Chapter One
Agoraphobia.
Ceres
Squinting at the picture Amelia’s linked me to, I do my very best to locate the appeal she rhapsodizes about. At length. Every single time we talk.
I cannot, for the life of me, find it.
As far as I can tell, I am looking at a full-grown man in cherub wings.
If the wings were large, and black, and paired with a threatening gleam in a set of blood-red eyes, then we could talk. But, they are not. They are itty bitty. And white. And paired with an average polo shirt. Whilst Biblically-accurate Cupid headlines the post.
“Mellie…”
On video call, Amelia gasps and glares at me through the phone I have propped beside my monitor. “How can you not see how absolutely adorable he is? This is the cutest picture he’s posted in the last twenty-four hours.”
“How many photos has he posted in the last twenty-four hours?” I ask.
“Thirteen.”
I stare at my beautiful, bright friend.
Her cheeks flare with color, and she pushes a strand of brown hair that escaped from her elegant bun during her he’s so cute!
tirade back behind her ear. Doe eyes wide and shifting, she murmurs, “I’ve ranked them.
It’s rare that Brian blesses us with so many all at once.
But he’s been leading a Countdown to Valentine’s Day celebration at his work!
” Joy bubbles through the speaker, light sparkling upon my sweet friend’s face.
“He’s so benevolent! Bringing joy to all his coworkers. ”
Exiting the Cupid picture, I scroll through Brian Single’s feed and find pictures from a Silly String Extravaganza . He’s clearly taking a selfie, clearly covered in red, pink, and white string, and clearly fake fainting into a grim man’s arms.
The caption reads: My hero.
Brian’s “hero” is closer to my type, I think. Dark, brooding, stern, might strangle you when flirting…
Not that…that is an important trait, or anything.
Let’s just say I’m more a fan of the grumpies than I am the sunshines .
Guiding my attention back to Amelia while she beams pure, unfiltered shimmer, I sigh into a smile.
Okay, fine. I’m pro brooding grump in a significant other. I’m team sunshine all the way where it concerns friends. After all, someone has to look abjectly horrified when I introduce them to my boyfriend.
Assuming I ever get one.
And I probably won’t since there’s a conflict between my type of boyfriend and my type of best friend, while I’m positive that your husband is supposed to be the latter.
When I still lived in the city—and went outside regularly—all the guys who were interested in me were either Honor Society, chess club, genius sweethearts…
or absolute jerks. I’m not interested in coddling insecure nerds or pampering narcissists.
My desire is very simple, and also incredibly attainable.
I want a bad boy, who’s good, at heart.
Sadly, this is too much to ask for in a world where bad boys possess the same depth of character development as a puddle.
“…he’s just the kindest, sweetest, most passionate—”
“Passionate?” I ask, interrupting nothing I haven’t heard before. “Brian Single is very clearly in love with one thing, and one thing only. Mail. What’s passionate about mail?”
“What’s passionate about—” Amelia’s mouth drops open, and she practically stabs a finger at the camera.
“I’ll tell you what’s passionate about mail!
Everything! Especially when the envelopes are closed with wax seals.
Have you even looked into the code associated with different wax colors?
” Dreamily, my dear friend melts into a puddle deeper than any bad boy I’ve ever known.
“Imagine if Brian sent me a letter with a blue seal… I would die. Right here. Right now.”
Uh-huh. Sure. Of course. All lovers speak in code. “I’ll be sure to send out invitations to your funeral using black wax.”
Her eyes well. “Would you really?”
“You can count on me.” I can absolutely send out letters for my only friend here in Bandera… attending the funeral might be a different story.
All the same, Amelia sniffles. “You’re the best.” She remembers that I am actually, quite presently, dishonoring the love of her life and lifts her chin. “Except when you’re being the worst.”
That is the way of things, I think.
Smiling, I shake my head. “You know you could just… message him.”
