CHAPTER 8
When our inner compass keeps spinning, we’re left without a direction to move forward .
I fight like the damned to hold on to the dream. I want nothing more than to sink deeper, to pull more details into focus, to see her face clearly—the girl who haunts most of my nights. But it’s no use. She’s a wisp of smoke, slipping away when I reach for her.
I’m tugged into consciousness, chest heaving, sweat coating my skin. I cling to what remains. Nonsensical pieces. Riddles with no rhyme or reason, as if surrendered from a fractured kaleidoscope. There are too many potholes to navigate in my waking hours, too many dead ends.
I’m fucking lost.
A Road Captain with no map.
Unable to move forward for fear of what I’m leaving behind.
Like always, the dream leaves me devastated, filled with longing and regret, as my heart rate begins to regulate.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, pushing my fingers through my hair. For a good while, I sit there and try to hold on to the details. Then I reach into my nightstand for my journal and pen out everything I can remember. More puzzle pieces. Breadcrumbs. And feathers to follow.
I attempt to make sense of the fragments, these small windows into moments from the past, twisted with fantasy, mixed with flashes from my tours of duty and childhood.
Sometimes I don’t know what’s real and what shit my brain has made up.
However, one thing stands firm, she’s there in some way, hiding in the details, a ghost at the edge of my consciousness.
When I finish jotting it all down, I pull out my highlighters.
Green for the Army shit. Purple for the fantasy crap that doesn’t seem real.
Like Puff the Magic Dragon shit. Blue for my dad, since it was his favorite color, and pale pink for her.
Always pink for her. Because when I think of her, I see a sea of pink details, her bird tattoo, flowers, heels, and pink lemonade in her glass.
Even her lips, as plush as they were, were a pretty petal pink, which is the only part of her face I ever get a good glimpse of.
Line by line, I highlight it all. It’s a ritual, and my way of navigating the madness inside my head.
When I’m finished, I drop the journal into the bottom drawer of my nightstand and send up another prayer to the man upstairs.
Not God, but my father. Because God may have given up on me long ago, but I know for damn sure my old man hasn’t.
He’s throwing me guidance. I just have to be smart enough to pay attention and recognize it when it comes.
I check the time on my phone and see it’s a little after eight. I don’t hear any movement outside my door, so I quickly tug on some jeans and head to the window, buttoning them as I go. As expected, my ‘70 Roadrunner and two bikes sit in the driveway.
After crossing the loft, I bang on Mateo’s door.
When there’s no response, I swing his door open.
I’m greeted by the rank smell of teenage boy, gym socks, with the recent addition of sex.
His mom is going to have a field day when I tell her, but fuck, it’s not like I can judge him when I was doing the very same thing at his age—sneaking girls through my bedroom window at night to get my rocks off, all under the parental radar.
However, with the number of hours I spend at Wet Tips and the clubhouse, it’s not like I can put him on lockdown or monitor his goings-on.
As suspected, Mateo is sprawled facedown on his bed, his head under a pillow. He’s so tall now that one foot hangs off the end of the twin bed.
But in my defense, when he first moved in, it was supposed to be for a few weeks. Now it appears as if he’s here for the foreseeable future, instead of moving back in with his mom.
With no clear path to the bed, I toe shit out of the way—discarded clothes, and crumpled sheets of paper.
My gaze drops to the sketchpad lying open on the floor.
There are lines of text in chicken-scratch penmanship, but most of the page is covered in a drawing of a skeletal face screaming.
Its mouth gapes open as if it’s using every fiber of its being to yell to the heavens.
There’s also black smoke and debris shooting out from its body.
Dark shit, but I’m honestly happy he’s getting it out in some way. This exact thing worked for me. I’m hoping it does the same for him.
I jostle the bed with my foot. “Mateo!”
A groan and a grumbled “Stop” come from under the pillow. He grips it tighter, pressing it down over his head.
“You’re late.”
“I’m already failing my Chem class. What does it matter?”
“You’re failing because you keep missing the first hour and don’t make up the work. Your mom’s not gonna let you stay here if your grades keep dropping.”
He mutters something that I don’t catch and continues to lie there.
“Get moving, or you’ll be taking a bath in ice water again.”
