Chapter 8 Serena
The first Bound-to-Be wedding is in the works. A couple we paired up last year is getting married. We got an invite in the mail this morning.
The card was a welcome reminder that what we do makes a difference in people’s lives. Sometimes, on the days when we’re overwhelmed or facing failed match after match, moments like this show us what’s possible and that we’re doing something right.
“Are you going to stare at that all day?” Kerrigan asks me, chuckling softly as the movie we’re watching comes to an end.
Leaning forward on my couch, I set the invite down on my ottoman, flashing her a playful glare. “I might.”
“It is pretty damn cool,” she admits with a bashful smile. “We truly are real-life Cupids.”
“I know!” I shout a bit too eagerly. “We have the best jobs ever.”
“We do.” Kerrigan nods, but a heavy sigh slips past her lips, and I know where the exhaustion is coming from.
We’ve been running ourselves into the ground lately, but hopefully, the weight will lighten when we bring on two new team members. Applications are coming in now, so it’s just a matter of time until our staff of two doubles in size.
“Anyway”—Kerrigan changes the conversation, clearly over discussing work—“back to the topic at hand. You still owe me for being locked in a bathroom while you got your back blown out.”
A laugh bursts out of me when I hear her phrase it that way. “I know. I know. I owe you my life.” A flashback of that moment warms my core. “Seriously, life-changing kind of experience.”
A beat of silence passes between us.
Kerrigan and I have been best friends since our early twenties.
We might not have known one another our entire lives, but we might as well have.
There are no boundaries between us, no secrets or unspoken words.
She knows me better than anyone else, and I, her, which is exactly how I can tell she’s holding something back right now.
“What are you thinking?” I ask her softly, nervous goose bumps breaking across my arms.
Is she going to tell me that I should end this? That it’s gone too far? Does she think less of me because of what happened?
She twiddles her thumbs in her lap, her eyes glued to them. “What are you hoping to get out of this whole … secret-admirer thing?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, but I know exactly what she’s asking.
I may be a hopeless romantic, but I’m also realistic. I’ve never entertained situationships or anything less than serious when it comes to dating. I don’t want to waste my time on someone or something that isn’t going anywhere.
But when it comes to Mr. Mystery Man … I don’t know … I think part of me has tried not to overthink it. This entire situation—this relationship—is new territory, and I don’t know the rule book. I’m making it up as I go. I think we both are.
“Where do you think this is going?” She takes a breath. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
My heart warms. “I know. Honestly, I want to tell you I know how this’ll end, but I have no idea.
I don’t even know his name or his face …
” I trail off, realizing how absolutely insane I sound, and Kerrigan’s face reacts with a look of concern.
My heart begins to race as I recall all the letters and gifts he’s left and the things he’s done for me.
“Ugh, he’s just oddly thoughtful and protective, and he sees me. ”
“Clearly,” she jokes, and I can’t help but laugh. “He’s a pro at seeing you.”
“I get it. I’m a psycho for literally falling for my stalker.”
I couldn’t make this all up if I tried. I’m usually a very careful person.
I follow the rules, I keep to myself, I stay in my lane.
I’ve been that way my whole life, to a fault occasionally.
But I wasn’t prepared for someone veering into my lane, hijacking my vehicle, and making me a happy little passenger along the way.
“You know I support you, no matter what. As long as he treats you right and doesn’t hurt you. Because then you’re not the only one who’ll be stalked. I’ll become the shadows watching him.” She means it wholeheartedly, and I have no doubt that she would avenge me if something bad were to happen.
“I know, and I love you for that.”
“I love you too,” she mutters, pulling me into a quick hug.
But the man has had ample opportunity to hurt me, both emotionally and physically. I genuinely don’t think that’s his motive at all. He’s gone out of his way to prove that to me. Time and time again.
Aside from concealing his identity from you for so long.
He has his reasons, and to be fair, I find it kind of hot that I don’t know who he is. I like being his, giving myself to him without knowing everything. It’s a little scary and thrilling, and … I love it. I also like that I’m falling for how he treats me and who he is versus what he looks like.
If anything, I’m scared that if the mask comes off, the magic may fade. Everything feels so damn intense right now. Will the calm be as enjoyable as the storm? I don’t know, but I sure hope so.
