Page 87 of Reckless Obsession

No one is getting to me today.

That’s the plan, anyway.

I’m going to focus on myself, stay off my phone, ignore whatever fresh disaster tries to knock on my door, and get through the day without letting anyone crawl under my skin. It’s Saturday. I’m alone. I have food in the fridge, a decent bottle of whiskey, and an apartment quiet enough to hear myself think, which is usually the problem, but tonight I’m choosing to call it peace.

Or at least a version of it.

So I spend the rest of the day doing whatever the hell a divorced man in his thirties does on a lonely weekend when he’s committed to avoiding the world. I clean. I pace. I half-read something and retain nothing. I answer no calls, ignore every text, and tell myself this is healthy, that solitude and isolation are not the same, that I’m making a deliberate choice rather than quietly sliding into old habits.

By the time evening settles in, I’m in the kitchen taking chicken out to cook dinner when my phone dings on the counter.

It takes an embarrassing amount of effort not to look at it immediately, because I’ve been expecting a text from one very specific kind of problem all day. A problem with a devastatingly handsome face, a flirty smile, and enough audacity to make normal people seek professional help. A problem I absolutely should not be anticipating, and definitely should not be disappointed by when he goes quiet.

And yet.

I grab my phone.

It’s such a shame that I can’t feel you anymore

I stare at the screen for a second, then type back before common sense can intervene.

What are you talking about?

I curse under my breath the second I hit send. Too quick, you idiot. I lean back against the counter, eyes locked on the screen as the message switches to Read. The three dots appear almost immediately.

Remember when you said I’d feel you for days after you railed me over my father’s desk five days ago?

Well… I did feel you for days. It was good.

A scoffing laugh punches out of me before I can hold it back. A stupid, traitorous smile tugs at my lips as I reread the message. The sheer audacity. The raw honesty. Only Maksim could say something like that so shamelessly.

Do you ever text anything normal?

Not when it comes to you. No

Also, why are you texting me?

I stare at that for a second, then type:

You texted me first, Makim.

Noooo, ugh.

I told myself I wasn’t gonna text you, Mr Grump. Why did I text you?

I exhale slowly, shaking my head as I set the phone back down. For a moment, I just stand there in the kitchen, looking around.

The quiet.

The order.

My space.

It used to be mine and Jake’s.

We bought the apartment two years after we married, when I still believed a future could be built if you wanted it badly enough. After the divorce, I kept the apartment. I’m still not sure whether that was a victory or just another form of punishment. It used to be full of light—bright furniture, modern pieces, too many framed photos, too much evidence that two people had once lived here and loved each other openly.

Now it’s darker.