Amelia squeaks, falls onto her bed, and covers her face. “No, I cannot!”
“You can, though,” I assure her. “You two went to school together for a decade. You skipped grades to stay in the same building with him. You could click that little message button and see if he wants to catch up.”
She rolls over, giving the phone she has propped on her nightstand her back. “Don’t be insane.”
Yes, of course. I’m the insane one, for stating the most logical course of action in the world. Or, maybe, I’m the insane one for having this conversation roughly three times a week…and continuing to have it. To no avail.
“What if he doesn’t remember me?” Amelia asks, voice soft, shoulders bunched.
That piques my interest, probably since it’s an actual excuse, not just a flushed no, no, no, I could never ever, ever! Like, you know, normal.
Scrolling up Brian’s feed on my computer, I sleuth.
Brian’s friend list appears nearly as modest as mine, so I doubt he’s accepting any request he gets, which would imply that he does actually remember Amelia was a classmate of his. One he liked, even, considering there seems to only be a few other people who went to the same school as them on here.
Humming, I say, “How about this? You message him, and if he doesn’t remember you, I’ll stock up on black wax.”
Amelia flops toward me, ruining her elegant bun completely. “You won’t have to worry about stocking up on wax. I have plenty of wax. In all sorts of colors. And…” She blinks. “You distracted me.”
It is not hard to do. I grin. “Mellie, Mellie, why do you have black wax on hand? Whose funerals are you planning? Should I be worried?”
Her lip juts, and she reaches for her phone, lifting it above her face as she rolls onto her back. “It’s good to be prepared in case of an emergency.”
“An emergency like your untimely demise due to uncalled-for embarrassment?”
“Exactly.”
I stare at her all sprawled out on her bed, looking angelic and picturesque even with strands coming out of her bun, then I say, “Message him.”
“No.”
“I will send you a cookie.”
Her mouth opens; thoughts trickle behind her eyes; she adamantly shakes her head.
“No. He left this place behind for a reason . He wanted a big city. He’s not gonna wanna talk to a country girl from his past. Besides, Brian is a genius.
He knows half our school was in love with him.
If a random girl wants to catch up all of a sudden, he’ll probably block me. And then what will I do?”
“Spend a lot less time staring at his pictures and bemoaning lost love?”
Amelia frowns.
I plow on, far from delicate, “How do you know that this guy didn’t intentionally orchestrate the affections of half the school in an effort to obtain love letters?”
“I don’t.”
I arch a brow.
She sighs, dreamy. “You know what? I bet he did. What a commitment to his passion. He’s so cool and smart.”
I’m beginning to think if I ever find my villain masquerading as a mortal man, Amelia will be more than supportive. We should probably both be in some kind of therapy.
Pity I don’t have time for that.
Glancing at the clock in the corner of my monitor, I droop. “Well, I have to get to work now, Mellie. These commas won’t unsplice themselves.”
She pops upright. “But you haven’t even seen all thirteen of Brian’s new photos yet. How will you have the energy to work without them?”
“Wow. Um.” I close out of Brian’s profile and open my work email. “Aren’t you worried I’ll fall in love with him, too, but be brave enough to message?”
“No, I’m not worried. You don’t leave your house. And he’s in Indiana. Which, last I checked, is far away from inside your house.”
Ah. Well. I mean. “We could have a feverish dalliance online.”
“He’s not your type.”
Truer words are rarely spoken. And, yet, Amelia’s confidence in this one thing is starting to offend me. I can leave my house, and cross state lines, and do things. Of course I can. I did it once already when I moved here.
Never mind that the very idea of doing it again makes me ill.
I was born to be stationary and unbothered, set apart from all people.
That said, becoming friends with Amelia was an accident.
It’s not my fault she’s chatty and was always appointed to bring my grocery order to my car. Anything can happen when faced with a chatty person in the wild. Which is why I try to avoid the wild.
Whenever I go outside, the outside tries to get me.