Kerrigan stands from the couch and stretches her legs. She’s leaving to head home. But I’ll see her again in the morning at work.
After a quick hug, we walk toward the door for a classic Minnesotan goodbye, where we somehow squish three more conversations in before she heads out of the door.
Freddie struts on the hardwood behind me as I head into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and let him outside to go potty in the backyard. “Come on, buddy.”
I unlock the back door, and Freddie hops over the divider, braving the snowy terrain—and by that, I mean, the shoveled path and cleared-off grass area. But to a dog that barely stands six inches tall, it’s probably a lot more intimidating.
He pees and poops before racing back to the sliding door that I throw open as he approaches.
After a quick shake, he rushes toward the staircase, knowing that we’re heading to bed next, as we always do after his nighttime potty break. I follow after him, up the stairs and into my bedroom.
My phone is burning a hole in my pocket.
He’s been quiet tonight. I wonder what he’s busy doing. Is it his job? A few of his early letters mentioned being out of town while missing me. He must travel for work a lot. Maybe he’s a businessman or a pilot.
Thoughts run rampant as I try to pin down any information about this man, but all I’m doing is reaching for straws because unless he opens his mouth and reveals his secrets, I may never know.
I quickly change into a shorts and tank top PJ set as Freddie climbs his ramp and nestles into a cozy throw blanket strewn atop my comforter. A moment later, I join him, turning my TV on that’s mounted on the opposite wall, putting a lo-fi music stream on for background noise.
He still hasn’t responded to my last text, and I’m debating on sending him another or spiraling down a rabbit hole, where I convince myself that he got what he wanted and is ghosting me.
But I try to calm my insecurity down because, clearly, the man doesn’t lack effort or obsession.
After he railed me in my office, he’s only going to want more.
That man drips with possession and control.
He’s finally got me where he wants me. He’s not going to run unless I tell him to … maybe not even then.
Slamming my phone on my bed, I stare up at the ceiling, frustration tensing my muscles.
To text him or not text him. To text him or not text him.
My patience wears thin. Grabbing my phone, I open our texts and read our last messages.
My Masked Valentine: I haven’t been able to think straight today, constantly replaying how perfectly you took me, wishing it could have gone on forever. Tell me I can see you again.
I’m so dumb for even thinking that ghosting me is a possibility for this man—unless ghosting means haunting and clinging to me for the rest of eternity, then maybe.
I responded back to him.
I’d like that.
My Masked Valentine: Just like? Clearly I didn’t leave enough of an impression
My body would disagree with you. I was still sore when I woke up this morning
My Masked Valentine: Good. A constant reminder of me.
Trust me, I couldn’t forget you if I tried
My Masked Valentine: I wouldn’t let you ;)
Even if I ran?
My Masked Valentine: I’d chase you
Promise?
My Masked Valentine: Oh, I promise.
What are your plans for the evening?
And that’s where the conversation ended. Radio silence for the last two hours. Did I make it too personal? I mean, he’s literally been buried inside of me. Asking about his day seems far from intimate. I highly doubt that’s where he draws the line.
But I don’t know! Because he hasn’t answered.
Slamming my phone back down on my bed, I groan audibly, feeling like a teenage girl with how much this boy is consuming my life.
Freddie waddles over to me and onto my chest, staring down at my face with what looks like concern.
“I’m okay, buddy,” I assure him, giving him all the pets and a few kisses on his muzzle. “Mom’s just being crazy.”
His tiny tongue swipes my nose, and my heart melts. My hand rubs up and down his back, and eventually, he returns to his hole in the blanket, nestling back in.
My phone vibrates, and my heart rate spikes. Without so much as an inhale, I check it, finding a new message from my guy.
My Masked Valentine: I was in a meeting. I’m sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I’ll make it up to you.
The only word to describe what I’m feeling as I read his text is unhinged.
I instantly forget about the impatience that was eating me alive only a second ago, and focus instead on the butterflies now soaring in my stomach.
The need I have for this man is becoming a problem—one of many that I have, but still.
How do you plan on doing that?
My Masked Valentine: Oh the ideas are endless when it comes to what I want to do to you …
Maybe we should make a list
My Masked Valentine: Fill it with your fantasies and I’ll cross every one off
Just like that, huh? What if they’re … past your limits?