Page 47 of To Obsess

I can’t bring myself to write more than that tonight. After the date went so well, I stopped by Walmart to grab a cheap phone. I knew I couldn’t possibly text her from my regular phone after I had fucked up and texted her all those months ago. She might still have those messages, and that would destroy everything I’ve been working so hard to accomplish with her. All the rapport I’ve been trying to build by going into the store regularly, the date we just had. All of that would crumble around me if she had saved any of those messages.

After that, I drove home with a pit in my stomach. Don’t get me wrong—I’m beyond thrilled with the way things went. It was everything I could have imagined and more. That’s the problem, though.

Violet seemed to enjoy the real version of me, not this creepy guy behind the notes and cards. She got to experience who I actually am, and that was more enticing than anything I’ve ever come across.

There’s one big problem though. I can’t have both.

I have to make a decision and neither option fully gives me what I want. I could keep going out with her in person but drop the notes and cards. She’ll be heartbroken but hopefully heal in time. She’ll likely always wonder what happened to the guy who wrote to her for so many years, but maybe I could convince her he died. Horrible car wreck perhaps. Or maybe he ended up in jail for some truly reprehensible, unfathomable crime and can’t write to her anymore. At least with that choice, I get to keep her physically present in my life.

Or I can maintain the charade of the cards and back off in real life. I’m entirely reluctant to stop writing to her. It’s been such a big part of my life for so many years now that I can’t imagine going on without it. Maybe that makes me selfish, but it’s the truth.

A third, likely idiotic, plan begins to bloom in the back of my mind, entirely against my will. I know it can’t work forever and will likely destroy everything I cherish in the process, but it’s more than a little enticing. If I play it all out correctly, maybe I don’t really have to give up anything.

I can keep writing to her as Killian while I date her as Alex.

Even as I roll my eyes at my own stupidity, I can’t completely discount the idea. In theory, it would give me everything I’ve been craving for years.

I place the phone face down on the table in an attempt to ignore it until I can get some things done around the apartment. I’ve been neglecting my cleaning for the past several weeks, finding myself too wrapped up in watching Violet to keep up with it.

The week-old take-out containers on the kitchen counter are attracting gnats and smelling beyond ripe. They’re a stark reminder that I may have let things go a bit too far recently. Violet has always been a slippery slope for me, but I used to maintain a better grip on my sanity.

Thoughts of her fill my mind as I throw them away, drain half-empty bottles of water in the sink, and sweep up the dirt and dust that have been dragged in since I last tidied the space.

It takes every scrap of willpower I can dredge from the depths of my soul to keep from running across the kitchen to grab my phone when I hear it buzz on the coffee table.

Instead, I take a few deep breaths, steady my heartbeat, and finish the last of the cleaning. Once everything is done – floors are clean, old food thrown out, and sink scrubbed and sparkling – I pad back to the living room. My stomach is roiling with nausea as I reach for the phone, excited and a little scared to see her response.

Is this girl dense? Of freaking course I was thinking about her. I do nothing but think of her lately. If only she knew how much space she takes up in my brain. Instead of saying all that, I respond.

I hit send before I have time to process how stupid and sappy that sounded. My pulse quickens as I bring my palm to my forehead with a light slap. I haven’t done this ‘dating’ thing before, and I’m obviously not very good at it thus far.

Three little dots dance on the screen, heightening the feeling in my stomach until I think I won’t be able to hold it back any longer. With no time to spare, the dots disappear and a new message takes their place.

One. Freaking. Word. One word has a grin pulling at my mouth, heart fluttering in my chest. Instead of responding right away (don’t want to look too desperate, ya know?) I place the phone back on the table and set up my easel against the far wall.

When I finally look up from my work, the sun has descended in the sky, casting the world in a gorgeous yellow and orange light, almost like it’s lit from the inside. I swipe the hair from my forehead with the back of a wrist, careful to avoid getting more paint in it.

The picture takes several long moments to come into focus in front of my eyes. As it starts to take on a recognizable form, I squint my eyes and scrunch my brows. This isn’t what I set out to paint tonight.

I had full intentions of painting a beautiful scene of our date at the park, complete with the flowing river, our blanket and basket of food, focusing mostly on her beauty as everything around her is cast in a slight blur.

Instead, I got this monstrosity. I don’t remember when the blues had shifted to black. I didn’t notice the oranges changing to reds, the glow of her skin becoming a stream of blood instead of sunlight.

Appalled as I am, I can’t help but drink in the scene I created in something that was supposed to be magical. The gorgeous blue river flows black and sludgy across the canvas. I painted myself as mostly a blur, but there’s no mistaking the knife in my hand for something less sinister, just as there’s no mistaking the pain and blood on Violet’s face.

“Fuck,” I half whisper to the empty apartment. With no concern for how much paint ends up in my hair, I run my gloved hands through it, pulling on the strands until sharp pains prick my scalp.

I know I really should slash the canvas with a kitchen knife, break it down and toss it out with the trash, but I can’t bring myself to do it. As gruesome and gut-wrenching as it is to look at, I can’t bring myself to destroy it.

The easel is shoved into the corner, paints stored beneath it, and I’m stowing the canvas in the back corner of my closet before I can think of a better plan to get rid of it. Obviously, I can’t keep it. What kind of man would that make me? I just need to find a way to fix it. Maybe I can paint over it when my head is more clear.

That’s the problem, though. When I started painting, I thought my head was clear. For the first time in weeks, I found myself dreaming of good things for the future. I was making plans for my next date with Violet, running through different ideas of things she might enjoy. For the first time in a long time, I truly was finding joy in the prospect of the future.

All the while, my hands were creating that obscenity. And I never even noticed. Not until it was finished. Not until it was too late.

Chapter 43

Violet