Dear Diary,
There are three universal truths of love.
The first truth is when love is present, you know it. You can feel it. It’s tangible. It wraps around you like your favorite blanket and addicts you like a drug. It’s beautiful and bright, coloring every aspect of your world, even outshining the sun. It is everything.
At least, it’s everything that matters.
The second truth is that when it’s gone, you also know it. Food is bland. Life is gray. And nothing matters. Nothing at all. Least of all what the fuck I’m wearing.
Today, after an inordinate amount of time staring at my closet, I managed to get my ass in gear and roll out of bed. I tore one shirt off a hanger, then compared it to another. Why I have thirty goddamn shirts in white is truly beyond me.
Telltale sign of a psychopath.
I tossed both to the floor, making sure I stomped on them, and decided on a Navy SEAL hoodie I haven’t worn in years and a pair of jeans comfy enough to tackle a buffet.
And the third universal truth of love… Drum roll, please…
If I have love for even a second, I will royally fuck it to hell and back again because that is who I am.
I sit on the bed, cross-legged like Buddha, as I stare at the page. Dear Diary? Who came up with that shit? It’s a journal to myself. It should say Dear Prick—stop writing and get your head out of your ass.
I imagine tossing the whole damned journal into the fireplace, smiling as it’s destroyed in a spectacular blaze.
What do therapists call that? Self-destruction. I call it satisfying.
Instead of torching it like a roman candle, I take a beat and breathe through it like I do after every touchy-feely entry. It’s not like anyone will read these rantings. I chuck the journal in the drawer, adding it to the pile.
Whatever demented sicko came up with purging your emotions to feel better, lied.
Ivy, my almost girlfriend, was supposed to be a one-night stand. I haven’t spoken to her in days. And scrawling my feelings out on paper isn’t lifting my spirits. If anything, it only serves to point out that I’m nothing more than a colossal shit.
I drag a hand over my face and check the time. It’s ass-crack o’clock, and I’m doing what I do every morning: spying on Ivy. Watching through the window has become a habit, and even without looking, I know she’s up.
From the lone house hidden behind the tree line, I watch as she finishes the last moves of her yoga routine. I have to remind myself that keeping my distance is for her own protection. Spying on her stalker-style?
That’s for her protection, too. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. But when she pushes through her last downward facing dog and my cock clenches, I don’t turn away. Watching her is depraved and twisted, but I can’t stop. I won’t.
Here she is. Four-thirty in the morning—a routine of hers that now begins a full half-hour before she should be up so she can bury her head in some book. And not an electronic book that I can easily hack into. No. With Ivy, there’s always something I don’t know. A mystery I have to solve. A small secret I’ll relish unraveling.
I step away from the window and wonder about the book. Is it a romance? A thriller? It’s the little things I don’t know about her that feed my obsession. That, along with her delectable lips, magnetic eyes, and fuckable body. She’s a walking wet fucking dream. Of course, I’m obsessed.
What’s worse is that I broke up with her. So, logically, I should avoid her at all costs. Let the poor girl enjoy her breakfast in the estate kitchen alone.
And for the last few days, I have. But not today.
Today is our day of reckoning. Today is the day Ivy Palmer has to speak to me.
Even if it kills us both.