He curses under his breath, knowing I don’t make idle threats.
In the next instant, he flings the pillow at the floor.
The glare he hits me with is lethal. His irises are brown and deep pits of anger.
But I’ve dealt with far scarier men, so his attempt to stare me down has the opposite effect and causes me to chuckle under my breath.
He throws the duvet off, revealing long, hairy legs and black briefs. Thank fuck he doesn’t sleep nude, or it would be awkward as fuck. Though yeah, with his morning predicament, there’s still that. So I turn and walk out.
In the kitchen, I start the coffee. I pour a cup for myself and fill a thermos for him.
I settle on the couch, resting my mug on the coaster on the far side of the coffee table as I consider where to start on the jigsaw puzzle spread out before me.
The remaining pieces are systematically organized by color.
A little over a hundred pieces to go before it’s finished.
That’ll take me about a day, maybe two, then I’ll glue the pieces together and add it to the pile of puzzles leaning against the wall, which is about a foot deep.
I’m running out of space for them.
The attic is full of boxes with things I salvaged from my childhood home after the meth lab incident. A good portion of the space is taken up by puzzles I’ve finished over the years.
My shop in the garage isn’t an option because of the sawdust, so at some point, I’ll need to either start giving them away or find another place to store them.
I like seeing them around, though. They’re a reminder that if I can collect all the pieces and put them in the proper order, even if a few go missing, I’ll have a clearer view of the image as a whole.
Maybe even solve one of the biggest mysteries of my life, if I can do the same with holes in my memories.
Mateo finally appears, broody as ever. He’s sporting stubble and wet hair that’s haphazardly styled. Grabbing some bread, he slathers it with peanut butter and honey, then tosses it into a baggie. Spying the thermos, he holds it up. “For me?”
I take a sip from my mug and glance at him over the rim. “Looks that way.”
A grunt and words follow. Either a “Thank you” or a “Fuck you.” Hard to tell. He snatches up his backpack by the door.
“You still meeting your mom after school?”
After scoffing, he murmurs, “If she bothers to show.” Then he heads out, slamming the door behind him. I grit my teeth because Jesus, the frame is gonna fall on his head one of these days.
A few seconds go by before I hear him fire up his bike. The engine revs three times, and I’m in the process of shaking my head when his tires screech in protest as he peels out of the driveway.
I take a few deep breaths and roll my shoulders to relieve some tension. When that doesn’t work, I grab the remote and hit Play. I spend a good part of my morning drinking coffee and getting lost in the small connections I can make on the puzzle.
As soon as my mind is completely at ease, it begins to drift where it shouldn’t—to Lily and her audition.
Not sure I can even call it an audition at this point.
It was more of a potent mindfuck, certain moments of it hinting at Lily’s complex mind, leaving me with more unanswered questions.
Others were so sensual and seemingly intentional, they’ve driven deep into my psyche and left a permanent impression.
She lingers in my mind. The vision of her nearly naked body is vividly imprinted there in ways I won’t be able to unsee. And not having it is going to bring more torment than pleasure.
Same with the sensation of her fingers running through my hair.
They left behind a sense of rightness. And it’s like my hands remember the feel of her skin.
I flex a fist, trying to shake the feeling, but the sweet glide of my palms against her silky skin is right fucking there, as if on instant recall.
Eventually, I stop fighting it. Because I know what this is—biology warring with my years of mastered control.
Hormones firing synapses, chemical signals screaming through my veins, urging me to act on instincts as old as the first man who craved the first woman.
Oxytocin, dopamine, testosterone—an orchestra of need and want crashing through me in a symphony I can’t silence.
My body doesn’t care about morality, propriety, or the vow I made to keep our relationship on a professional level.
You can’t go without sex with another person for years and not acquire the knowledge of your body’s basic biological needs.
So after grabbing the stereo remote and changing the playlist to an ’80s hit list, I sit back against the couch, close my eyes, and spread my thighs, letting my mind wander where it will. The ease it takes to conjure her to life, the realness of this fantasy, should be unsettling.
Simple Minds’ “Don’t You” is the first song to come on, and like a siren off the bow of a sinking ship, she’s right there waiting, appearing in front of me in my apartment.