Chapter Two
Cate
I had that dream again last night.
Yes, that one.
The cinematic epic my subconscious insisted on rerunning, apparently with more loyalty than my own memories of childhood birthday parties.
Each detail, painstakingly vivid, played out with the kind of clarity that should honestly be reserved for Nobel Prize discoveries, not for a moonlit rendezvous with a man who seemed to have been sculpted by the universe’s most dramatic lighting technician.
The moon, I swore, took center stage, spilling silver across the room, sketching every line and shadow of him as if competing for Best Visual Effects.
I could almost feel the cool air, tinged with something electric, raising goosebumps on my skin as he stepped from the shadow into that perfect slant of light.
His lips were full, curved with a hint of a secret.
His jawline had the audacity to look both sharp and comforting at once, while his eyes, though always mysterious, always just out of focus, managed to hold me with a gravity that was more real than any waking moment.
And the atmosphere? My dreamscape had outdone itself.
The air hummed with anticipation, carrying the scent of midnight rain and the kind of warmth that only existed in storybooks or, apparently, my REM cycles.
I caught glimpses of broad shoulders, hands that looked like they belonged in some classic romance, and the playful flicker of moonlight on his hair.
Heat bloomed in my chest, mixing embarrassment and exhilaration, because honestly, who dreams in this much high definition?
Yet, there was always something just barely out of reach.
His face, for instance, was so infuriatingly shrouded, always a silhouette, a promise rather than a person.
No creative twists, no alternate endings; it was the same plot every night as if my subconscious were contractually obliged to deliver this scene on repeat.
I read somewhere that dreams were just wishes. Like my emotional wish list. If that were true, then mine must have been express shipping a mysteriously faceless, unfairly alluring soulmate straight to my pillow!
The idea should have been comforting, right?
Instead, it left me flustered and a little unmoored.
There was a hopeful feeling in my dream.
Like maybe he represented something I was missing or something I wanted, but the repetition was beginning to feel like a cosmic joke.
Was I supposed to find revelation in the pattern, or just admit I was hopelessly obsessed? Who knows?
Honestly, if my brain were trying to send a message, it could at least get creative with the costuming. But no. My dream guy was always shirtless, as if my subconscious had a thing for “less is more” and refused to spring for even a single dramatic cape—never mind a sensible turtleneck.
It was not just funny; it was almost embarrassing, waking up flushed, flustered, and half hoping, half dreading what it all meant. Was it longing? Was it boredom? Or was I just an accidental connoisseur of moonlit melodrama?
So, here I was, somewhere between frustrated, amused, and secretly enchanted, wondering if I’d ever solve the mystery or if I’d just keep being the punchline of some joke my subconscious was trying to tell me.
One thing was certain... the dream was as persistent as it was mesmerizing, and my heart, for better or worse, was completely along for the ride.
Don’t get me wrong, my dream was a masterpiece.
Imagine a summer blockbuster, only the CGI was suspiciously lifelike, and the leading man could moonlight as a Calvin Klein billboard.
The whole thing sparkled with cinematic flair, a surreal spectacle that made me wish my subconscious had a popcorn machine.
Then came the twist: Ninjas.
Not just any ninjas, mind you. These were butter-knife-wielding warriors, slicing through the absurdity with the grace of synchronized swimmers at a dairy convention.
Yes, butter knives.
My subconscious apparently shopped at the dollar store for dream weaponry.
The drama was off the charts. Somehow, the sight of a topless Calvin Klein ninja fending off kitchen-utensil–toting adversaries felt both utterly ridiculous and absolutely fitting.
Welcome to my REM cycle—the only place where absurdity found its true calling. To be fair, my logic was currently as functional as a chocolate teapot.
The specificity of the scene—dangerously attractive, topless, ninja, butter knives—left me bewildered.
I mean, imagine yelling, “Does anyone here know a topless ninja who fights with butter knives?” in the grocery store.
The only thing I’d get was a collection of puzzled faces and maybe a discreet call to security.
And as for his face? Perpetually lost in shadow, like a six-pack-wearing potato sack with an infuriating mystery that refused to be solved.
