built just to get rid of her. Rationally, it shouldn’t have been an issue to move on.

Obsessions don’t tend to listen to reason. It’s beyond my control. I’m physically incapable of staying away. Inevitably, I find myself back at square one, as infatuated with her as ever.

I’ve paced the length of the office twice before noticing I’m not alone. Stitches sits on the sofa waiting on me. When our eyes meet, he straightens his wire-framed glasses and offers a half shrug.

“I figured you’d notice me eventually. Rough night?”

“You could say that.”

“You always have the same look.”

I raise a brow at him, stopping at my knife display—I collect them as a hobby. “What look are you talking about?”

“It’s a mix between a rabid dog about to strike and a puppy that’s heartbroken.”

“Even if that made sense it wouldn’t be worth dignifying with an answer.”

“I don’t mean anything by it. Except,” Stitches says, giving another shrug, “Miss ADA has a special effect on you is all.”

I’ve selected a knife from my display to throw at the dart board halfway across the room. At Stitches’ comment, I freeze mid-throw and shift my gaze in his direction.

“What do you meanspecial effect?”

“Nothing. Just that it, you know… it makes sense. With you being in love with her and all.”

“I’m not in love with her. I don’t love her… or anyone.”

The look that passes over Stitches’ face irritates me enough to consider using him as my dart board. It’s the flattening of his mouth and skeptical bunch of his brows. His glasses hanging low on his skinny nose that does him in.

He thinks I’m bullshitting.

“Now what’s that look for?” I snap. In the same second, I toss the knife at the dart board. It’s a violent throw, sticking to the triple ring with athwack.

Stitches holds up both hands. “I told you it’s nothing. Just, I know these things.”

“You mean you’re a regular ol’ cupid who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“Remember me and my girl Veronica?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I say, selecting another knife. “But isn’t that the one who filed a restraining order against you?”

“Yeah, because I couldn’t leave the girl alone. I was addicted, Psycho.”

I don’t say anything. Instead, I focus on tossing the second knife. It lands on the outer ring circling the bullseye.

The point Stitches is trying to make is clear. But he couldn’t be more wrong.

My obsession with Delphine is rooted in my selfishness. Its origin is in hatred—I’d detested her father so much I wanted to ruin his most prized possession. As it turned out, that possession happened to be one I liked having.

So I decided to keep her for myself. In a way, it’s evenworserevenge against Daddy Adams.

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