And he told me about him. If I can believe anything he told me at all.
His parents are dead, both killed in a fire when he was ten. I wonder if the similarities between him and Jess drew me to him. Or maybe it’s the fact that, like me, he’s an only child. We connected on all those things, but do I even know anything about Adam? I wonder if he really is a civil engineer. Concerned I’ve been played, trying not to think about why anyone would scam me like that, I key my computer screen to life, I google “Adam Roth, civil engineer, Tennessee.” The search engine does its work, displaying a rapid response but not a good one. My stomach is a twisty, turning mess when I find nothing. Desperate to prove Google wrong, I try again. This time I search for “Adam Roth, civil engineer, Texas,” and to my utter relief, I find him on a large construction and design website.
My tight shoulders literally slump forward.
He’s not lying to me about himself, at least.
I wait a moment, savoring the information I’ve discovered, weighing my emotions. I’m still uncomfortable.
Shivering, I hug myself, then grab the very phone I didn’t want to touch a few moments ago, with the intent of calling Jess. My finger hovers and then falls away. I set my phone down again, the ball of emotions in my belly rolling down a proverbial hill and crashing with an explosion of realization. I’m not ready to talk to Jess or anyone right now. Not before I understand what I’m feeling.
I press my hand to my forehead. Lord help me, on some level, the idea that he really knows who I am and is still interested pleases me. On another, I wonder what is wrong with this man. He is good looking, successful, and good natured, and yet he skulks around and watches me from afar. Why would he do such a thing?
He told you why, I remind myself.
Because he’s like me or he was once like me.
Why didn’t that feel more wrong than it did before now?
I reach for the phone again, intending to call Jack, but hesitate once more. What am I supposed to ask him? Has my stalker, dating-app mystery man I haven’t told you about been chatting it up with you? I set my phone down again.
I’m not ready to talk about Adam to anyone.
Not yet.
Not until—I don’t know when.
Just not yet.
Chapter Forty-Six
Present . . .
The footsteps above me on the upper stairwell grow louder, clunking down the steps, closing in on me, and I do the only thing I can do.
I run.
Someone is coming. What if it’s the wrong someone?
I’m alive. I plan to stay that way, even if I have to use this damn knife again.
Adrenaline surges through me, fight or flight in high gear now, the human will to survive controlling me, driving me. With one hand gripping the steel banister of the stairwell, the other the steel handle of the letter opener, I sway, but my feet stay under me just as I’m hunched over, but not falling over. One flight of steps, two, three.
Finally the exit is before me and I turn the knob, and just like the stories you hear of a mother trying to save her child from a burning car—therefore she has superhuman strength—I yank the door open with a herculean force that I do not normally possess.
I all but hurl my body outside into the gusty wind, the dark sky above, darker than night, the kind of dark, ominous sky that promises dangerous weather. These storms favor Tennessee this time of year, even if those of us who live here do not favor them. I scan the empty parking lot, free of cars, no help to be found. A straight path forward leaves my back to the door and exposed to attack.
I go left, into a line of trees framing the parking lot and leading to the road. I’ve barely found the sanctuary of their coverage when the stairwell door is thrust open. Blood rushes in my ears, and I duck down behind a row of bushes, a tearing sensation in my belly shocking me, a loud whimpering cry escaping my lips before I can pull it back. Exposing me yet again.
I rotate left toward the main road and start crawling.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The past . . .
Adam doesn’t text or call me back.
Hours pass, and my disappointment grows with each silent moment.
I’m in bed, a glass of wine on the nightstand, my MacBook in my lap, and I’m wearing my basic PJs with butterflies on the flannel that Jess hates and has replaced with silk and satin a million times. But tonight is about feeling like me, being me, understanding me. A task I’m not certain I’m capable of achieving. The truth is, I felt as if Adam was helping me travel a path of discovery.
Was I too hard on him?
Did I freak out over something that should have been romantic, would have been, in fact, to anyone else? But to me, I made it creepy?
Should I call him?
Instead, I open the dating app with no real purpose, not even sure what it is that I am looking for right now. My message box flashes, telling me I have ten new messages. I click on the icon, and the first message is from Kevin. Guilt jabs at me, all prickly and sharp, reminding me that I was wrong about him. Then again, I remind myself, he hit on my best friend and was a jerk about it as well.
It’s right then that another message hits my inbox. This one is from Adam.
Mia,
I understand that you feel betrayed, but what you see as a betrayal, I see as me being spontaneous and romantic. I truly feel that if you believed in yourself more than you do, if you saw yourself as I do, you would have as well. Instead, you saw a stalker being creepy. We both know that’s because you didn’t think anyone who wasn’t a creep would do such a thing for you.
Well, I’m not a creep despite the fact that you all but told me I am tonight.
And you’re not unworthy, despite the fact that you always feel that you are.
If this is the last communication we have, remember this . . .
You’re a beautiful woman hiding in the shell of an existence too small for what you deserve, Mia. All I ever wanted was to lead you on a journey of self-discovery.
—Adam
I blink at the words, read them again, and again, and swallow hard. A journey of self-discovery? Does he mean sexually? The idea both terrifies and excites me. A little. I don’t know. I think it should excite me a lot. I’m a little deprived of male attention, but I’m just weird with Adam. Interested, afraid, confused. I read the message again.
The words are written in past tense, as if he’s done with me.
What am I doing? He’s gorgeous. He’s successful. He wants me. What girl doesn’t want a man like this one to want her?
What have I done? What have I done?
My hands hover over the keyboard with the intent of replying, not even sure what to say, until finally I just type what I really feel. I’m sorry. You’re right. People like you don’t happen to me, Adam. I was just confused. The truth is, I still am, but I don’t think you’re a creep. I think—my fingers freeze a moment before I dare to add—I think you’re pretty wonderful.
Seconds tick by, then a full minute, then two. No reply. I set my MacBook aside, throw off the blankets and sit up, pressing my hands to my face. What have I done?
My cellphone rings, and I jump, standing and staring at it as if it will bite me. I grab it and check the caller ID. It’s Adam. Drawing in a breath, with a trembling hand—good Lord, I’m so very nervous—I hit the answer button. “Hello.”
“Hello, Mia,” he says, and the deep, intimate baritone of his voice does funny things to my belly.
“Adam,” I reply, deciding the way he says my name is a good thing, not a bad thing. I do want to be seen, at least by him.
“Now that you know I wrote the notes, wear your hair down for me tomorrow.”
Butterflies do a fluttery schoolgirl dance routine in my chest, and I am more alive than I have ever been before this moment. “Does that mean I get to meet you in person?”
“You’re not ready yet. Wear your hair down.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Not until you spread your wings; will you know just how far you can fly.
—Matthew James Elliott