Suspense and tension built with every scene. Enough to drive any rational person to don a tinfoil hat and invent a potato gun for self-defense. I could practically hear the director shouting, “More melodrama! More tuber-based weaponry!”
Seriously, I needed to get my head straight.
My thoughts bounced around like ping-pong balls in a wind tunnel.
Back to reality, this dream nonsense was hijacking my focus.
Instead of wrangling ninja scenarios, I should have been piecing together a life plan, or at least tackling my taxes.
Yet here I was, distracted by thoughts of butter-knife academies and ab-centric health insurance policies.
My life felt like a sitcom, and my subconscious was the quirky writer in charge of punchlines.
And, let’s be honest, the punchline was wearing nothing but abs.
Unlike my childhood friend Tracy, who was basically a walking, talking, effortlessly stunning ad for sun-kissed beaches and luxury shampoo, I was.
.. well, delightfully myself. Where Tracy could moonlight as a supermodel, I was more like a plucky hobbit with questionable fashion sense and a burger obsession that bordered on competitive sport.
Seriously, my curves rivaled the Earth’s—if our planet were made of cheesecake.
My mother—bless her cotton socks—always claimed I possessed “voluptuous charm.” I leaned more toward “dangerously delicious.” Especially after a triple cheeseburger.
My mom always insisted I would have been a pin-up queen in the fifties, thanks to my physique, lovingly sculpted by a lifelong devotion to chocolate and burgers.
I chalked that up to her rose-tinted nostalgia.
Honestly, I could demolish a burger right now. Food was my therapist, my confidante, my comfort blanket, and my personal sculptor—enthusiastically adding to my curves, one bite at a time.
But my dream man? He had no complaints. Not a single one.
He was all about my curves. Apparently, my subconscious was also a fervent supporter of enthusiastic wall-related activities.
The strangest part? Each time I had that dream, which, for the record, involved a lot more than just leaning against a wall, I would wake up feeling almost as if I’d really lived it.
Experienced it. All this despite never actually having met the guy, as far as I could remember.
His face? Forever lost in shadow, a tantalizing mystery hiding in the dim corners of my mind.
It was less “romantic” and more “mysterious stalker who enjoys cardio.” The yearning, though, that was real.
A deep, slow burn for more. More of whatever that dream was about.
Even though it made zero sense.
Then again, maybe I was just nervous.
As I shook off the lingering heat of my mysterious dream man, reality crashed back.
Today was babysitting day.
And yes, I had plenty of reasons to feel jittery.
Yep, you read that right. I, a twenty-four-year-old whose resume could fit on a cocktail napkin, was gearing up to wrangle toddlers.
Not exactly the career trajectory I’d envisioned.
I had aspirations of becoming an “International Burger Connoisseur”, but a job was a job, especially when my bank account was starting to resemble a famine relief poster.
“Cate, hurry!”
I collapsed onto my bed with a melodramatic groan, squeezing my eyes shut.
My new Egyptian cotton sheets, hand-stitched and embarrassingly expensive, were supposed to be my ticket to next-level self-care after my Week of Ultimate Betrayal.
Instead, they felt about as comforting as a soggy napkin against the tidal wave of injustice crashing over me.
Here I was, sprawled out in my childhood bedroom, glaring at a unicorn poster—yes, a unicorn juggling flaming bowling pins—instead of basking in the post-shift glow of culinary greatness.
That poster? A phase.
A very passionate, possibly hazardous phase.
I was supposed to be in Boston right now.
Dicing shallots with samurai-level finesse.
Wowing the city’s foodies as the next big thing in a top-tier kitchen.
But noooo... I was benched, all thanks to Tracy, my ex-BFF and secret agent of my culinary demise.
She didn’t just tag along for my big chef audition—she hijacked it!
While I nervously presented my signature reduction, Tracy got cozy with the sous chef.
Who, for the record, had enough hair gel to qualify as a fire hazard.
Somehow, she managed to convince him I was the reason her béarnaise split, and before I could say “culinary sabotage,” I was out—fired before I’d even clocked in.
So now, instead of dazzling a restaurant, I was left debating the emotional merits of unicorn wall art and wondering if betrayal by a best friend was tax deductible.