Some Sort of Happy (Skylar and Sebastian): A Happy Crazy Love Novel (8 page)

Refrain from spacing hangers in closet just so. 50

Write less than eight words on a line. 30

Eat a mint after it falls on floor. 80

Zip up my fly less than eight times. 50

Turn off the television on an odd channel. 60

Lock the front door less than eight times. 70

Sit in a restaurant chair that feels “wrong.” 75

Eat at a restaurant without bringing own dishes. 80

Go to a hospital and sit in lobby. 80

Handle a kitchen knife while others are present. 90

Talk to Skylar Nixon.

What the hell was this?

I read the list again but felt no closer to understanding it. Some of the items seemed like maybe they were things that made him nervous, and others were just odd behaviors. Zipping his fly eight times? A chair that feels “wrong”? Why couldn’t he handle a kitchen knife in front of other people? Was he scared of knives? And hospital lobbies? Maybe that was the germ thing? And what was with the numbers? I felt sorry for him, but boy…this was pretty odd.

If he wanted to have a conversation with me, why hadn’t he done it today? He’d had plenty of chances. Was he just too shy? Biting my lip, I turned the page.

And saw my name again.

Skylar

I think I loved you

is not the best introduction

after we’ve just met

I realize this. And maybe you will

never know

never know

never know

never know

never know

never know

never know

never know

Maybe it is too soon (or too late?)

to tell you about the dream I had

your laugh was a butterfly

Today when I touched you

I felt a familiar chill down my arms. I think it

came from the future (or the past?)

With your hand in mine I saw the

tragedy of us

unfold quite clearly

I have no choice but to

keep my distance

but your beauty is gravity

and terrestrial bodies will always fall

I read it again and again and again, gooseflesh rippling down my arms. He wrote poetry? Had he written this for me today? Did he really feel this way about me? My heart was pounding. I stared at the words, trying to memorize them, scared Natalie was going to catch me snooping but needing desperately to take something beautiful from this day, even if it was sad too.

A few seconds later, someone pounded so hard on the door that I gasped.

Spinning around, I slapped my hand over my heart when I saw Sebastian through the glass. I slammed the notebook shut.
Act natural. You saw nothing. You know nothing.

But suddenly I wanted to know everything.

Fuck, I scared her.

I watched Skylar whirl around and put a hand over her heart. When she saw it was me, she picked up the notebook from the counter and walked toward the door. The moment she unlocked it, I yanked it open and snatched the notebook rudely from her hands. I’d been in a complete state of panic since realizing it wasn’t in my jacket, but I felt only mild relief to have it back in my possession. Had she looked inside it?

Fucking hell. I’d die. Die.

“Hi,” she said brightly, coming outside. The door swung closed behind her. “I wondered if you’d come back for that.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye, so I stared at her feet. They were small and narrow, and even though she wore high heels, she was still a good six inches shorter than me.

“No problem, we’re still here closing up.”

I nodded, the tension in my gut uncoiling a little. She wasn’t acting as if she’d seen anything crazy. I risked a glance at her, and those blue eyes cranked my adrenaline right up again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier. Do you live nearby?” Her tone was light and friendly and she leaned against the door, hands behind her back. It made her breasts stick out a little, and I looked at them before I could help myself. The thought of accidentally choking her jumped unbidden into my mind, and I took a step back.

Shit. Just get the fuck out of here.

“I gotta go.” Without meeting her eyes, I turned and counted off my paces in sets of eight as I hurried away from her.

Hating myself, I went home and cleaned my house from top to bottom, took another shower (during which I jerked off to her again, which only made me feel more loathsome), ate dinner staring at a stupid cable news show that reaffirmed my belief that the world was a fucked-up place full of greed and cruelty, and went to bed.

Staring at the empty space beside me, I counted myself to exhaustion, and fell asleep.

• • •

The next day was better, although I was angry with myself for being such a dick to Skylar.

To work it off, I went to the gym in the morning and spent the early afternoon working outside at my cabin. The piece of property on Old Mission Peninsula I’d inherited from my mother was small, but it was well off the main road and had about twenty waterfront feet, although no beach. The land had been in her family for a hundred years or so, and when she died, it was divided into three parcels and willed to my two brothers and me. They’d sold their plots to a developer, but I’d held on to mine and built a cabin on it. A contractor had done the construction last summer, and I’d spent my winter working on the interior, installing reclaimed wood floors and kitchen cabinets, stained concrete counters, new appliances, a stone and tile bathroom downstairs. The whole place wasn’t even eight hundred square feet, but it was plenty of room for me.

My latest project was an outdoor shower. With the water line prepped and in place, I began working on installing the solar water heater, so that showers out here would be refreshing rather than dick-shrinking cold. Of course, the entire time I worked I pictured Skylar underneath the shower head, warm water running down her body, dripping off her curves, clinging to her skin. Oh fuck. Now I was hard. Frowning, I adjusted my jeans and kept working.

Damn it, why did I panic around her? Why couldn’t I manage a simple conversation? I’d been battling obsessive thoughts for the majority of my life, and Ken was right—I had plenty of strategies in place for dealing with them. So what the fuck was it?

Was it her looks? Was it because I felt guilty for the way I used to think about her? The way I still thought about her? Or was yesterday just a bad day? It was almost like I’d had too many good days, and the asshole in me needed to speak up and remind me I wasn’t OK. I’d never be OK. No matter how many good days there would be in my life, I’d always have to battle the fucked up circuitry in my brain.

I wondered what she was thinking. Would she even talk to me again if I approached her? Once something was on my list, I couldn’t give up on it—and if I didn’t work through my issue with her, it would continue to haunt me. This wasn’t a huge town, so I was bound to run into her from time to time, and I couldn’t run away whenever that happened. Ken was right about that too—avoidance never works, not for me.

I might be an asshole, but I wasn’t a goddamn coward. Not anymore.

Next time I saw her, I’d do better.

I started working for Natalie the next day, and by three o’clock, my feet were killing me, my lower back ached, and I was exhausted. My sisters were both early risers, as were my mom and dad, but waking before six AM felt like medieval torture to me, and the weather wasn’t helping. It had been cloudy and gray all day, and the rain had just started to fall. Nap weather.

“Is it over?” I asked, when the final lunch customers had left, opening their umbrellas before heading out. “If it isn’t, I think I have to quit.”

“It’s over.” Natalie grinned at me over her shoulder as she piled dishes from their table on a tray. “We can close up.”

“Thank God.” Wincing with every step on my sore feet, I went to the door to lock it and flip the sign to CLOSED. Then I collapsed on the nearest stool, flopping forward over the counter. “I’ll help you in a second. I need a rest.”

“Don’t close your eyes,” she warned. “You’ll fall asleep, I know you.”

I did have a knack for falling asleep pretty much anywhere when I was tired. My eyes were already drifting shut as I settled my cheek on one arm. “Shush. Just need a minute.”

“I’m taking these dishes to the kitchen, and once they’re loaded in the dishwasher, your rest is over.”

“Mmkay.” Drowsy and warm and lulled by the sound of the rain, I’d just started to doze off when a few sharp raps on the glass jarred me awake. “Go ‘way. Closed,” I mumbled without picking up my head.

The knocking continued, growing even louder. What the hell, could this person not read?

“OK, OK.” Reluctantly, I slid off the stool and turned to see a drenched Sebastian Pryce through the glass, rain coming down in sheets behind him.

My stomach jumped, and I rushed over to the door, fumbling with the lock before pushing it open. “Come on in,” I said, a little breathless. All I could think of were his words about me. I could still see them on the page…