Amelia Christmas isn’t the only friendly, bubbly, bright person to have latched onto me without warning throughout all my years upon this earth. She isn’t even the only person I’ve been unable to avoid in this town.
Lyra Gold, the local plant nursery owner, also treats me like a friend any time I call to ask about her plants.
Graciously, she does deliver and hasn’t prompted a deeper relationship like Amelia, but it is still harrowing to realize this pattern of people collecting persists, even now, even here, in small town Bandera.
It’s not even the friendly people, either. It’s just…
I have a problem.
When I meet someone, I become someone else.
Someone who isn’t me. Someone the other person will like, accept, I don’t know.
It takes a while to find my way back to me in the aftermath, and generally, once I do, things begin to fall apart, so I pick the act up again and call everything I actually am a bad day .
It’s been the vicious cycle my entire life.
With everyone.
Except, notably, Amelia.
Who not only seems to accept me despite my real blunt, detached character but also seems to enjoy spending time with it.
Even when I do things like this:
“Bye, Mellie,” I say into the self-imposed silence following her little comment about how Brian isn’t my type .
No one’s my type. Because my type belongs in dark romance novels.
Like the one I am supposed to be editing.
Right this very second. I have provided her with that information, so now I am going to go.
And she won’t even hate me for it. She’ll call again in a few days, and I’ll learn more about Brian than anyone ever should.
“Will I see you at work tomorrow?” she asks hopefully, as though putting groceries in my car is a lavish get-together.
“Hm…” I guide my attention toward my computer calendar.
Since it’s a holiday week, I placed my order yesterday to make sure I’d be able to pick up tomorrow, considering I am all but entirely out of food and have possibly only a few grains of rice left to eat.
My meal plan rotates monthly, and I go through phases of what I feel like eating, so my order is generally simple, just bulk.
Each month, I only need to throw it together and add whatever I’ve decided on for my special treat.
The novelty of my treat is what motivates me to retrieve my order instead of staying home until I starve to death.
Tickling apprehension niggles in my stomach, but I say, “Should, yes.”
“Yay!” Amelia cheers. “I can’t wait! See you tomorrow.”
When my phone screen goes black, tension eases from my shoulders.
“Why am I like this?” I mumble as I get my work documents pulled up.
Talking to Amelia on video chat for hours on end is fine . Messaging Rouge, my favorite client, off and on all day long is fine .
I don’t know what it is about physical people and being outside my literal comfort zone that spikes my adrenaline, curdles my stomach, and compels me into a state of flight, fight, fawn where I inevitably choose fawn with a commitment that is deeply concerning.
Here, in my house, there’s a level of control I don’t get outside. If something goes terribly wrong, I pull the plug. I end the call. I curl up under my comforter, take deep breaths, and remember there’s a block button.
Escape isn’t as simple beyond the virtual landscape I’ve crafted for myself here.
The worst part is: I don’t even know why I feel like I need to escape. I don’t know why I feel like I need to be liked by strangers.
I grew up in the city surrounded by people that I knew how to make like me.
I have no horror stories to report. Nothing happened that was so devastating it makes sense for me to have lost all trust in humanity—even amid general crime and unavoidable congestion.
I wasn’t teased. I wasn’t afraid or anxious.
I’d walk to Walmart from my neighborhood to pick up candy when I was younger than is advised.
I’d talk to strangers along the way. They’d all be kind and like me before our conversation ended.
The worst thing I can remember ever almost happening is when some new kid in high school tried to tell me that gingers had no souls . Within seconds, half the class was on him, a barricade between us, demanding he shut up and apologize.
So he did. And he never spoke to me again.
This power results in protection, but it also results in learning more than I know how to handle about complete strangers. Being safe around people means carrying too many burdens. It means creating the peace. It means becoming someone else .
So, when I got old enough and had saved enough, I came here. To this backwater town in no man’s land. Where, finally, I was allowed to just be .